AI The rain had been falling for three hours straight by the time the knock came at the door.
Aurora froze mid-reach, her fingers hovering over the spine of a leather-bound grimoire on Eva’s overflowing bookshelf. The tabby cat, Ptolemy, twitched an ear from his perch on the windowsill but didn’t bother opening his eyes. Three sharp raps—too deliberate for a delivery, too early for Eva, who was still at the British Library digging through occult archives.
Another knock. Then a pause.
Rory exhaled through her nose and turned. The flat was a maze of stacked books and yellowed scrolls, the air thick with the scent of old paper and the faintest ghost of Eva’s jasmine perfume. She stepped over a pile of annotated maps, her socked feet silent on the worn hardwood. The third deadbolt was still undone—she’d only just arrived herself, shaking rain from her jacket, when the knocking started.
She pressed her eye to the peephole.
The hallway light was dim, but she’d know that silhouette anywhere—the sharp cut of a tailored shoulder, the way he stood just a little too close to the door, like he was already halfway through it in his mind. Her pulse kicked up, traitorous and quick.
*Lucien.*
She should ’ve known. Of course it would be him .
Rory unlatched the final lock and pulled the door open, the hinges groaning in protest. Cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of wet pavement and something darker, like gunpowder and cloves—his cologne, or maybe just the way he smelled, demon blood or no. Lucien Moreau stood there, rain beading on the brim of his hat, his platinum hair slicked back despite the weather. The amber eye met hers first, then the black one, unblinking.
“You’re letting the cold in,” he said.
She didn’t move. “What do you want ?”
A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, just enough to show he was amused , not offended. “Can’t a man visit an old friend?”
“You and I were never friends.”
“No.” His voice was low, smooth as the whiskey he favored. “We weren’t.”
The air between them hummed, charged with something that hadn’t dissipated in the two years since she’d last seen him . Rory gripped the doorframe, her fingers tight against the chipped paint. She should slam the door in his face. She should . But then his gaze dropped to her wrist—the left one, where the crescent scar peeked out from under her sleeve—and lingered just a second too long.
“Are you going to invite me in?” he asked.
She wanted to refuse. She wanted to tell him to go to hell. But the rain was coming down harder now, drumming against the fire escape outside, and the memory of the last time they’d stood like this—him walking away, her letting him —burned too fresh.
Rory stepped back.
Lucien crossed the threshold like he owned the place, shaking the rain from his coat before draping it over the back of Eva’s kitchen chair. The cane—ivory-handled, always at his side—tapped lightly against the floor as he moved deeper into the flat. His suit was charcoal today, crisp despite the weather, the cufflinks glinting like polished onyx.
“Eva’s not here,” Rory said, folding her arms.
“I know.” He turned, slow, like he was giving her time to bolt. “I came to see you .”
The words landed like a physical weight . She swallowed. “Why?”
Lucien reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a slim envelope, the paper thick and cream-colored. He held it out. “Because you left this behind.”
Rory didn’t take it. “That’s not mine.”
“No?” His eyebrow arched . “Funny. It has your name on it.”
She finally looked at the envelope. Sure enough, *Aurora Carter * was scrawled across the front in ink that shimmered faintly, like crushed sapphires. Her breath hitched. That handwriting—she’d know it anywhere.
“Where did you get this?”
“From a mutual acquaintance.” Lucien’s voice was careful, neutral. “Someone who thought you might want it back.”
Rory snatched the envelope from his fingers and tore it open. Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded once. She unfolded it, her pulse roaring in her ears.
*The Malphora Contract.*
Not just any copy—the *original *. The one she’d stolen from Evan’s safe two years ago, the one that had sent her running to London in the first place. The one she’d lost the night everything went wrong.
Her hands trembled . “This was in the vault under the Blackthorn Club.”
Lucien didn’t deny it. “You always were observant.”
“You *stole * it.” The words came out sharper than she intended.
“Borrowed,” he corrected. “And now I’m returning it.”
“Why?” She looked up, searching his face. The black eye was unreadable , the amber one flickering with something she couldn’t name. “You could’ve sold this. You could’ve—”
“Used it against you ?” His lips twisted . “I considered it.”
The admission stung. Rory clenched her jaw . “But you didn’t.”
“No.” He took a step closer . “I didn’t.”
The space between them was too small, too charged . She could see the rain glistening on his collar, the way his throat moved when he swallowed. The scar on her wrist ached, phantom pain.
“Why not?” she whispered.
Lucien’s gaze dropped to her mouth. For a heartbeat, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, quiet: “Because I owed you .”
The words hung there, heavy with everything unsaid. Rory’s chest tightened. She remembered the last time they’d been this close—his hands on her waist, her back against the wall of Silas’ bar, the way his breath had hitched when she’d—
She turned away, shoving the contract into her back pocket. “You didn’t owe me anything.”
“Didn’t I?”
The question was a blade between her ribs. Rory moved to the kitchen, needing distance, needing *something *. She filled the kettle with shaking hands, the tap water loud in the silence .
“You want tea?” she asked, voice too bright .
Lucien didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was closer than she expected. “Since when do you drink tea?”
She turned. He was leaning against the counter, close enough that she could see the stubble along his jaw, the faint scar through his left eyebrow . Close enough to touch.
“Since I started working for Yu-Fei,” she said. “He makes me try all the new blends.”
“And do you like them?”
“No.” She set the kettle on the stove with more force than necessary. “But I drink them anyway.”
Lucien chuckled, low and rough. “Always so stubborn.”
Rory whirled on him . “What do you *want *, Lucien?”
The laughter died in his throat. His expression darkened, the black eye going flat, the amber one burning. “I want to know why you never came back.”
The words knocked the air from her lungs. She stared at him , her heart hammering. “You know why.”
“Because of *him *?” Lucien’s voice was a growl, the demon blood in him rising to the surface. “Because of that *human * you were so desperate to protect?”
“Yes.” The lie tasted bitter. She turned off the kettle before it could boil. “Evan would’ve killed you if he’d found out what you were.”
“And you cared so much about that?”
“I cared about *surviving *!” The words burst out of her, raw and ugly. “I cared about not ending up like—” She cut herself off, pressing her lips together.
Lucien went still. “Like your mother.”
The name hung between them, unspoken but heavy. Rory’s throat tightened. “You don’t get to say that.”
“No,” he agreed. “But it’s the truth, isn’t it? You ran because you were scared. Not of Evan. Of *yourself *.”
She flinched. “That’s not—”
“Isn’t it?” He closed the distance between them in a single step, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered against her cheek, his skin warm despite the cold outside. “You were never afraid of what he could do to you , Rory. You were afraid of what *you * were capable of.”
Her breath came fast. “Stop.”
“Why?” His thumb traced the line of her jaw, slow, deliberate. “Because it’s easier to pretend you left for noble reasons? Because it’s easier than admitting you were *terrified *?”
She shoved him back, her palms flat against his chest. He didn’t budge. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Don’t I?” His voice was a whisper , his mouth inches from hers. “I know you take your tea with honey, even though you pretend not to have a sweet tooth. I know you hum when you ’re nervous. I know you ’ve read every book in Silas’ collection at least twice.” His hand slid to the nape of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair. “I know you *lie * when you say you didn’t miss me.”
Rory’s knees nearly gave out. She should push him away. She should *run *. But his scent was all around her—cloves and smoke and something uniquely *him *—and the heat of his body seeped through her clothes, melting the ice she’d spent two years building.
“Lucien,” she breathed, a warning or a plea, she didn’t know which.
His mouth crashed into hers.
It was nothing like their last kiss—no hesitation, no gentleness. This was hunger, teeth and tongue and hands gripping like he was afraid she’d vanish. Rory gasped, her fingers clutching at his lapels, and then she was kissing him back, just as desperate, just as *angry *. The cane clattered to the floor as he pulled her against him , one hand tangled in her hair, the other pressing into the small of her back.
She tasted whiskey and sin, felt the sharp edge of his teeth against her lower lip. His body was all hard lines and heat, the muscle beneath his suit coiled tight. Rory arched into him , her nails digging into his shoulders, and for a second, the world narrowed to this—to the way his breath hitched when she bit his lip, to the growl that vibrated against her mouth.
Then he pulled back, his chest heaving, his eyes wild.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice rough .
Rory’s pulse roared in her ears. She should . She *should *. But the word that came out was, “Don’t.”
Lucien groaned, his mouth finding hers again, his hands sliding under her shirt, his touch searing against her skin. The counter dug into her back as he lifted her onto it, his body fitting between her thighs like he belonged there. Rory wrapped her legs around his waist, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, closer—
A loud *thump * from the hallway made them freeze.
Ptolemy yowled, leaping off the windowsill with a hiss. Rory and Lucien broke apart, both breathing hard. The kettle whistled shrilly on the stove, steam curling into the air.
Lucien’s gaze snapped to the door, his body tensing. “Eva?”
Rory shook her head, her lips swollen, her mind still foggy with want . “She wouldn’t knock.”
Another *thump *. Then a voice, muffled but unmistakable: “Rory? You in there?”
*Silas.*
Lucien cursed under his breath, stepping back. Rory slid off the counter, her legs unsteady. She pressed a hand to her mouth, her fingers trembling.
Lucien bent to retrieve his cane, his movements sharp, controlled. When he straightened, his expression was carefully blank, the demon blood banked behind his eyes. “I should go.”
Rory didn’t stop him .
He paused at the door, his hand on the knob. “The contract is yours,” he said, not looking at her . “Do what you want with it.”
Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him .
Rory stood there, her body still humming, her lips still tingling. The kettle screamed, the steam filling the kitchen, the rain hammering against the windows.
Silas knocked again. “Rory?”
She didn’t answer.
Outside, the storm raged on.