AI The rain had been falling for hours, a relentless drumming against the grimy windowpanes of Eva’s flat, the kind of sound that made the walls feel like they were closing in. Rory sat cross-legged on the floor, Ptolemy the tabby curled against her thigh, his purr a low vibration as she traced the crescent-shaped scar on her wrist with her thumb. The tea beside her had gone cold, the steam long since dissipated, just like the focus she’d had an hour ago when she’d spread out Eva’s notes on the floor. *Demonic sigils and their earthly counterparts *—as if she could make sense of any of it. She exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. The flat smelled of old paper, damp wool, and the faintest hint of Eva’s jasmine perfume, lingering like a ghost.
A knock at the door made her jump.
Ptolemy’s ears twitched, his body tensing. Rory frowned. Eva had the only key, and she was still in Prague chasing down some lead on a cursed amulet. The knock came again—three sharp raps, deliberate, familiar . Her pulse kicked up. *No. It couldn’t be.*
She pushed herself to her feet, brushing cat hair from her black jeans, and padded to the door. The peephole was fogged with age, but she didn’t need it. She already knew. The air on the other side of the door hummed with something electric , something that made the fine hairs on her arms rise.
She undid the first deadbolt. Then the second. Her fingers hesitated on the third.
“Rory,” came the voice, low and smooth, the French lilt wrapping around her name like silk . “I know you’re in there.”
She exhaled through her nose, steeling herself, before sliding the final lock free. The door swung open.
Lucien Moreau stood in the dim hallway, rainwater slicking his platinum hair to his forehead, his charcoal suit clinging to his shoulders. His heterochromatic gaze—one eye amber, the other black as pitch—locked onto hers. The cane in his hand, ivory-handled and deceptively innocent, tapped once against the floor. He didn’t smile. He never did.
“Luc,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “What the hell are you doing here?”
A beat. Then, “May I come in?”
She didn’t move. The last time she’d seen him , she’d been the one standing in a doorway, her chest hollow, her pride in tatters. *You knew what this was,* he’d said, cold and final. She’d left his flat that night with the taste of him still on her lips and the weight of his dismissal like a stone in her gut.
Ptolemy wound between her ankles, tail flicking. The rain pattered behind Luc, the hallway light casting his sharp features in gold and shadow.
“It’s late,” she said.
“It’s important.”
She wanted to slam the door in his face. She wanted to drag him inside and demand answers for the months of silence . Instead, she stepped back, just enough to let him pass. He moved past her, the scent of bergamot and something darker—something like gunpowder and old parchment—filling the space between them. The door clicked shut.
Luc turned, taking in the flat with a slow sweep of his gaze—the stacks of books, the scrolls pinned to the walls with knives, the half-drunk tea. His lips pressed into a line. “Eva’s still researching the Avaros rift, I see.”
Rory crossed her arms. “What do you want, Luc?”
He exhaled, running a hand over his jaw. The movement was controlled, but she caught the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers flexed around the head of his cane. “There’s a problem.”
“There’s always a problem.”
His amber eye flickered , like a candle flame in a draft. “This one involves you.”
A laugh bubbled up in her throat, sharp and humorless. “Of course it does.” She gestured to the chaos on the floor. “I’m a little busy, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Luc’s gaze dropped to the sigils, then back to her. “Busy trying to get yourself killed?”
The words hit like a slap. She stepped forward, her voice low. “That’s none of your concern.”
“Isn’t it?” His voice was quiet, but it cut through her, precise as the blade hidden in his cane. “You’re meddling in things you don’t understand, *chérie *. Again.”
She bristled. “Don’t call me that.”
His jaw tightened. For a moment, the mask slipped—just a flicker of something raw beneath the polished exterior. Then it was gone . “Fine. Rory.” He reached into his coat, pulling out a folded slip of paper. “This was left at my door tonight.”
She didn’t take it. “And?”
“It’s a summons.” He unfolded it, holding it out. The paper was thick, embossed with a crest she didn’t recognize—a serpent coiled around a dagger. “For you.”
Her stomach dropped. She snatched the paper from his hand.
*The Bearer is cordially invited to attend the auction at midnight, two nights hence. The item in question: one (1) human soul, bound and unbroken. Proof of claim required. Discretion assured.*
At the bottom, scrawled in ink that smelled faintly of copper: *Aurora Carter, by blood and by choice.*
Her breath came faster. “What the hell is this?”
Luc’s voice was grim. “Someone’s selling your soul.”
The words hung between them, heavy and absurd. She looked up, searching his face for any hint of a joke. There was none. “That’s—not possible.”
“It is if someone has a claim on you.” His gaze dropped to her wrist, to the scar she’d been tracing earlier. “Blood magic is messy, but it’s binding.”
She swallowed. Evan. It had to be. That bastard had always been obsessed with the occult, with power. She’d thought she’d left all of that behind when she fled Cardiff. “This is a trick.”
“Perhaps.” Luc’s cane tapped against the floor, once, twice. “But if it’s not, you’ll need protection.”
She barked a laugh. “Oh, now you’re concerned with my well-being?”
His eyes darkened. “I was always concerned, Rory.”
The words hung there, a blade unsheathed. She turned away, her fingers tightening around the summons. “You have a funny way of showing it.”
She heard him move closer, the soft *thud * of his cane against the wood, the whisper of his suit. “I did what I had to.”
“By pushing me away?” She whirled on him . “By acting like I was some—some *inconvenience * you had to deal with?”
His voice dropped. “You were never an inconvenience .”
“Then what was I, Luc?” Her chest ached. “A distraction? A mistake?”
He didn’t answer. His gaze burned into hers, the black of his left eye swallowing the light. She could see the conflict there, the war behind his careful control. It made her want to scream.
Ptolemy chose that moment to leap onto the windowsill, his tail brushing against a stack of books. They teetered, then crashed to the floor. The sound broke the tension , just for a second. Rory turned away, pressing her palms to her eyes. “God, I can’t do this right now.”
Luc’s hand closed around her wrist—gentle, but firm. She froze. His touch was warm, his fingers calloused in a way that betrayed the careful manicure. “Rory,” he said, his voice rough . “Look at me.”
She didn’t want to. But she did.
He was closer than she expected, close enough that she could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. His thumb brushed over her scar, sending a shiver down her spine .
“You think I didn’t want you?” His voice was low, for her ears only. “You think I didn’t lie awake for weeks after you left, wondering if I’d made the wrong choice?”
Her breath hitched. “Then why—?”
“Because I *am * what I am .” His grip tightened, just slightly . “And you deserve better than a half-demon with more enemies than friends.”
She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, that she didn’t care about any of that. But the words stuck in her throat, tangled in pride and fear.
Luc’s other hand cupped her face, his palm rough against her cheek. “But if someone is coming for you,” he said, his voice a growl, “I will burn this city to the ground before I let them take you.”
The promise in his words sent heat pooling low in her stomach . She should’ve pulled away. She should’ve told him to leave. Instead, she leaned into his touch, her eyes slipping shut.
His mouth found hers.
It wasn’t gentle. It was desperate , hungry—the kiss of a man who’d been starving. His cane clattered to the floor as he pulled her against him , one hand tangling in her hair, the other gripping her hip. She gasped, her fingers clutching at his lapels, and then she was kissing him back, just as fiercely. The taste of him —bergamot and something darker, something *him *—filled her senses. The rain, the books, the summons—all of it faded until there was only this.
Luc groaned against her lips, his body pressing hers back against the wall. The shelves dug into her spine, but she didn’t care. His teeth grazed her lower lip, his breath hot as he murmured her name like a prayer. She arched into him , her hands sliding up to his shoulders, nails digging in through the fabric of his suit.
Then his phone buzzed.
He stiffened, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against hers. His chest heaved, his breath unsteady. “Damn it.”
She let out a shaky laugh, her fingers still curled into his jacket. “Bad timing?”
His amber eye gleamed. “Always.” But he didn’t move away. Instead, his thumb brushed her bottom lip, swollen from his kiss. “We should talk about the summons.”
She huffed, but the fight had gone out of her. “Fine. But you’re making tea first.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Demanding, as ever.”
She watched as he bent to retrieve his cane, then moved toward the kitchen, his steps sure and graceful despite the limp he usually hid so well. The kettle clicked on, the sound oddly domestic.
Rory touched her fingers to her mouth, still tingling from his kiss. Outside, the rain continued to fall. But for the first time in months, the storm didn’t feel so suffocating.