AI The third deadbolt clicked back with a sharp *thunk *, and Rory exhaled through her nose, rolling her shoulders to ease the knot of tension between them. She’d been running deliveries all evening, the damp London air clinging to her jacket like a second skin, and all she wanted was a hot shower and the half-bottle of merlot she’d stashed in Eva’s fridge. But Eva wasn’t home—again—and the flat’s silence pressed in like a held breath.
She nudged the door open with her hip, balancing a grease-stained paper bag from the Golden Empress in one hand and her keys in the other. The scent of cumin and old paper hit her first, then the warm, buttery glow of the desk lamp Eva always left on. Ptolemy, the traitorous tabby, chose that moment to wind himself around her ankles, purring like a motorboat.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m late,” Rory muttered, bending to scratch behind his ears. The bag rustled as she set it on the cluttered coffee table, her stomach growling in anticipation . She was already reaching for the chopsticks when the floorboard behind her creaked.
Not Eva’s weight . Too heavy. Too *deliberate *.
Rory’s fingers stilled. She knew that silence—the kind that hummed with intent, like a blade unsheathed but not yet struck. Slowly, she turned.
Lucien Moreau leaned against the doorframe leading to the kitchen, one hand tucked into the pocket of his impeccable charcoal suit, the other resting atop his ivory cane. The lamplight caught the platinum strands of his slicked-back hair, the heterochromatic glint of his eyes—amber and black, like whiskey laced with ink. He looked exactly as he had the last time she’d seen him: untouchable. Dangerous. *Expensive.*
Her pulse kicked against her ribs.
“You,” she said.
One corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile . “Me.”
Ptolemy, ever the opportunist, abandoned her to weave between Lucien’s polished shoes. The half-demon bent gracefully, fingers extended, and the cat arched into the touch like he’d been starved for affection . Traitor.
Rory crossed her arms. “How the hell did you get in here?”
Lucien straightened, tapping his cane once against the floor. The sound was soft, but it carried. “Eva still keeps her spare under the loose brick by the fire escape . Some things never change.”
Of course she did. Eva, with her *trust first, ask questions never * policy. Rory’s molars ground together. “You could’ve knocked.”
“I could’ve.” His gaze flicked to the bag on the table, then back to her . “But then I wouldn’t have gotten to see that look on your face.”
She refused to rise to it. “What look?”
“Like you ’re deciding whether to throw something at me or kiss me.” His voice was smooth, unhurried, the faintest trace of a French accent curling around the edges. “I’ve missed it.”
Heat flooded her cheeks, but she locked her knees. “You’ve got a hell of a nerve, Luc.”
He pushed off the doorframe, the cane tapping a slow rhythm as he closed the distance between them. Not crowding her —never that—but near enough that she caught the scent of him: bergamot and gunpowder, the faint metallic tang that clung to anything touched by the supernatural. “Three months,” he said. “No calls. No notes slipped under doors. Not even a *fuck you * scrawled on a napkin at Silas’ bar.” His free hand lifted, fingers hovering just shy of her elbow. “You made your point, *chérie *. But I’m not leaving until we talk.”
Rory stepped back. The coffee table bit into the backs of her thighs. “Talk about what? How you lied to me? How you *used * me?”
Lucien’s jaw tightened. The amber eye darkened, storm-clouds gathering. “I never lied.”
“Omitting the truth is the same damn thing!”
Her shout sent Ptolemy bolting for the safety of Eva’s bed. The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. Rory’s chest heaved, her fingers curling into fists. She’d rehearsed this moment a hundred times in her head—all the things she’d say, the way she’d slice him open with words and walk away unscathed. But now that he was here, solid and infuriating and *smelling like sin *, her script dissolved.
Lucien’s cane thudded against the floor as he turned, limping toward the kitchen. The injury was old, a souvenir from his demonic heritage, but he never let it slow him down. “I need a drink,” he said. “You?”
She should say no. Should tell him to get the hell out. But her throat was dry, her voice raw, and the thought of liquid courage made her nod before she could stop herself.
He didn’t look at her as he reached for the cabinet above the sink, his movements precise. Two glasses. A bottle of whiskey—*her * whiskey, the good stuff Eva saved for “emergencies.” The clink of glass on glass was too loud in the quiet.
Rory sank onto the armchair, her legs suddenly unsteady. The bag of food sat forgotten beside her . She watched as Lucien poured, the lamplight turning his profile into something sharp and beautiful, like a blade honed to a lethal edge.
He handed her a glass. Their fingers brushed.
A spark. A burn .
She jerked back, but not before his lips quirked. “Still electric ,” he murmured.
“Fuck you .”
“Ah, there she is.” He settled onto the sofa, stretching his bad leg out in front of him with a quiet hiss. The cane rested against his thigh, his long fingers wrapped around the glass. “I was starting to think you ’d gone soft.”
Rory took a swallow of whiskey. It burned all the way down, steadying her . “You don’t get to know me well enough to say that.”
Lucien’s gaze flicked to her , then away. “Don’t I?”
She wanted to hit him. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to *scream *. “You played me, Luc. You let me think—” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat, gripping the glass tighter. “You let me think I was more than just another job to you .”
The air between them went still. Lucien’s knuckles whitened around his glass. “You were never just a job.”
“Bullshit.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper . “You needed someone to get close to the Blackthorn Covenant. Someone expendable. And I was *right there *—desperate, stupid, still bleeding from Evan’s mess. Easy pickings.”
His cane hit the floor with a sharp *crack *. “You think that’s all it was?”
“What else could it be?” She threw her hands up. “You show up at Silas’ bar, all charm and half-truths, and suddenly I’m running errands for you , sneaking into places I shouldn’t, lying to people I—” She cut herself off. *Lying to Eva.* That sting was still fresh.
Lucien set his glass down. The clink of it against the coffee table was final. “I told you . I *never * lied.”
“You didn’t tell me you were half-demon!”
“Would it have mattered?”
“Yes!”
“Why?” He was on his feet now, looming over her . Not touching. Never touching. But close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his amber eye, the way his pupils dilated when he was angry . Or aroused. Or both. “Because I’m not human? Because my father was something you ’d rather pretend doesn’t exist?”
“Because you *let me trust you *!” Her voice broke. “I told you things, Luc. Things I haven’t told anyone. Not even Eva. And the whole time, you were just—just *using * me to get to them.”
His breath came faster, his chest rising and falling beneath the tailored suit. “And what about you , Rory? Were you so innocent in all this ?” He leaned in, his voice a velvet blade . “You wanted the thrill. The danger. The *escape *. I gave you that. I gave you *more *.”
She flinched like he’d struck her .
Lucien’s hand shot out, gripping the arm of the chair, caging her in. His face was a breath from hers, his scent wrapping around her , intoxicating. “You think I didn’t see the way your eyes lit up when I told you about the Covenant? The way you *begged * for more ?” His thumb brushed her scarred wrist—light, fleeting . “You wanted to burn , *chérie *. And I was more than happy to light the match.”
Rory’s heart hammered against her ribs. She should push him away. Should tell him to go to hell. But her body remembered the press of his mouth, the way his hands had mapped her skin like she was something precious. Something *his *.
“That’s not—” she started, but her voice was weak, drowned out by the roar of blood in her ears.
Lucien’s lips hovered over hers, his breath hot. “Liar.”
She surged upward, crashing her mouth into his .
It was desperate . Angry. A collision of teeth and tongue and three months of pent-up frustration. Lucien groaned, his hand tangling in her hair, yanking her closer. The cane clattered to the floor as he cupped her face, his thumb digging into her cheekbone like he needed to *ground * himself. Like she was the only real thing in a world of smoke and mirrors.
Rory clawed at his suit jacket, her nails digging into the fabric. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to crawl inside his skin. She wanted —
Lucien wrenched back, his chest heaving. “*Putain *.”
She panted, her lips swollen, her body thrumming. “Coward.”
His laugh was bitter . “You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Then *tell * me.” She grabbed his tie, twisting the silk in her fist. “For once in your goddamn life, Luc, *tell me the truth*.”
For a heartbeat, he just stared at her , his eyes wild, his breath ragged. Then, slowly , he reached up, unwinding her fingers from his tie. He pressed her palm to his chest.
His heart was racing .
“You terrify me,” he said, voice rough .
Rory stilled.
Lucien’s hand covered hers, holding it there, over the frantic beat of his heart. “I have spent my life in the shadows, *chérie *. Playing games with monsters, trading secrets like currency. But you —” His throat worked. “You look at me like I’m *real *. Like I’m not just some half-breed fixer with a demon’s blood in his veins.” His fingers tightened around hers. “And that is the most dangerous thing of all.”
She swallowed. “Luc—”
“Let me finish.” His free hand cupped her jaw, his thumb brushing her lower lip. “Yes, I needed someone to get close to the Covenant. Yes, I chose you . But not because you were expendable.” His voice dropped. “Because you were *brilliant *. Because you saw the cracks in their armor before I did. Because you —” He broke off, his forehead resting against hers. “Because you made me *want * things I haven’t let myself want in decades.”
Rory’s breath hitched. “Like what?”
“Like *this *.” His mouth found hers again, slower this time. Softer. His lips moved against hers like a confession, his hands cradling her face as if she were something fragile. Something *cherished *.
When he pulled back, his forehead still pressed to hers, his voice was a whisper . “Like *you *.”
The flat was silent but for their ragged breathing. Rory’s fingers trembled against his chest. “You hurt me.”
“I know.” His hands slid to her waist, gripping like he was afraid she’d vanish. “And I will spend however long it takes to make it right.”
She wanted to believe him. God, she *wanted * to. But the scars of Evan’s betrayal still ached, a phantom pain. “How do I know you won’t just lie to me again?”
Lucien’s grip tightened. “You don’t.” He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his eyes burning with something raw. Something *honest *. “But I’m here, aren’t I? Begging for another chance. And I *never * beg.”
A laugh bubbled up in her chest, shaky and disbelieving. “You’re insane.”
“Oui.” His mouth quirked. “But you already knew that.”
She did. She *had *. And maybe that was the problem—maybe she’d known all along that Lucien Moreau was a storm wrapped in a tailored suit, and she’d stepped into the eye of it anyway.
Rory exhaled, her forehead still pressed to his . “You’re still an asshole.”
His chuckle vibrated against her lips. “And you ’re still a terrible liar.”
She kissed him again, slower this time. Deeper. And when his arms wrapped around her , pulling her onto his lap, she didn’t fight it. Didn’t pull away.
The whiskey was forgotten . The food grew cold.
And for the first time in months, Rory let herself *burn *.