AI The scent of toasted cumin and heavy garlic drifted up through the floorboards, a constant reminder that Eva's cramped one-bedroom flat sat directly above the busiest curry house on Brick Lane. Aurora Carter stood in the narrow kitchen, nudging a stack of translated Aramaic scrolls away from the sink so she could wash her hands. Her shift delivering for the Golden Empress had left her smelling faintly of sesame oil and exhaust fumes. She dried her hands on a towel, brushing her straight, shoulder-length black hair out of her bright blue eyes.
At her feet, Ptolemy the tabby cat let out a sharp, demanding yowl.
Rory bent down to scratch behind his ears, but before her fingers made contact, an authoritative knock echoed through the tiny apartment. Ptolemy hissed and darted under a leaning tower of leather-bound research notes.
Rory froze. Eva was not due back from the archives until morning, and nobody else knew she was house-sitting. Her mind, usually cool and analytical, raced through the possibilities. It could be Silas, though the bartender rarely left his own establishment. It could be someone from her past. Evan. The thought sent a cold spike of adrenaline into her chest, but she pushed it down, relying on the pragmatic detachment that had kept her alive this long.
She approached the front door, her grip tightening on the nearest heavy object—a brass paperweight doubling as a bookend. She flipped the first deadbolt. The heavy clack sounded loud in the hallway. She turned the second. Then the third.
Pulling the door open a few inches, Rory prepared a sharp dismissal. The words died in her throat.
Lucien Moreau stood in the dim light of the stairwell. He was impeccably dressed, as always, wearing a tailored charcoal suit that looked entirely out of place against the peeling wallpaper of the East London landing. His slicked-back platinum blond hair caught the flickering overhead bulb, but it was his eyes that pinned her in place. One amber. One pitch black. The heterochromatic gaze of a half-demon.
He leaned slightly on his ivory-handled cane, a deceptive accessory she knew concealed a razor-thin blade. For a long second, neither of them moved. The ambient noise of the street below faded into a dull roar.
Hello, Aurora, he said, his voice a low, smooth baritone wrapping around the vowels with a lingering trace of Marseille.
Rory stared at him, acutely aware of the space between them and the sudden lack of oxygen in her lungs. He was six months of silence standing on her doorstep. He was the reason she had spent weeks jumping at shadows, replaying their final, explosive argument in her head until she felt entirely hollowed out.
What are you doing here, Lucien? Her voice was steady, betraying none of the chaos crashing against her ribs. I told you I never wanted to see you again.
You told me to go to hell, he corrected mildly, though a muscle feathered along his jawline. I considered it. Avaros is lovely this time of year. But I find the company lacking. May I come in?
No. She started to push the door completely shut.
He did not force his way inside. He simply placed the tip of his cane against the threshold. It was not an aggressive move, but the sheer weight of his presence made the barrier feel insurmountable.
Please, Rory.
Hearing him use her nickname cracked a tiny fissure in her armor. She hated that he still had that effect on her. Standing at five-foot-six, she had to look up to meet his eyes. Lucien was not remarkably tall at five-foot-eleven, but the way he carried himself made him seem like he took up all the oxygen in a room.
You have three seconds to give me a reason, she said, her grip on the door tightening.
He looked past her shoulder, scanning the chaotic interior of Eva's flat. The books, the scattered papers, the general disarray. I need your help. And the people I am currently hiding from do not care about collateral damage. If I stay out here, I draw them to you.
Rory evaluated him. Beneath the tailored elegance of the charcoal suit, he looked exhausted. The sharp lines of his face were a fraction too hollow, and his posture favored the cane more than usual. Her instinct was to slam the door, lock the three deadbolts, and vanish out the fire escape. But her curiosity, that relentless, logical drive to solve puzzles, rebelled against the idea.
She stepped back and pulled the door open wide.
Lucien stepped across the threshold, bringing with him the scent of rain, expensive tobacco, and something intrinsically darker—like struck flint. Rory locked the three deadbolts behind him with quick, methodical snaps.
When she turned around, Lucien was observing the sheer volume of clutter in the flat. The space was so cramped they were standing less than two feet apart. Ptolemy peered out from beneath a stack of books, his tail twitching as he assessed the half-demon.
Your friend Eva has a fascinating filing system, Lucien murmured, using the ivory handle of his cane to carefully nudge aside an unraveling scroll on the low coffee table.
Don't touch anything, Rory said, crossing her arms over her chest. And don't change the subject. Six months, Luc. You disappear without a word after nearly getting both of us killed, you leave all my messages unread, and now you show up because you need a favor?
I did not leave you to face danger. I left to remove the danger from entirely around you.
I didn't ask you to protect me. Rory took a step forward, the anger finally bleeding through her cool facade . I'm not a child. I'm not a fragile little human you need to handle with kid gloves. I survived Evan long before I knew demons existed. I survived moving to London. I survived you. I don't need a self-sacrificing martyr.
Lucien turned to face her. The nonchalance vanished. The black eye seemed to swallow the light, while the amber one flared with a terrifying, ancient heat. He stepped into her space, closing the distance between them until the ivory grip of his cane brushed against her hip.
Do you think it was easy for me to walk away? His voice dropped, losing its polished edge. Do you think I did not spend every single night pacing the floors of my office, wondering if you were safe, if you were eating , if you had forgotten me entirely?
Rory held her ground, refusing to let him intimidate her. Then why did you leave?
Because I am exactly what my father made me. He raised his free hand, hesitating for a fraction of a second before his fingers wrapped gently over her left wrist. His thumb brushed over the small, crescent-shaped scar on her skin—a mark from a childhood accident she had told him about on a rainy night in a Parisian hotel, a lifetime ago. Because I ruin everything I touch, Aurora. And I refused to ruin you.
The heat of his touch sent a shockwave up her arm. It was maddening how naturally they fell back into this orbit, completely consumed by the gravity of one another. She looked down at his long, pale fingers against her skin, then back up to his face.
You don't get to decide what ruins me, she said quietly.
Lucien let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. You have always been impossibly stubborn.
You're an information broker, she replied, tilting her chin up. You should have known that about me.
He did not let go of her wrist. Instead, he slid his hand up her arm, his palm coming to rest against the curve of her jaw. His fingers were slightly rough, entirely at odds with his pristine charcoal suit. Rory felt her pulse jump in her throat. She should pull away. She had promised herself that if she ever saw him again, she would be cold. She would be indifferent. But the way he looked at her—like she was the only anchor holding him to the earth—unraveled all her logic.
Je suis désolé, he whispered, the French slipping out as his thumb stroked her cheekbone. I am sorry, Rory. I handled it poorly. I was terrified .
You? Terrified? Rory let out a shaky breath, finally leaning a fraction of an inch into his palm. The great Lucien Moreau, afraid of a little risk?
Afraid of losing the only thing that has ever made me feel human, he corrected softly .
Silence thickened in the cramped apartment, heavier than the scent of the curry spices from below. The air between them crackled. Every unspoken argument, every resentful thought Rory had harbored for the last half-year seemed to burn away under his touch.
He leaned down, his eyes scanning her face, asking a silent question. Rory reached up, her hand curling into the lapel of his immaculate suit, and pulled him the rest of the way down.
The kiss was not gentle. It was a collision. Lucien dropped his cane. The heavy ivory handle hit the wooden floorboards with a loud clatter that sent Ptolemy scrambling into the bedroom, but neither of them cared. Lucien wrapped both arms around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest, sweeping her backward until her spine hit the edge of the kitchen counter.
Rory tangled her hands in his slicked-back platinum hair, ruining the perfect styling, gripping him as if she needed tangible proof he was real. He tasted of mint, expensive whiskey, and rain. The desperation in the way his mouth moved over hers matched the frantic pounding of her own heart. It was messy and consuming, an exorcism of six months of lonely nights and bitter memories.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing heavily. Lucien rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed. His hands remained tightly gripping her waist.
Don't ever do that to me again, Rory said, her voice trembling slightly , though she kept her grip on the collar of his suit. Don't ever decide what is best for me.
I swear it, he murmured, opening his eyes. The amber and black were bright and entirely focused on her. You are a brilliant, infuriating woman, Aurora Carter. And I am entirely at your mercy.
Rory finally let out a genuine, albeit breathless, laugh. Good. Now pick up your cane, tell me exactly who is trying to kill you this time, and we'll figure out how to ruin their week.
Lucien smiled, a slow, dangerous expression that made him look every bit the demonic offspring he was. He bent to retrieve the concealed blade, smoothing down his charcoal jacket with his free hand.
As you wish, he said. Let us begin.