AI The three deadbolts turned one after another, a familiar percussion. Then the door swung open, and there he stood.
Lucien Moreau looked exactly as he always did Impeccable. Tailored charcoal suit, not a crease out of place. Ivory-handled cane in one hand, a paper bag in the other. Those eyes heterochromatic as ever, one amber burning, one void black. Four years older than the last time she'd seen him, but he wore it the way he wore his suits: beautifully, effortlessly.
"I know your door's alarmed," he said. "I also know you disabled it last month after the incident with the Hellhound." A pause. "Smart. But careless."
Rory didn't move from the doorway. "How do you know about the Hellhound?"
"Information broker, remember?" The corner of his mouth twitched. "Also, I own the building."
Of course he did. Should've known. She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. The movement pulled her sleeve, exposing the small crescent scar on her left wrist. His gaze flickered to it, just for a second, then away.
"This is a bad time," she said.
"You haven't asked why I'm here."
"Don't need to. You're here because you always show up when I start getting my life in order." She tilted her head . "It's your thing. Like a curse. A very expensive, very well-dressed curse."
Something moved behind his eyes. Pain, maybe. Or recognition. "May I come in?"
"Ptolemy hates strangers."
"Your cat tolerates me."
"How would you know ?"
"I visited. Twice. While you were working."
Rory stared at him. Four months of silence , and he'd been visiting her cat. The absurdity of it sat between them like a third person.
"Six months," she said.
"What?"
"It's been six months. Not four." She pushed off the doorframe . "You stopped answering my calls in June."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "I was dealing with something."
"You were dealing with something," she repeated flatly . "That's what you said the first time. And the second time. Every time." She stepped back from the doorway. "Fine. Come in. But I'm not making tea."
He entered, and the flat seemed to shrink around him. Every surface covered with books, scrolls, research notes. Ptolemy, the tabby, watched from his perch on a stack of law textbooks, tail flicking slowly .
Lucien set the paper bag on the kitchen counter. "I brought pastries. From that place you liked in Soho."
"Luc." Her voice came out sharper than she intended. "What are you doing here?"
He turned to face her. In the dim light of Eva's cramped flat, the contrast between his eyes seemed more pronounced . The amber one caught the lamp glow, warm as honey. The black one swallowed it whole.
"The ward on Brick Lane," he said. "The one you've been building."
Her stomach dropped. "How do you—"
"Someone's been testing it. Three times this week." He took a step closer . "The last test was tonight. It nearly broke."
Rory's arms dropped to her sides. "That's not possible. I anchored it to the curry shop's foundation. It's strong enough to hold back a—
"Demon of the Third Circle? Yes. Which is exactly why I came." Another step. Too close. She could smell his cologne, something dark and woody, expensive. "Someone's probing your work, Rory. Someone who knows what they're doing."
"Maybe it's just random supernatural activity. Brick Lane's a convergence point, everyone knows—"
"Not random. Targeted." His voice dropped. "Your name was written in the testing glyphs."
The room tilted. She put a hand on the nearest bookshelf to steady herself. "That's not possible. No one knows my real name."
"I know your real name." He said it quietly, like a confession. "I've always known."
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
"Those pastries," she finally said , "are from Pascal's. On Flawith Street."
"Yes."
"The one that closed down eight months ago."
Lucien's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his posture. A slight tension in his shoulders. "I... wasn't aware."
"Of course you weren't." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You were busy dealing with something."
"This isn't about the pastries."
"No." She moved past him, putting distance between them. "This is about you showing up after six months, telling me someone's targeting me, and expecting what? Gratitude? A thank-you card?" She turned. "What do you want, Luc?"
The old nickname hung in the air . She hadn't meant to use it.
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he crossed to the window, looking out at the neon glow of Brick Lane below, the curry shops and vintage stores and late-night kebab vans. His reflection in the glass looked almost human. Almost.
"I wanted to see you," he said.
"You've seen me. Now you can leave."
"It's not that simple."
"When is it ever simple with us?" She watched his reflection . "Tell me the truth. The real reason you're here."
He turned. The lamp light caught his face, and for a moment she could see it the way she'd seen it that first night in Silas' bar two years ago: sharp angles, sharp mind, sharp tongue. The half-demon fixer who could get anything, know anything, for the right price. The one who looked at her like she was something worth seeing.
"I heard you left him," he said. "Evan."
The name hit her like cold water. She hadn't spoken about Evan in months. Hadn't let herself think about him, not really . The bruises had faded. The scars remained.
"Eva helped me get out," she said carefully . "It's been handled."
"I know it's been handled." Lucien's voice was tight. "I had someone watching. For your safety."
"You had someone watching me?"
"I wasn't—" He stopped. Started again . "I needed to know you were safe. That's all."
"That's all," she echoed . "That's what you said the night you left, too. That's all, Rory. I just need time. That's all, Rory. I'll call you tomorrow." She stepped closer, close enough to see the slight dilation of his pupils, the way his breathing had changed. "Do you know what I did that night ? After you didn't call? After you didn't answer any of my messages?"
He said nothing.
"I sat in this flat. With Eva. And I cried." Her voice stayed steady, though something in her chest cracked. "Not because of Evan. Not because of the ex who hit me, who controlled me, who made me feel worthless. I cried because you looked at me the way you did, and I thought, maybe. Maybe this is it. Maybe someone actually—"
She stopped. Too much. Too honest.
"Laisse-moi expliquer," he whispered. Let me explain.
"Don't." She held up a hand. "Don't do that. Don't speak French to make me forgive you."
"I'm not trying to—" He ran a hand through his slicked-back hair, disrupting the perfection. "I was offered a job. In Marseille. Something that could've helped me find my father. Something I've been looking for since I was nineteen."
"So you left."
"I was going to tell you. The night before I—"
"The night before you what?" She felt the old anger rising, familiar and sharp. "The night before you decided I wasn't worth staying for?"
"I was going to ask you to come with me."
The words fell into the space between them like stones into still water.
Rory's mouth opened. Closed. The anger faltered, replaced by something more dangerous. Hope.
"You're lying."
"I never lied to you." His voice was rough. "I was a coward. That's different. I thought if I asked, you'd say no. And if you said no, I'd have to live with that. So I just... left. Like my father left my mother. Like every male figure in my goddamn bloodline."
"That's not—" She stopped. "That's not an excuse."
"No." He moved closer, and this time she didn't step back. "It's not. I know that. I've known it for six months. Every day I've known it, and every day I didn't call because I didn't know how to say—"
"Say what?"
"I'm not good at this." His hand lifted, hovered near her face, then dropped. "Feelings. Vulnerability. All of it. I'm a fixer, Rory. I solve problems. But you were never a problem. You were—" He exhaled sharply . "You were everything I didn't know I was allowed to want."
Ptolemy jumped down from his perch, trotting over to rub against Lucien's legs. The traitor.
" Your cat likes me," Lucien said, almost desperately.
"He has poor taste."
"As do I. In everything except you."
She laughed despite herself. A real laugh, short and surprised. "That was terrible."
"I know ." He smiled, and it transformed his face. Made him look younger. Human. "I'm out of practice. Been busy being miserable."
"Misery looks good on you."
"Liar." He reached out, and this time his hand found hers. Warm. Solid. Real. "You always were a terrible liar."
"I learned from the best."
"I'm not the best."
"No," she agreed, lacing her fingers through his. "You're not. You're actually terrible at communication and showing up on time and calling when you say you will."
"I'll do better."
"You'll try."
"Same thing."
She looked up at him, at those impossible eyes, and felt the old wound crack open further. Not healed. Not forgotten. But maybe, just maybe, something that could be worked with.
"The ward," she said. "The glyphs with my name."
"I'll help you figure out who's behind it."
"And the job in Marseille?"
"Passed. I turned it down three months ago."
"Why?"
"Because I kept thinking about how you'd look in the Mediterranean sunlight." He shrugged, a gesture so uncharacteristic it almost made her laugh . "Seemed important at the time."
"You're ridiculous."
"I know ."
She pulled his hand up, examined the ivory handle of his cane. "This is new."
"Old family heirloom. I've had it for years."
"Liar."
He smiled again, that dangerous smile that had gotten her into this mess in the first place. "I'm out of practice."
The buzzer from downstairs shattered the moment. Eva's voice crackled through the intercom.
"Rory? I'm bringing curry and I swear to God if you're hooking up in my flat again—"
"Again?" Lucien raised an eyebrow .
"She exaggerates." Rory dropped his hand, stepping back. Her heart was racing . "We're not—she's—"
"I'll bring the curry up," Eva's voice continued. "And I'll be using my key, so maybe put on some clothes."
The line went dead.
Rory pinched the bridge of her nose. "This is a disaster."
"It's not ideal," Lucien agreed.
"You can't stay."
"I know ."
"But—" She looked at him, at the hope he was trying so hard to hide. "We should talk. About Marseille. About six months ago. About... all of it."
"I know a place. Quiet. Good wine."
"This is London. Every place is quiet if you know where to look ."
"True." He picked up the paper bag of pastries, held it out to her. "These are still good, by the way. Pascal's might be closed, but the chef owes me a favour."
"You are ridiculous," she said again, but she took the bag. Their fingers brushed. The contact sent heat up her arm.
The knock on the door announced Eva's arrival. Three deadbolts, one after another. The door swung open to reveal Eva, takeaway in hand, eyes narrowing at the scene before her.
"Well," she said slowly . "This is interesting."
"It's not what it looks like," Rory said.
"It looks like your ex is back, and you're both looking at each other like teenagers."
"We're not—"
"Hi," Lucien said calmly. "I'm Lucien."
"I know who you are." Eva pushed past them, setting the curry on the counter. "I've seen the way Rory mopes when she thinks no one's looking. Which, by the way, is pathetic and very obvious." She turned, pointing a finger at Lucien. "You hurt her again, and I don't care how many languages you speak or how many supernatural favours you can call in. I'll find a way to end you."
"Noted," Lucien said.
"Eva—" Rory started.
"No, she's right." Lucien met Eva's gaze steadily. "If I hurt her again, I deserve whatever comes."
Eva studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded once, sharply . "Good. Now someone explain what's happening with the ward, because I've been getting weird vibes from the hallway all week."
Rory looked at Lucien. He looked back, that half-smile on his face.
"Get a pen," he said. "This might take a while."
It was going to take more than a while. There was six months of silence to break, and wounds that wouldn't heal overnight, and a mystery with her name written in dangerous places. But for the first time in months, Rory felt like she wasn't alone in it .
She got a pen.