AI The third deadbolt groaned, a metallic protest that echoed through the narrow hallway of the Brick Lane flat. Rory wiped a smudge of flour from her cheek—residue from a double shift at the Golden Empress—and yanked the heavy oak door inward. The scent of rain-slicked pavement and expensive cologne surged into the entryway, overriding the lingering aroma of turmeric from the curry house below.
Lucien Moreau leaned against the doorframe, his ivory-handled cane clicked once against the floorboards. Water beaded on the shoulders of his charcoal wool coat, shimmering like obsidian under the flickering hallway light.
"You look like hell, Aurora."
Rory gripped the door handle until her knuckles turned the color of parchment. The crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist throbbed , a phantom pulse she only felt when her nerves shredded.
"The sign on the street says closed. That usually applies to the people living above the shop too."
Lucien stepped past her without an invitation, the tip of his cane muffled by a stack of discarded research scrolls. He navigated the cramped living room with the practiced grace of a predator , his heterochromatic eyes—one honey-amber, the other a void of liquid black—scanning the chaos of Eva’s apartment. He stopped near the window, where Ptolemy the tabby cat sat perched on a pile of Latin lexicons. The cat hissed, fur spiking along its spine.
"Your feline friend hasn't improved his temperament since my last visit."
Lucien didn’t look back. He reached out a gloved hand, hovering just inches from the cat’s ears.
"Ptolemy is a fine judge of character. Why are you in London, Lucien? I thought the Marseille docks were more your speed these days."
Rory slammed the door, the three locks clicking back into place with finality. She crossed her arms, trying to ignore the way the air in the room seemed to thin and heat. In the six months since they last stood in the same room, he hadn’t aged a day. The half-demon blood kept his skin smooth, his features carved from cold marble , while she felt every hour of the greasy delivery shifts and the sleepless nights hiding from shadows.
"Business in Avaros demanded a detour. And you left something behind."
He turned, the movement fluid and unsettling. From his inner pocket, he withdrew a small silver fountain pen, the casing engraved with the Carter family crest. He held it out between two fingers.
"Your father’s gift. You dropped it in the rush to leave the manor. Or perhaps you threw it. You were quite volatile that evening."
Rory stared at the silver glint . The memory of the manor, the smell of sulfur, and the taste of the wine he’d poured her surged back. She didn’t take the pen.
"I didn't invite you here to play courier. Leave it on the table and go."
Lucien stepped closer. The light caught the platinum strands of his hair, slicked back with a precision that bordered on lethal. He stopped just outside her personal space, the heat radiating from him like a furnace in midwinter.
"You haven't been answering the letters. Silence is a dangerous currency in our world, Aurora. People assume the worst. They assume you've been caught, or worse, that you've forgotten your debts."
Rory laughed, a sharp, jagged sound.
"My debts? You’re the one who brokered the deal with Evan. You’re the reason I had to run to London in the first place."
Lucien’s amber eye flared, a flicker of orange fire dancing in the iris. He tapped his cane once, a sharp crack against the floor.
"I paved the road for your exit. If I hadn’t interfered, your barrister father would be mourning a daughter and the police would be filing paperwork on a 'tragic accident.' I gave you Brick Lane. I gave you this dust-choked sanctuary ."
He reached out, his fingers brushing the air near her throat. Rory didn't flinch, though her pulse hammered against her skin.
"You gave me a cage with different bars, Lucien. You always do. You wrap your help in silk and charcoal suits, but it always ends with me under your thumb."
The Frenchman’s expression softened into something more dangerous—sincerity. He tipped her chin up with the crook of his finger. The touch was unnervingly cold, the mark of his father’s realm.
"I find your thumb quite a comfortable place to be. If only you would stop squirming."
Rory swiped his hand away. She paced to the kitchen counter, shoving aside a half-empty carton of noodles to create a barrier between them.
"I’m working. I’m living. Silas lets me stay above the bar when I need to, and Eva keeps the wards up here. I don't need a fixer anymore."
Lucien hummed, a low vibration that seemed to rattle the books on the shelves . He followed her, his presence filling the tiny kitchen until the walls felt like they were closing in .
"Silas is a drunk and Eva is a scholar who hasn't seen sunlight in a fortnight. They cannot protect you from what is coming through the veil. The shadows in Avaros are whispering your name, Malphora."
The use of her ceremonial name made her blood turn to ice. She gripped the edge of the laminate counter.
"Don't call me that."
"It is what you are. No amount of delivery bags or law textbooks will scrub the ichor from your soul."
He leaned over the counter, his face inches from hers. Rory could see the faint, shimmering veins beneath his pale skin, a map of his demonic heritage. The scent of him—sandalwood and ozone—dizzying.
"What do you want, Lucien? Really."
Lucien’s gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her bright blue eyes. The black eye seemed to swallow the room's light, reflecting nothing but her own startled face.
"I want you to stop pretending you belong in this gray, damp city. I want you to realize that the man who broke you is dead, and the man who saved you is losing his patience."
Rory reached out, her hand trembling as she touched the lapel of his suit. The fabric felt impossibly soft. She pulled him closer, her breath hitching.
"Saving someone isn't a one-time transaction. You keep showing up to claim the interest on a loan I never signed for."
Lucien dropped his cane. It clattered to the floor, forgotten. He placed both hands on the counter, pinning her between his arms. The ivory handle lay useless between them.
"Then sign the contract now. Tell me to leave. Tell me you feel nothing when I walk into a room, and I will vanish back to Marseille before the sun hits the spires of St Paul’s."
The challenge hung in the air , thick and suffocating. Ptolemy jumped down from the books, the cat’s weight hitting the floor with a soft thud. Outside, a siren wailed, the sound muffled by the rain and the thick glass of the windows.
Rory looked at the silver pen on the table, then at the man who had tracked her across borders just to deliver it. She reached up, her fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of his neck.
"You're a liar, Lucien Moreau. You didn't come here for a pen."
"I came for the only thing in this world that isn't for sale."
He closed the distance. His lips met hers with an urgency that spoke of months of repressed hunger. It wasn't the kiss of a savior or a fixer; it was the kiss of a man who had burned down half of Europe to find the woman who had walked away from him.
Rory spun him around, her back hitting the stacks of scrolls as she pulled him into the main room. Books tumbled from the shelves, centuries of knowledge falling unheeded to the floor. Lucien shifted his weight , his hands finding the curve of her waist, lifting her until her feet cleared the carpet.
The heat between them was terrifying , a collision of human desperation and demonic intensity . Rory felt the cold metal of the three deadbolts against her peripheral vision, a reminder of the world outside she was desperately trying to keep at bay.
Lucien pulled back just enough to speak, his voice a gravelly rasp against her ear.
"You're coming with me. This flat is a tomb."
Rory bit her lip, the taste of salt and rain lingering.
"I have a shift tomorrow."
Lucien let out a dark, melodic sound that might have been a laugh. He pressed his forehead against hers, his amber eye glowing with a fierce, possessive light.
"Let the Empress find another rider. You belong to the night tonight."
He moved his hand to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her black hair. The silkiness of it seemed to ground him, a tether to the human world he so often disdained.
"Say it, Aurora. Say you want to leave."
Rory looked around the cramped, messy sanctuary . She looked at the books, the tea-stained notes, and the cat watching them with inquisitive green eyes. Then she looked at the man who held her as if she were the only solid thing in a shifting universe.
"I didn't say I wanted to leave. I said I didn't want to be a debt."
Lucien’s grip tightened, his thumbs tracing the line of her jaw.
"You aren't a debt. You're the ledger. And I’m quite far behind on my payments."
He kissed her again, slower this time, a deliberate exploration that made her knees go weak. Rory’s hands scrambled for purchase, finding the cold silk of his tie. She yanked it loose, the fabric sliding through her fingers like water.
The ivory cane lay forgotten near the door, a discarded weapon in a war that had finally moved indoors. Lucien kicked a pile of research notes aside, clearing a path toward the bedroom as the rain intensified, drumming a frantic rhythm against the glass.
"The deadbolts are still locked," she whispered against his throat.
"Let them stay locked. No one is coming for you tonight but me."
Lucien scooped her up, his strength effortless . He didn't look at the mess or the books. He only looked at her, his heterochromatic eyes finally finding a singular focus. He carried her through the threshold, the shadows of the room stretching long and hungry toward the door.
Rory rested her head against his shoulder, the scent of charcoal and rain filling her senses. The fear that had lived in her chest for months—the fear of being found by Evan, the fear of the shadows—was still there, but it was being pushed back by something older and more primal.
As they moved into the darkness of the hall, she heard the soft clink of the silver fountain pen rolling off the table and hitting the floor. It was a small sound, easily lost in the storm, but it felt like a period at the end of a very long sentence.
Lucien paused at the bedroom door, his breath warm against her skin.
"You’re trembling."
"It’s cold in here."
"I can fix that."
He stepped inside, the door swinging shut behind them with a muffled click. The tabby cat wandered over to the fallen cane, sniffing the ivory handle before settling down to wait for the morning.
In the silence of the flat, the only sound left was the rain and the distant hum of the London streets, indifferent to the two souls re-negotiating their terms in the dark.
Rory reached out, her fingers finding the buttons of his vest. Each one she undid felt like a lock turning, not to keep someone out, but to let herself finally arrive .
Lucien’s hands were steady as he lowered her onto the bed, his eyes never leaving hers. The amber and the black blended in the dim light, a fusion of two worlds that should never have met.
"You’re staying," he said, and it wasn't a question.
"For tonight."
"Tonight is a start. I have lived centuries on starts."
He leaned down, his shadow falling over her, blocking out the rest of the world. Rory closed her eyes, letting the heat of him anchor her to the present, ignoring the whispers of Avaros and the ghosts of Cardiff that still clawed at the edges of her mind.
The silk tie fell to the floor, joining the silver pen and the discarded scrolls. For the first time in months, the three deadbolts didn't feel like enough, because the thing she was most afraid of was already inside, and she was holding onto him with both hands.
Lucien moved with a predatory grace, tracing the line of her collarbone with his thumb.
"Tell me about the bar. Tell me about Silas."
"Why?"
"Because I want to hear the sound of your voice talking about mundane things before I take you away from them."
Rory smiled, a small, genuine thing that surprised even her. She began to talk, her voice low and steady, weaving the story of her life in the city as his hands continued their slow, deliberate work of stripping away the layers she had built for protection.
The rain continued to fall, washing away the grime of Brick Lane, but inside the flat, the air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and the sound of two people finding their way back through the wreckage of their history.
Lucien listened to every word, his eyes reflecting a hunger that had nothing to do with blood and everything to do with the woman in front of him.
"You realize," he murmured, his voice a dark caress, "that once the sun rises, the rules change again."
"I know."
"Good. I’ve always preferred playing when the stakes are high."
He silenced her then, the mundane world finally falling away, leaving only the heat, the darkness, and the steady, rhythmic beat of a pulse that refused to be quiet.
The ivory handled cane remained on the floor, a silent witness to a parley that had turned into something far more complicated than a business transaction.
Outside, the curry house lights flickered and died as the street grew quiet. Inside, the fire that had been smoldering for six months finally caught, turning the damp East London flat into a crucible.
Rory pulled him closer, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her heart a frantic bird against the cage of her ribs. She wasn't running anymore. She was exactly where she had always intended to be, even if it took three deadbolts and a silver pen to get her there.