AI Three heavy thuds against the wood pulled Rory out of the uneasy doze she’d managed on Eva’s lumpy sofa. The sound didn’t match the rhythm of the city outside—the constant, dull roar of Brick Lane, the shouted orders from the curry house downstairs, or the frantic sirens bleeding through the single-pane windows. This was deliberate. Precise.
She froze, heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The flat smelled of stale turmeric and old paper, a suffocating comfort she’d clung to for three weeks. Eva was out, chasing a lead on some obscure grimoire in Kensington, leaving Rory alone with her paranoia.
Another knock. Two sharp raps this time.
Rory slid off the couch, her bare feet sticking slightly to the linoleum. She grabbed the heavy cast-iron skillet from the drying rack. It felt ridiculous in her hand, a cartoon weapon, but the weight grounded her. She crept down the narrow hallway, stepping over stacks of dusty hardbacks and unrolled scrolls that Eva treated like carpet.
She reached the door. Three deadbolts. A chain. A fortress built on a budget.
Rory pressed her eye to the peephole.
The fish-eye lens distorted the hallway, bending the peeling wallpaper into a sick curve, but there was no mistaking the figure standing under the flickering bulb. The charcoal suit was dry, despite the deluge hammering against the roof. The platinum hair was slicked back, severe and immaculate.
She didn't breathe. She didn't move.
He raised his head, staring straight at the lens as if he could see the blue iris trembling on the other side.
"Open the door, Aurora. You’re letting the draft out."
The voice was low, wrapping around her spine, familiar enough to make her stomach drop. She lowered the skillet. If he wanted to get in, a locked door wouldn’t stop a half-demon, and a frying pan certainly wouldn’t put him down.
She undid the bolts. Top. Middle. Bottom. The metallic *clack-clack-clack * echoed in the silence . She left the chain on, cracking the door two inches.
"You have five seconds to give me a reason not to slam this in your face."
Lucien Moreau leaned on his ivory-handled cane, the dim light catching the mismatched hues of his eyes—one burning amber, the other a void of endless black. He looked tired. The kind of tired that didn't come from a lack of sleep, but from carrying too many secrets.
"It is rude to keep a guest in the hallway. Especially one who climbed three flights of stairs that smell of cumin and regret."
"You’re not a guest. You’re a mistake."
"I have coffee. And pain au chocolat. Fresh from a bakery in South Kensington that doesn't exist on Google Maps."
He held up a white paper bag. The scent hit her instantly—butter, dark chocolate, and rich, roasted coffee—cutting through the lingering spice of the apartment. It was a cheap tactic. It was working .
Rory looked at his face, searching for the danger she always associated with him. She found only a tight jaw and a flicker of something raw in that amber eye. She slid the chain off.
Lucien pushed the door open with the tip of his cane and stepped inside. He seemed to consume the space, his broad shoulders and tailored elegance making Eva’s cramped flat look like a shoebox. He surveyed the chaos—the mountain of research notes on the dining table, the drying laundry hanging from the curtain rod, the cat sleeping on a stack of pizza boxes.
"Quaint."
"It’s temporary." Rory retreated into the main room, putting the width of the sofa between them. She self-consciously tugged at the hem of her oversized vintage t-shirt. "How did you find me?"
Lucien set the bag on a rare patch of clear counter space. He peeled off his gloves, leather creaking softly , revealing pale, slender fingers that had done terrible things for the right price.
"You act as if you are hiding from the government, chérie. You are merely staying with a witch who orders books from my associates. It took one phone call."
"I didn't want to be found."
"Evidently." He turned, his gaze sweeping over her . It felt physical, a brush of heat against her skin that made the small crescent scar on her wrist itch. "You look... different. Tired."
"I’m working double shifts. Not everyone summons gold bars from the ether."
"Avaros is not an ATM, and you know it." He moved closer, the tip of his cane sinking into a pile of discarded newspapers. "Why did you run, Rory?"
"I moved."
"You vanished. You left a coffee burning on the stove and your phone in the sink."
"It was an accident."
He laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "You possess a brilliant mind, Aurora. You do not drop electronics in water by accident unless you wish to sever a connection. Was it me? Or did the reality of my world finally curdle that brave blood of yours?"
Rory crossed her arms, fingernails digging into her biceps. The memory of that night—the blood on his cuffs, the way his shadow had seemed to detach itself from the floor, the terrifying realization that she wanted to step *into * the darkness rather than run from it—flashed in her mind. That was why she ran. Not because she was scared of him. Because she wasn't.
"I needed space. My life was simple before you showed up. I delivered noodles. I studied law. I didn't deal with warlocks or... whatever you are."
"Whatever I am." He tasted the words, finding them bitter. "Three months ago, you called me a savior. Now I am a 'whatever'."
"Three months ago, you were bleeding out on my carpet. It lowers the intimidation factor."
Lucien took another step. The air in the room thickened, charged with static. Ptolemy, Eva’s massive tabby, woke up from his pizza-box throne. instead of fleeing, the traitorous animal stretched and trotted over to Lucien, winding through his legs and purring like a diesel engine.
Lucien looked down, his expression softening imperceptibly. He reached down, scratching the cat behind the ears with long, deliberate strokes.
"Animals have better instincts than humans. They know when a threat is real."
"He licks plastic bags, Lucien. He’s not a judge of character."
"Perhaps." He straightened up, leaving the cat disappointed. "I did not come here to argue about feline intelligence."
"Then why? Did you need a fix? Someone to translate a Celtic tablet? Go ask Eva. She’s the expert."
"I don't need a translator."
"Then what?"
He closed the distance. He moved with a predator 's grace, soundless despite the heavy timber of the floorboards. Rory found herself backing up until her calves hit the edge of the sofa. There was nowhere to go.
Lucien stopped a foot away. Close enough for her to see the pores of his skin, the faint, silver scar running through his eyebrow . He smelled of rain and sandalwood and something sharp, like ozone or magic.
"I came because you have something of mine."
Rory frowned, her mind racing . She hadn't taken anything. She’d left everything at the flat above the bar. "I didn't steal from you."
"My peace of mind."
The admission hung between them, heavy and absurd. Rory let out a sharp breath, a laugh dying in her throat.
"That’s a terrible line. Did you read that in a dime-store romance?"
"I do not read romance. I live a tragedy." His voice dropped an octave, losing the polished veneer of the fixer. "You disappeared. No note. No warning. In my line of work, silence means death. I spent three days turning London upside down because I thought a rival faction had taken you to get to me."
"I can take care of myself."
"I know." His hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach out, but he gripped the head of his cane tighter . "That is what terrifies me. You are reckless, Aurora. You think because you survived Evan, you can survive anything. But there are things in the dark that do not care how brave you are."
"And you're one of them?"
"I am the worst of them."
Rory looked up at him. The amber eye burned with frustration, but the black one... the black one was bottomless. It was easy to get lost in the monstrosity of it, to forget the man standing in the suit. But she knew him. She knew he took his coffee black with three sugars. She knew he spoke to his mother in French on the phone and lied about being a consultant.
She reached out, her fingers hovering over the lapel of his jacket. The charcoal wool was soft. He went perfectly still.
"I didn't leave because I was scared of the monsters, Lucien."
"Then why?"
"Because I was starting to like the dark too much." Her voice cracked. "And I have a history of loving things that hurt me."
Lucien’s composure fractured . The mask of the indifferent broker slipped, revealing a hunger that made her knees weak. He dropped the cane. It clattered against the floorboards, loud and jarring, but neither of them flinched.
He caught her hand before she could pull it away. His skin was cool, his grip firm but careful, treating her like something volatile. He traced the crescent scar on her wrist with his thumb.
"I am not him," he whispered. The intensity in his voice vibrated through her bones. "I destroy my enemies, Aurora. I do not destroy the things I cherish."
The word hung there. *Cherish.*
Rory’s breath hitched. She looked at his mouth, then back to his mismatched eyes. The tension that had been coiling in her gut for three weeks, the sleepless nights staring at the ceiling, the looking over her shoulder—it all snapped.
"You're arrogant."
"I am confident."
"You're in my personal space."
"You invited me in."
"I opened the door. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
He leaned down. It wasn't a question anymore. It was gravity. Rory rose to meet him on her toes, her hands bunching into the fabric of his shirt.
His lips brushed hers—a test, a question. He waited, giving her the agency to shove him back, to scream, to grab the skillet.
Instead, she opened her mouth and sighed his name.
Lucien groaned, a low rumble in his chest, and crashed his mouth against hers. It wasn't gentle. It tasted of desperation and rain and pent-up anger. His hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him, crushing her breasts against the hard wall of his chest.
Rory tangled her fingers in his damp, platinum hair, ruining the perfect style. She pulled him closer, needing to feel the reality of him, to prove that he wasn't just a nightmare or a fantasy she’d conjured in the loneliness of Eva’s flat.
He walked her backward, blindly navigating the maze of books. Her legs hit the edge of the dining table, sending a stack of scrolls cascading to the floor. Neither cared. He lifted her, his strength effortless , setting her on the edge of the table amidst the chaos of research.
He broke the kiss, gasping, his forehead resting against hers. His pupils were dilated , swallowing the amber, swallowing the light.
"Don't run again," he rasped, his voice wrecked . "If you want to leave, tell me to go hell. Throw things at me. But do not vanish."
Rory ran her thumb over his lower lip, feeling the rapid pulse beneath the skin. "I can't promise that. I'm not good at staying."
"Then I will have to be good at chasing."
He kissed the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then the sensitive spot beneath her ear that made her shiver.
"The pastry," she murmured, eyes fluttering shut as his hands moved to her hips . "You brought pastry."
"It can wait."
"It'll get cold."
Lucien pulled back, looking at her with a mix of exasperation and intense affection . "You are infuriating."
Rory smirked, breathless and flushed, feeling more alive than she had in months. "That's why you like me."
" unfortunately."
He leaned back in, his hand cupping the back of her neck, his thumb resting against her pulse point. The rain hammered against the window, the world outside wet and miserable, but in the cluttered, curry-scented flat, the air was burning .
"Where is the witch?" Lucien asked against her lips.
"Kensington. She won't be back for hours."
Lucien’s eyes darkened. "Good."