AI The insistent pounding on Aurora’s door startled Ptolemy from his nap on the worn armchair. The tabby cat twitched an ear, then blinked his emerald eyes open, surveying his domain for the source of the disruption. Rory, who had been hunched over a stack of law textbooks that threatened to spill onto the floor, sighed and ran a hand through her shoulder-length black hair. The noise was sharp, demanding, unlike the polite taps of her neighbours or the apologetic knocks of late-night customers. Three deadbolts secured the door, each a testament to a lifetime of learned caution, but the rhythm of the knocks suggested someone who had no intention of waiting for a response.
She pushed herself up from the small, cluttered kitchen table that served as her study. Her flat, perched above Silas’s bar, was a symphony of organised chaos. Stacks of paper teetered on every available surface, illuminated by the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The air, thick with the mingled scents of old paper and the lingering fried onions from the restaurant downstairs, did little to mask the underlying aroma of stale beer and Jax’s cheap cologne. A thin crescent scar, pale against her skin, peeked out from the sleeve of her oversized hoodie as she reached for the first deadbolt.
The metal lock groaned in protest as it slid back. Another click, and then a third, the final tumbler yielding with a dull thud. She hesitated for a breath, her fingers tracing the cool metal of the handle. Who could it be at this hour? Her parents were in Cardiff, Eva was at her own place across town, and Silas usually let himself in or sent a text.
She pulled the door open.
He filled the doorway, a stark silhouette against the dim hallway light. Lucien Moreau. He stood there, impossibly tall and lean, his platinum blond hair slicked back, the sharp angles of his face catching the faint glow from the landing. He wore a charcoal suit, perfectly tailored, the kind that spoke of a world far removed from Rory’s current reality of instant noodles and overdue bills. In his hand, he held an ivory-handled cane. He looked exactly as she remembered, a dangerous, elegant predator .
His heterochromatic eyes, one amber, the other a startling black, swept over her, a slow, appraisal that felt like a physical touch . There was a flicker of something in their depths , a shadow that passed as quickly as it appeared. “Aurora,” he said, his voice a low rumble, the faint French accent clinging to his words like expensive cologne.
Rory’s breath hitched. She hadn’t seen him in… how long had it been? Years. Too many to count. And yet, the sight of him, the sheer, overwhelming *presence * of him, had her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. “Lucien,” she managed, her voice tighter than she intended. She smoothed down her hoodie, suddenly hyper-aware of the ink smudges on her fingers and the flour dust on her jeans. “What are you doing here?”
A faint smile touched his lips, a subtle upward curve of his mouth that didn’t quite reach his eyes . “I was in the neighbourhood.”
“In the neighbourhood? Lucien, Brick Lane isn’t exactly on your usual circuit.” She leaned back against the doorframe, trying to regain some semblance of composure. She remembered the whirlwind of the last time they’d seen each other. The passion, the arguments, the burning words spoken in anger, the abrupt silence that had followed. It had all ended so messily, a fractured mosaic of regret and unspoken feelings.
He stepped into the flat, his movements fluid and silent, as if he owned the space. He didn’t wait for an invitation, and Rory didn’t offer one. Ptolemy, sensing the shift in atmosphere, let out a low growl from his perch, his fur bristling. Lucien flicked his gaze toward the cat. “Ptolemy. Still here.”
“He’s never leaving,” Rory said, her gaze fixed on Lucien. The air between them crackled, charged with a history that neither of them could ignore. He moved further into the cramped living area, his eyes taking in the stacks of books, the scattered legal documents, the overflowing ashtrays. A faint smirk played on his lips. “Still the diligent student, I see.”
“Someone has to be.” She hugged her arms to herself, feeling suddenly exposed under his scrutiny. “What do you want, Luc?” The question hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken memories. She wanted him gone. She absolutely , unequivocally, wanted him gone. But a deeper, treacherous part of her, a part she’d tried to bury deep, felt a tremor of… something. Anticipation? Dread?
He stopped in the centre of the room, turning to face her fully. The amber eye seemed to glow in the dim light, while the black one was an impenetrable void. “I need your help, Aurora.”
“My help? You’re the one who deals in secrets, in whispers. I deal in delivery runs and overdue rent.” The words spilled out, sharp, defensive. It was easier this way, to push him away, to remind him of their disparate lives.
“Circumstances have changed.” He gestured with the ivory cane, a slow, deliberate sweep that encompassed the small, cluttered flat. “And some of those changes require… particular skills. Skills that I believe you still possess.”
Rory’s shoulders tensed. “I don’t do that anymore.”
“You don’t do what anymore, Aurora?” His voice dropped, a silken thread wrapping around her resolve . “You don’t chase shadows? You don’t solve puzzles that others can’t? You don’t… fight back?”
He knew her. He always had. He saw beneath the surface, beneath the carefully constructed facade of normalcy she’d built for herself. He saw the sharp mind, the quicksilver thinking, the hunger for justice that had once driven her. She took a step back, her hand brushing against a teetering stack of books. “I’m nothing like that anymore, Luc.”
“Aren’t you?” He took a step closer, and the scent of him, that unique blend of expensive cologne and something sharp, something dangerously wild, filled her lungs. He stopped barely an arm’s length away, his gaze intense. “I remember a woman who faced down a charging bull with nothing but a glint in her eye.”
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “That was a long time ago.”
“Time doesn’t change who you are, Aurora. It only gives you more opportunities to prove it.” He reached out, his fingers brushing against her cheek . His touch sent a jolt through her, a wildfire igniting embers she’d thought long dead. Her skin tingled where he’d touched her. She could feel the warmth radiating from his hand, the strength in his gentle touch.
She flinched back, pulling away from his proximity. “What kind of help, Luc?” Her voice was barely a whisper , laced with a dangerous curiosity she couldn't suppress.
He lowered his hand, his gaze never leaving hers. A subtle shift in his posture indicated he was about to divulge something significant. He took a breath. “There are… entities. In London. Entities that are not playing by the old rules.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that still managed to fill the small space between them. “And one of them is looking for something that was stolen.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “Something that belonged to your father.”
Rory’s breath hitched. Her father. Brendan Carter. A barrister, a man of law, a man who believed in justice above all else. What could a demon fixer possibly want from her father’s possessions? Her mind raced , piecing together fragments of memories, of hushed conversations, of her father’s sudden, unexplained illness years ago. “What are you talking about?”
“A relic,” Lucien said, his eyes glinting . “Ancient. Powerful. And it’s resurfaced. And the people who want it are not… subtle. They’re dangerous, Aurora. More dangerous than anything you’ve ever encountered.” He reached out again, this time his fingers gently cupping her chin, tilting her head up so she was forced to meet his gaze. His amber eye seemed to hold a warmth that contradicted the darkness of his other. “That’s why I’m here. Alone, you’ll be overwhelmed. But together…”
He didn’t finish the sentence, but the implication hung heavy in the air . Together, they were a force. A dangerous, unpredictable force. Rory’s heart pounded against her fragile calm. She could feel the pull, an irresistible gravity drawing her back into his orbit, back into the world she’d tried so desperately to escape. The hurt, the anger, the lingering attraction – it all swirled together in a potent cocktail that threatened to drown her carefully constructed peace.
“Why me, Luc?” she asked, her voice a ragged whisper . “You have plenty of… contacts.”
A shadow crossed his face, and the amber eye seemed to dim. “Because you’re the only one I can trust with this. And because,” he added, his gaze softening slightly , his thumb stroking her chin, a silent question hanging between them, “I’ve missed you, Aurora.”
The admission, so simple, so unexpectedly honest, struck her harder than any blow. Her carefully constructed walls began to crumble. He had missed her. After everything, after the silence , after the pain, he had missed her. She looked into his eyes, seeing not just the fixer, the half-demon, but the man she had once loved, the man who had known her soul . The unspoken words were a torrent, crashing against the shores of her resistance.
“This is insane,” she breathed, her voice trembling . “You showing up here, talking about relics and danger… after all this time.”
Lucien’s hand moved from her chin to her cheek, his fingers tracing the faint line of her jaw. “Life is rarely tidy, Aurora. And sometimes,” he continued, his voice a low murmur, “the things we try to leave behind have a way of finding us again.”
He leaned closer, their faces inches apart. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her lips. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs, a desperate, insistent drumbeat. She closed her eyes, a silent surrender to the storm that had gathered within her. He lowered his head, and his lips met hers, a tentative graze at first, then deepening into a kiss that was both tender and demanding, a kiss steeped in years of yearning and regret. Her hands, of their own accord, rose and tangled in his slick hair, pulling him closer, the world outside fading into a distant hum. Brick Lane, law books, delivery runs—they all receded, replaced by the potent, intoxicating reality of Lucien Moreau’s embrace.