AI The third deadbolt slid back with a heavy thunk that always sounded more final than it was. Rory pulled the door open, the familiar scent of cumin and turmeric from the curry house below washing over her. She expected Eva, maybe soaked from the sudden autumn downpour, juggling takeaway containers and an armful of new books.
Instead, the figure leaning against the doorframe was a stark silhouette against the gloom of the stairwell. Raindrops glistened on the shoulders of a charcoal suit jacket, perfectly tailored. His platinum blond hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place despite the weather. One hand rested on an ivory-handled cane, the other held a leather briefcase.
Lucien Moreau.
Her breath hitched, a tiny, involuntary sound lost in the distant honk of a Brick Lane taxi. Three years. Three years since she’d watched him walk away from Silas’s bar, the tap of his cane on the cobblestones echoing long after he’d turned the corner.
“Aurora.” His voice was a low baritone, unchanged, a rumble that had once felt like a secret shared just with her .
She didn’t move, her grip tightening on the edge of the door. Her knuckles whitened around the small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. “Lucien.”
“May I come in?” His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one a bottomless black—held hers. The amber one seemed to catch the weak hall light, glinting with a warmth the black one swallowed whole. “It’s rather wet out here.”
“Is it.” It wasn’t a question . She remained a barrier between him and the cluttered sanctuary of Eva’s flat. Ptolemy the tabby wound himself between her ankles, his tail brushing her calf, a silent question.
Lucien’s gaze flickered down to the cat, then back to her face. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “He remembers me.”
“He’s a cat. He remembers whoever might have a spare piece of chicken.” She finally stepped back, the movement stiff. The space she made was minimal, forcing him to turn sideways to slip past her. The scent of his cologne—bergamot and something darker, smoky, like old books and embers—cut through the spice-heavy air. It was a scent that belonged to a different life, a life of whispered deals in shadowy corners and the dangerous thrill of the world beneath London’s surface.
He moved with a controlled grace, the tap of his cane on the worn floorboards a soft counterpoint to his steps. He surveyed the room, taking in the towers of books threatening to topple from every surface, the scrolls unfurled across the small dining table, the notes pinned to the wallpaper. His expression was unreadable .
“Eva’s… research continues to expand,” he remarked, his tone dry .
“It’s her flat.” Rory closed the door, sliding all three deadbolts back into place with a series of decisive clicks. The sound felt like she was locking the past in with her. She turned to face him, crossing her arms over her chest. “What are you doing here, Luc?”
He turned from his inspection of a medieval bestiary lying open on the arm of the sofa. “Is it so strange that I would wish to see you?”
“Yes.” The word came out flat, hard. “It is. You made it very clear that… associations like ours were a complication. Your word, I believe.”
“Circumstances change.” He leaned his cane against the sofa and placed the briefcase on the only clear spot on the coffee table, displacing a stack of Eva’s notes. “I require your particular talents.”
A harsh laugh escaped her. “My talents? You mean my ability to deliver curry without spilling the dal? I’m out, Lucien. I left that world behind. On your advice, if you’ll recall.”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “The world has a way of pulling one back in, *ma chère *. Especially when one has a mind that sees the patterns others miss.”
“Flattery? That’s new.” She didn’t move from her spot by the door, a good ten feet of littered floor space between them. Ptolemy jumped onto the table, sniffing curiously at the briefcase. “Whatever it is, the answer is no. You can turn around and walk right back out.”
He ignored her, unlatching the briefcase with a quiet click. He withdrew a single, sealed manila envelope. “A delivery. But not for Yu-Fei Cheung.”
“I don’t care.”
“It needs to go to a bookbinder in Bloomsbury. A discreet man. He will be expecting it tomorrow evening.” Lucien held the envelope out. When she didn’t move to take it, he sighed, a soft, weary sound. “Aurora. Please.”
The ‘please’ did it. It was a word he used sparingly, a crack in the polished marble of his composure. She walked forward, her sneakers silent on the floor. She stopped just short of reaching for the envelope, her bright blue eyes fixed on his mismatched ones. The proximity was a shock to her system. She could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there three years ago, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
“Why me?” Her voice was quieter now. “You have a dozen runners who are faster, stronger, and don’t ask inconvenient questions.”
“Because they are not you.” His gaze was intense, stripping away her defenses layer by layer. “This is not a simple parcel. It contains a fragment of a binding contract. A very old, very dangerous one. The kind with clauses written in blood and loopholes that can unravel a soul. I need someone who can think, not just run. If something goes wrong… if the delivery is intercepted… I need someone who can understand what they are looking at and get it to safety.”
“And you thought of me.” She shook her head, a bitter taste in her mouth. “After all this time. You just show up here, in the one place I felt safe from all of… that. You drag it right back to my doorstep.”
“There is no one else I trust.”
The statement hung in the air , thick and heavy. It was the thing left unsaid, the hurt that had festered for three years. Trust. He’d walked away claiming a lack of it was for her own good, a necessary severance to protect her from the dangers that clung to him.
“You have a funny way of showing it,” she whispered, her gaze dropping from his eyes to the envelope . Her fingers itched to take it, not out of obligation, but out of the old, damnable curiosity he had always been able to spark in her. A contract that could unravel a soul.
“I know.” He took a half-step closer, closing the gap. The smoky scent of him was overwhelming now. “What I said back then… the things I did… it was never about trust. Not in you.”
Her eyes flicked back up to his. “Then what was it about?”
He was silent for a long moment, his amber eye seeming to glow in the dim light of the flat. The black one was a void, hiding everything. “Fear,” he said, the word so quiet it was almost inaudible.
The admission was like a physical blow. Lucien Moreau, the unflappable fixer, the half-demon who navigated the underworld with a smirk and a sharp blade, admitting to fear. Her carefully maintained anger began to crumble, revealing the raw ache beneath.
“You were a complication, Aurora,” he continued, his voice rough . “The most beautiful, infuriating, brilliant complication I had ever encountered. And my world… it grinds complications into dust. I thought if I pushed you away, I could keep you safe. I thought it was the right thing to do.”
“You didn’t give me a choice.” The hurt was naked in her voice now. “You just decided what was best for me and left.”
“I know.” He lifted his hand, slowly , giving her every chance to pull away. His fingers, cool despite the room’s warmth , brushed against the crescent scar on her wrist. The touch was feather-light, a brand that sent a shock through her entire body. It was an intimate gesture, a reminder of a night years ago when he’d found her trembling after a close call, his thumb tracing that same scar until her breathing calmed. “It was the greatest mistake of my long life.”
She didn’t pull away. She couldn’t. The space between them crackled with the ghosts of every unspoken word, every touch they’d denied themselves. The rain pattered against the window, a steady rhythm sealing them in this bubble of charged silence .
He was close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his amber eye, the impossible depth of the black one. His gaze dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second before meeting her eyes again, a question in them.
The envelope was forgotten , the delivery, the dangerous contract. All that existed was the three years of silence and the inch of space between their bodies. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum echoing the tap of the rain. The cool-headed logic she prided herself on had evaporated, leaving only a raw, yearning need.
Her fingers uncurled from her tight fist. She didn’t take the envelope. Instead, her hand rose, hovering in the air before her fingertips came to rest on the damp lapel of his charcoal jacket. The fabric was finely woven, cold from the rain, but she could feel the solid warmth of him beneath it.
“Luc…” His name was a sigh, a surrender.
The distance vanished. His free hand came up to cradle the side of her face, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. The touch was still gentle, but there was a desperate edge to it now, a hunger held in check by a thread. His eyes searched hers, waiting for permission, for a sign.
She gave it to him by rising onto her toes, her eyes fluttering closed.
The kiss was not gentle. It was three years of pent-up longing, a collision of relief and anger and a love that had never truly died. It was the taste of rain and bergamot and the faint, metallic hint of the world he inhabited. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him, the ivory handle of his cane digging lightly into her back. Her hands slid up to tangle in the slick perfection of his hair, ruining it, and she didn’t care. The briefcase, Ptolemy’s indignant meow, the entire city of London outside—it all melted away into the heat of his mouth on hers.