AI The third deadbolt clicked back with a metallic sigh, and Rory exhaled through her nose as she turned the handle. The flat smelled the same—dust, old paper, and the faintest trace of Eva’s lavender shampoo, lingering like a ghost. She nudged the door wider with her hip, balancing a grease-stained paper bag from the Golden Empress in one hand and her helmet in the other. Ptolemy wound between her ankles with a plaintive *mrrow *, tail flicking against the doorframe.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m late,” she muttered, toeing off her scuffed boots. The tabby’s fur bristled as he arched into her calf, purring like a broken motor. She bent to scratch behind his ears, the bag crinkling as she shifted it. “Miss me that much, huh? Or just after my leftovers?”
A floorboard creaked.
Rory froze.
Not the usual groan of the building settling, not the radiator’s wheezing complaint—this was the deliberate, measured shift of weight from one foot to another. Someone was standing in Eva’s kitchen. Her fingers tightened around the helmet. Ptolemy’s back arched, his fur standing on end, a low growl rumbling in his throat.
“Eva?” she called, voice steady despite the sudden hammering of her pulse . “If this is your way of telling me you ’re finally robbing a bank, I *told * you that balaclava makes you look like a disgruntled badger.”
No answer. Just the slow, deliberate *tap-tap * of something—fingers, maybe, or the end of a cane—against the countertop.
Rory set the food down silently, her free hand sliding into her jacket pocket. Her knuckles brushed the cool metal of her bike chain lock. Not much, but better than nothing . She eased forward, each step deliberate, her socks muffling her approach on the worn hardwood. The kitchen light was off, the only illumination the sickly yellow glow of the streetlamp seeping through the grimy window, painting everything in shades of sepia.
Then she saw him .
Lucien Moreau leaned against the counter, one hand wrapped around a chipped mug—Eva’s favorite, the one with the cracked handle—and the other resting on the head of his cane. The ivory handle gleamed dully in the dim light, the blade inside it hidden, as always. He looked exactly as she remembered: platinum hair slicked back, heterochromatic eyes sharp as broken glass, one amber, one black. His suit was immaculate, charcoal gray, tailored to within an inch of his life, like he’d stepped out of a boardroom and into Eva’s chaotic flat without missing a beat.
Her breath hitched. The air between them thickened, charged , like the moment before a storm breaks.
“You,” she said.
Luc’s lips quirked. Not quite a smile. “Me.”
Ptolemy hissed, tail lashing, and Luc flicked his gaze downward. “Your familiar is rude.”
“He’s not *my * familiar .” Rory’s fingers twitched toward the lock in her pocket. “What the hell are you doing here, Luc?”
He took a slow sip from the mug—*Eva’s mug *—his dark eyes never leaving hers over the rim. The scent of whiskey curled toward her, rich and smoky. “Waiting.”
“For Eva?”
“For you .”
The words landed like a physical blow. Rory’s stomach twisted. She hadn’t seen him in eight months. Not since that night in the alley behind Silas’s bar, when he’d pressed her against the brick wall and kissed her like he was trying to memorize the shape of her, his cane digging into her hip, his voice rough with something she hadn’t let herself name. *Stay,* he’d said. And she’d run .
She swallowed. “How’d you even get in?”
Luc set the mug down with a quiet *clink *. “Eva’s locks are child’s play.”
“Of course they are,” Rory muttered. She should ’ve known. Luc had a knack for slipping through defenses, literal and otherwise. “She’s gonna kill you .”
“She’ll forgive me.” His cane tapped once against the floor. “Eventually.”
Rory exhaled sharply through her nose. “You didn’t answer my question. *Why * are you here?”
Luc pushed off the counter, the movement fluid, predatory. The streetlight caught the sharp angles of his face, the faint scar above his eyebrow —something she’d never asked about. He took a step forward. Then another. The space between them shrank, the air growing heavier, warmer. Rory’s back hit the wall before she realized she’d retreated.
“You left something behind,” he said.
Her pulse spiked. “I didn’t—”
“Not *you *.” His voice dropped, low and rough. “Evan did.”
The name was a bucket of ice water. Rory’s breath stuttered. “What?”
Luc’s jaw tightened, the muscle feathering beneath his skin. “He’s been asking around. About you .”
The floor tilted. Rory pressed a hand to the wall to steady herself, the plaster cool beneath her palm. “That’s not—he wouldn’t—”
“He would.” Luc’s cane thudded softly against the floorboards as he closed the distance between them. “And he did. Three nights ago, he walked into the Black Hound and started flashing your photo around. Offering money for information.”
Rory’s stomach lurched . The Black Hound was a neutral-ground pub for London’s supernatural crowd—a place where demons, witches, and worse could drink without starting a bloodbath. If Evan had gone in there, he was either desperate or stupid. Maybe both.
“How much?” she asked, her voice hollow .
Luc’s eyes darkened. “Enough to make people talk.”
She laughed, sharp and humorless. “Great. So now every lowlife in London knows where to find me.”
“No.” Luc’s free hand came up, fingers brushing the strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek. His touch was light, barely there, but it burned like a brand. “They know where to find *him *.”
Rory’s breath caught. “Luc—”
“He’s at the old textile factory in Whitechapel.” His thumb traced the shell of her ear, his voice a velvet blade. “Room 307. He’s been there since last night.”
Her mind raced . Evan wasn’t stupid enough to hole up in a place like that unless he had backup. Unless he *knew * someone was coming for him . Unless—
“This is a trap,” she whispered.
Luc’s fingers curled around the nape of her neck, his grip firm, possessive. “Probably.”
“Then why tell me?”
His heterochromatic gaze locked onto hers, unblinking. “Because you ’d never forgive me if I didn’t.”
The honesty in his voice was a physical thing, a weight pressing against her chest. Rory’s throat tightened. She should push him away. She should tell him to leave, to mind his own damn business, that she didn’t need his help. But the words died on her lips because *God *, she was tired. Tired of running, tired of looking over her shoulder, tired of pretending she wasn’t terrified that one day Evan would find her, and this time, she wouldn’t get away.
Luc’s thumb stroked the pulse beneath her jaw. “Say the word, *malphora *, and I’ll walk out that door. I’ll handle Evan. You’ll never see me again.”
Her breath hitched at the nickname—the demonic term of endearment he’d called her that night in the alley. *Little storm *. She should ’ve hated it. Should’ve hated *him *.
But she didn’t.
“Or,” Luc murmured, his lips brushing the corner of her mouth, his voice a dark promise, “you could let me help you end this.”
Rory’s hands found his lapels, the fine wool smooth beneath her fingers. She could shove him away. She could tell him to go to hell. But instead, she fisted the fabric and yanked him closer, their bodies pressing together, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“Why do you even care?” she demanded, her voice raw .
Luc’s cane clattered to the floor as his hands cupped her face, his forehead resting against hers. His breath was warm, laced with whiskey and something darker, something that made her skin prickle.
“Because,” he said, his voice a rough whisper , “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the night you left.”
The admission hung between them, heavy and irrevocable. Rory’s breath trembled . She should pull away. She should *run *. But then his lips were on hers, hot and demanding, and all the reasons why this was a terrible idea dissolved like sugar in rain.
Luc kissed like he did everything else—with precision, with intent, like he was staking a claim. His hands slid down to her waist, pulling her flush against him , the hard lines of his body fitting against hers like they’d been designed for it. Rory gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair, knocking his careful style into disarray. He groaned into her mouth, the sound sending a shiver down her spine , and then his teeth grazed her lower lip, sharp and possessive.
She broke away, breathless. “We can’t—”
“We can.” His lips trailed down her throat, his voice a dark murmur against her skin. “We *should *.”
Rory’s head fell back with a thud against the wall. “Luc—”
“Say *yes *,” he growled, his hand sliding up to thumb the crescent-shaped scar on her wrist, the one Evan had given her years ago. His touch was gentle, almost reverent. “Let me help you .”
She swallowed hard, her pulse racing . This was insane. Reckless. *Dangerous *. But then, so was he. And God help her, she’d always had a weakness for beautiful, dangerous things.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Luc’s eyes burned into hers, triumph and something fiercer flickering in their depths . Then his mouth was on hers again, harder this time, like he was sealing a bargain. Rory kissed him back, her hands gripping his shoulders, her nails digging in through the fine fabric of his suit. The world narrowed to the heat of him , the taste of whiskey and sin, the steady, insistent beat of his heart against hers.
When they finally broke apart, her lips were swollen, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Luc rested his forehead against hers, his thumb brushing her cheekbone.
“We’ll leave at dawn,” he murmured. “Before the streets wake up.”
Rory nodded, her mind still spinning. “Eva’s gonna kill us both.”
Luc’s laugh was a low, dark sound. “Then it’s a good thing I’m hard to kill.”
She huffed out a shaky breath, her fingers tightening on his jacket. “Luc?”
“Hmm?”
“Don’t make me regret this.”
His smile was slow, sharp. “Oh, *malphora *,” he purred, pressing one last kiss to the corner of her mouth, “I intend to make sure you don’t.”