AI The first deadbolt stuck, demanding a hard twist of the wrist. The second yielded with a metallic clank. The third slid back smoothly. Rory pulled the heavy door inward, expecting to see her downstairs neighbor complaining about water pipes, or perhaps one of Yu-Fei Cheung's delivery boys dropping off a misdirected shift schedule from the Golden Empress.
Instead, Lucien Moreau stood in the narrow, dimly lit hallway.
Rory froze, her hand tightening on the edge of the door. The heavy scent of roasted cumin, garlic, and coriander drifting up from the Brick Lane curry house below seemed to evaporate instantly, replaced by the crisp, ozone-and-cedar scent that always clung to him. He looked exactly the same as the night he had walked out of Silas's bar without a backward glance.
He wore a tailored charcoal suit that fit his lean frame perfectly , an impeccable contrast to the grimy, peeling wallpaper of the East London corridor. His platinum blond hair was slicked back, unruffled by the wind outside. Both hands rested on the carved ivory handle of his cane, the one Rory knew concealed a blade thin and sharp enough to sever bone.
And then there were his eyes. One striking amber, the other pitch black. They fixed on her, calculating and utterly unreadable .
Rory maintained her grip on the door. Her bright blue eyes narrowed . She had spent the last three months convincing herself she was over the sting of his abrupt departure. She had kept her head down, worked her delivery shifts, and spent her evenings house-sitting for Eva among piles of occult research. She had survived an abusive ex like Evan; she could certainly survive a French half-demon who treated people like chess pieces.
He did not say anything at first. He simply looked at her, his gaze lingering on her straight, shoulder-length black hair before dropping to the faded Golden Empress t-shirt she wore.
"You are going to let me in, Aurora," he said. Not a question. A statement delivered in that quiet, silken baritone, the French lilt smoothing the harsh edges of the English syllables.
"I don't remember inviting you," she said, keeping her voice cool and steady.
Lucien shifted his weight , the rubber tip of his cane squeaking faintly against the floorboards. "You are house-sitting for Eva. I know she is in Prague. I also know you have nowhere else to go right now, and that keeping me standing in a hallway where anyone could see us is a very poor tactical decision."
Rory felt the familiar flare of irritation that only Lucien could ignite. He was always three steps ahead, always in control. She wanted to slam the door in his perfect face. But she saw the tight lines around his mouth, the faint shadow of exhaustion beneath his mismatched eyes. He was an underworld fixer, an information broker who prided himself on never being caught off guard. For him to show up here, unannounced, meant something had gone drastically wrong.
With a sharp exhale, she stepped back and pulled the door wide.
Lucien stepped inside, bringing the crisp chill of the London night with him. Rory shut the door, throwing the three deadbolts back into place with swift, practiced motions. When she turned around, Lucien was already observing the cramped one-bedroom flat.
Every available surface in Eva's living room was buried under precarious stacks of books, yellowed scrolls, and frantic research notes. The only clear space was a small patch of the faded Persian rug where Ptolemy, Eva's massive tabby cat, sat grooming a paw. Ptolemy paused, yellow eyes locking onto Lucien. The cat did not hiss, but he did not approach either, sensing the predatory stillness beneath the charcoal suit.
"It is cramped," Lucien noted, turning his attention back to Rory.
"It is a flat, not a palace," she retorted. "And I like the crampedness. It keeps uninvited guests from overstaying their welcome. State your business, Lucien. I have an early delivery shift tomorrow."
He leaned slightly on his cane. "You are still angry."
"Angry?" Rory let out a short, hollow laugh. "I am not angry. I just prefer people who do not vanish into the night the moment a situation requires actual human emotion."
"I am only half human, Aurora."
"Do not use semantics to dodge the issue. You used me to get the cipher from the Avaros cult, and when the job was done, you disappeared. You left me waiting at Silas's at the absolute worst possible time."
For a fraction of a second, the cool facade cracked. The amber eye flared, bright and intense, while the black eye seemed to swallow the dim light of the overhead bulb. He closed the distance between them in two long, silent strides. Rory held her ground, refusing to step back, even as she had to tilt her head up to meet his gaze. He was five foot eleven, towering over her five foot six, but she squared her shoulders.
"I left because of what happened at the docks," he said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper . "I left because the cult knew who you were. If I had stayed, if I had continued to operate with you by my side, they would have butchered you. I severed the tie to make you uninteresting to them."
Rory swallowed hard, the proximity muddling her thoughts. She could see the faint pulse beating at the base of his throat. She could feel the heat radiating through the fine wool of his suit.
"And you couldn't have told me that?" she demanded, though her voice lacked its previous venom . "You couldn't have trusted me to handle it? I am twenty-five years old, Lucien. I am not a child, and I am not fragile."
Lucien reached out. The movement was slow, deliberate, allowing her every opportunity to pull away. When she did not move, his gloved fingers brushed the inside of her left wrist. He traced the small, crescent-shaped scar there, the faint white mark from a childhood accident that seemed so mundane compared to the violent supernatural underworld she had been dragged into .
"I know you are not fragile," he murmured, his thumb resting gently against her pulse point . "You are the most fiercely intelligent woman I have ever met. You think faster and more creatively than any demon I know. But intelligence does not stop a blade in the dark."
Rory looked down at his hand on her wrist, then back up to his face. The touch was burning her skin, a stark reminder of the nights they had spent pouring over maps and texts, the accidental brushes of shoulders, the lingering glances that had bordered on something profoundly dangerous. She had fled Cardiff to take control of her own life. She hated being managed. She hated being protected without her consent.
"Take your hand off me," she said, but it came out as a breathy command, devoid of force.
Lucien did not remove his hand. Instead, his grip shifted, his fingers wrapping lightly around her wrist, grounding her. "I need your help, Rory."
The use of her nickname, the one her friends used, the one he had stubbornly avoided in favor of her full name, sent a jolt straight to her chest.
"With what?" she asked, refusing to look away from his mismatched eyes .
"Someone has broken into my vault," he said, his voice tightening . "They took a ledger. A ledger that lists every favor, every debt, and every weakness of London's supernatural elite. If it is made public, there will be a war that will spill over into the human streets. I need someone who can think outside the rigid boxes of the demonic syndicates. I need someone who can track the thief through the human and supernatural channels simultaneously."
"You mean you need a delivery girl who knows every back alley in London and can solve puzzles faster than your bruisers."
"I mean I need you," he corrected quietly. "Only you."
Rory pulled her wrist from his grasp, turning her back to him to walk toward the small kitchenette. She needed distance. She picked up a stack of Eva's translation scrolls and straightened the edges, staring blindly at the ancient Aramaic script. Her heart was hammering against her ribs. Stepping back into Lucien's world was a guarantee of danger, sleepless nights, and the devastating risk of letting him back into her head.
"What makes you think I will help you?" she asked to the room at large.
"Because you hate unresolved mysteries," Lucien said, his footsteps quiet behind her . "And because despite your very justified anger, you know we work perfectly together."
He was standing right behind her now. She could feel him there, an immovable worldly force in the center of the chaotic flat.
"And what happens when the job is done this time, Luc?" she asked, the old nickname slipping out before she could stop it . "Do you slip back into the shadows? Do you decide I am in danger again and cut me out of my own life?"
He reached past her, placing his bare hand on the counter next to hers. He had removed his glove. His skin was pale, his long fingers elegant and strong.
"I made a mistake, Aurora. I thought distance would bring me peace of mind. It did not. It only brought me a very profound , very frustrating distraction."
Rory turned around. She was trapped between the counter and his body. The air in the flat felt infinitely thicker, the smell of old paper and dust completely overwhelmed by his presence. His amber eye caught the light, golden and burning, entirely focused on her.
She chewed on her lower lip, a habit she had never quite been able to break. She saw the tension in his jaw, the raw vulnerability he was fighting to keep buried beneath his tailored suit and collected demeanor.
"If we do this," she said, her voice dropping to match his quiet intensity , "we do it my way. No secrets. No vanishing acts. If we hit a wall, we break it down together. You do not get to dictate my safety."
Lucien looked at her, his expression softening just enough to reveal the man beneath the fixer's mask. He slowly raised his hand, his knuckles lightly grazing her cheekbone. She shivered despite herself.
"You have my word," he said softly .
Rory held his gaze for a long moment, searching the black and the amber for any hint of deception. She found none. Only a quiet, desperate honesty that terrified her more than the prospect of any underworld war.
"Fine," Rory breathed, her cool-headedness finally fracturing just enough to let the thrill of the danger, and him, seep back in. "Tell me everything you know."