AI The insistent pounding on Aurora’s front door rattled the flimsy wood. Three deadbolts offered little comfort against such a furious assault. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs, a stark contrar t to the usual placid beat. Who the hell would be battering down her door like this at this hour? She wasn’t expecting anyone. Eve was away visiting her parents, and Silas, bless his messy heart, was usually more considerate.
“Alright, alright, keep your shirt on!” she yelled, her voice tight with a tension she hadn't felt since she’d fled Evan’s suffocating control. She braced herself, then yanked the bolt furthest from the handle. The door swung inward with a groan, revealing a tall, lean figure silhouetted against the dim light of the hallway.
Lucien Moreau.
The air in the cramped landing seemed to thicken, charged with years of unspoken accusations and lingering desire . He stood there, an ivory-handled cane tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm against the worn floorboards of her flat’s entryway. His platinum blond hair gleamed under the harsh overhead light, slicked back from a face perpetually etched with an amused detachment that always managed to infuriate and captivate her in equal measure. His charcoal suit was impeccably tailored, a stark , almost aggressive contrast to her own worn jeans and the faded Golden Empress uniform slung over a nearby chair.
“Aurora,” he said, his voice a low, silken murmur that slid across her nerves like expensive whiskey. “Always a pleasure to see you in your natural habitat.” His heterochromatic eyes, one amber, one eerily black, swept over the organised chaos of her small flat, lingering for a fraction of a second on the precarious stacks of books and research notes that threatened to spill onto the floor. Ptolemy, Eva’s notoriously aloof tabby, twitched an ear from his perch on a teetering pile of ancient scrolls, his emerald eyes narrowed suspiciously at the intruder.
Rory’s breath hitched. “Lucien. The last time I saw you, you were disappearing into the London fog with a smug look on your face and a missing artefact in your pocket. I don’t recall inviting you over for tea.” She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms, attempting to project an air of indifference she was far from feeling.
A slow smile spread across his lips, a flash of white in the dimness. “Invitations are so dreadfully pedestrian, wouldn’t you agree? Especially when the matter at hand demands a certain… immediate attention.” He gestured with his cane, the ivory smooth and cool against his pale skin. “Besides, I find people are far more receptive when you bypass the niceties. Less opportunity for prevarication.”
“Prevarication?” Rory scoffed, her grip tightening on the doorframe. “Is that what you call it when you disappear for six months without a word, leaving me to deal with… everything?” The words tumbled out, raw and ragged, belying the cool facade she tried to maintain. The crescent scar on her left wrist throbbed , a phantom ache reminding her of past hurts.
Lucien’s smile faltered, just for a flicker . His gaze sharpened, the detachment momentarily replaced by something far more unnerving. “You’ve been busy, I see. Still wrestling with Yu-Fei’s culinary mysteries, I presume?”
“Someone has to pay the rent, Lucien,” she retorted, the bitterness a familiar companion. “Unlike some people, I don’t have a convenient supernatural underworld to trade secrets with.”
He took a step closer, the tap-tap-tap of his cane echoing in the sudden silence between them. Rory held her ground, unwilling to retreat further into her own space, though the scent of his expensive cologne, a mix of sandalwood and something sharp and metallic like… ozone, made her breath catch. “Speaking of secrets, Aurora. There's a rather significant one that’s landed right on my desk. One that concerns you directly.”
Rory’s stomach twisted. “What are you talking about?”
“A certain relic,” he purred, his eyes glinting . “A rather old and decidedly unpleasant one. It surfaced this morning, causing a rather spectacular amount of unpleasantness for a Mr. Alistair Finch, a man I generally try to avoid. Apparently, it was in your possession very recently.”
Rory’s mind raced . The amulet. She’d moved it from Eva’s flat to her own, intending to take it to Silas for safekeeping. But then… then things had gotten complicated. She’d had a run-in with some rather unpleasant individuals near the docks, and the amulet had been with her. “How do you know that?”
“Information,” he replied, a hint of amusement creeping back into his tone. “It’s my trade, remember? And this particular piece of information is rather… alarming. Especially given its purported provenance, and the rather unfortunate fate of Mr. Finch.”
Alistair Finch. The name sent a shiver down Rory’s spine. He was a collector, a notorious one, known for his ruthless acquisition methods and his penchant for the… arcane. If Lucien was involved, and Finch was dead, then this was far beyond a simple delivery gone wrong. This was dangerous.
“What kind of unpleasantness?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper .
Lucien’s face was grim. “Let’s just say Mr. Finch is no longer in a position to appreciate its exquisite craftsmanship. The amulet… it’s not merely old, Aurora. It’s hungry.”
The casual cruelty in his words, the subtle reference to death, was jarring . It was the very reason she’d walked away from him, from the dangerous, seductive world he inhabited. Yet, here he was, back in her life, cloaked in danger and intrigue , his amber eye holding a flicker of concern, or was it just calculation?
“Hungry for what?”
“For life. For power. For the same things it’s always craved.” Lucien tilted his head, his gaze unwavering . “And it seems it found what it was looking for. Or rather, what someone *wanted * it to find. Someone who, I suspect, is now very close to you.”
Her blood ran cold . Someone close to her? Who could possibly be involved with an artefact like that? Unless… unless whatever she had done to escape Evan had attracted attention from further afield than she’d realised. Or perhaps it was connected to the reason she’d fled Cardiff in the first place.
“I don’t understand.”
“No, you never did, did you?” Lucien took another step, closing the distance between them. He reached out, his long fingers brushing against her cheek, sending a jolt of static electricity through her. Her skin prickled where he’d touched her. “But that’s where I come in, darling. You have a habit of stumbling into messes that require very specific, and very dangerous, skill sets to clean up.”
His thumb traced the line of her jaw, his touch both possessive and something akin to genuine worry . Rory’s breath caught in her throat, the years of separation melting away in the heat of his proximity. Those ridiculous, impossible eyes held her captive, a swirling vortex of shared history and future peril .
“This isn't my mess, Lucien,” she said, her voice husky . “This is yours. You brought it to my doorstep.”
“And now I’m taking it away.” He didn’t ask; he stated. His hand dropped from her face, and he turned, already heading towards the door. “Come. We have much to discuss, and frankly, your little flat is far too… domestically inclined for the conversation that needs to happen.”
Before Rory could even process his words, he was pulling the door open wider, a silent invitation to step out into the unknown with him. The hallway, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of the old building's fluorescent light, seemed to stretch before them like a shadowed path. The air thrummed with unspoken promises and the intoxicating danger of his presence. He met her gaze, a silent challenge in his eyes.
“Are you coming, Aurora?” he asked, the question laced with a familiar, intoxicating arrogance . “Or are you content to let the darkness consume you here?”
The tapping of his cane against the floorboards, usually a sign of his impatience, now sounded like a drumbeat urging her forward , into a world she’d tried so hard to escape, a world that had always, irrevocably, been a part of him. And a part of her. Against her better judgement, against every instinct screaming at her to slam the door shut and pretend he’d never been there, Rory found herself stepping out of the relative safety of Eva’s cluttered flat and into the suffocating embrace of Lucien Moreau’s shadow. The three deadbolts clicked shut behind her, sealing her fate for the night.