AI Aurora twisted the third deadbolt with a click that echoed too loudly in the cramped hallway. The door creaked open, and there he stood, silhouetted against the sodium glow of Brick Lane's streetlamps. Lucien Moreau, all tailored charcoal and uninvited shadows, his heterochromatic eyes catching the light like fractured gems—one amber, one black void.
She froze, hand gripping the knob. The scent of rain-damp wool and something sharper, like smouldering incense, wafted in. Her pulse kicked up, a betrayer in the quiet.
"Lucien." The name slipped out, edged with frost she hadn't meant to summon.
He inclined his head, that ivory-handled cane tapping once against the threshold. No apology in the gesture. Just possession.
"Rory. We need to talk."
She blocked the doorway, arms crossed over her damp jacket from the dash back from the restaurant. Books teetered on the side table behind her, scrolls curling at the edges like forgotten secrets. Ptolemy, Eva's tabby, slunk past her legs, rubbing against Lucien's polished shoes before vanishing into the flat's depths . Traitor.
"Eva's not here." Lies came easy these days, honed by too many nights dodging Evan's calls before London swallowed her whole. "And even if she were, she'd tell you to sod off."
His lips curved, not quite a smile. He leaned on the cane, the motion fluid, predatory. "I'm not here for Eva. Though her research on the Avaros rift has proven... enlightening." His accent wrapped the words, French silk over gravel. He spoke four languages, but this one always felt aimed at her ribs.
She swallowed the urge to slam the door. The scar on her wrist itched, a crescent moon from a fall she'd taken at eight, tumbling off her father's garden wall while chasing illusions of faeries. Now it burned like a warning. Lucien knew about illusions. He breathed them.
"Out with it, then." She stepped aside, just enough . The flat swallowed him whole—shelves groaning under leather-bound tomes, notes pinned to every wall like a madwoman's map. The air held curry spices from the shop below, mingling with the faint must of old paper. Eva's domain, but tonight it felt like a cage .
He moved inside, cane echoing on the scarred floorboards. No hesitation. He paused by the window, peering through the grimed glass at the lane's bustle—late-night revellers stumbling from pubs, a kebab van hissing steam. His reflection stared back, platinum hair slicked just so, suit unrumpled despite the drizzle.
"You look well." His gaze slid to her, lingering on the stray lock of black hair clinging to her cheek. "Delivery work suits you. All that fresh air."
"Bugger off with the charm ." She shut the door, locks snicking home. Ptolemy leaped onto a stack of journals, yellow eyes fixed on Lucien like he scented brimstone. "Last time we 'talked', you vanished. Left me holding the mess with that demon contract. I nearly got skinned alive by your father's kin."
He turned, amber eye glinting . The black one seemed to drink the light. "I saved you. The blade in this cane? It tasted Avaros blood that night. For you."
Her laugh scraped out, bitter as the alley gin she'd swigged last week. She leaned against the kitchenette counter, the edge biting her hip through denim. Memories flooded unbidden: his hand on her wrist, tracing that scar in the dim of his Mayfair safehouse. Heat where there shouldn't have been. Whispers in the dark about realms bleeding into London, his half-demon pulse thrumming against her skin. Then the betrayal—his intel leading straight to a trap, her scrambling from Cardiff's ghosts only to find new ones in the capital.
"Saved me?" She snatched a mug from the draining board, tea sloshing cold over her fingers. The porcelain warmed in her grip, grounding. "You used me as bait. Out-of-the-box thinking, right? That's what you called it."
Lucien's cane tapped again, a metronome to her rising ire. He closed the distance, stopping just shy of arm's reach. The air thickened, charged like the moments before a storm breaks over the Thames. She caught his scent fully now—sandalwood and iron, the latter a reminder of blood spilled in shadows.
"I had no choice." His voice dropped, velvet over steel. "The rift Eva's chasing? It's widening. Your ex, Evan—he's not just some abusive prat. He's marked. Avaros touched him in that Cardiff flat you fled. If I hadn't pulled you in—"
"Don't." She set the mug down hard, ceramic clinking against Formica. Water beaded on her skin, tracing paths down her wrist. "You don't get to rewrite it. We had something. Or I thought we did. Nights where you weren't the fixer, just Luc. Talking realms and scars and stupid dreams of normalcy . Then poof. Gone."
His fingers flexed on the cane's handle, the ivory gleaming under the bare bulb. For a heartbeat, the amber eye softened, almost human. "Normalcy is a lie for my kind. But you... you make me want it."
The words hung, heavy as the books pressing in. She wanted to shove him, to feel the solid wall of him yield. Instead, her breath caught. Attraction coiled low, traitorously familiar . The hurt twisted it sharper—nights alone in her flat above Silas', replaying his touch, cursing his absence.
"You show up here, unannounced, after months?" She stepped closer, close enough to see the faint stubble shadowing his jaw. "Eva's out chasing leads on that rift, and you think you can waltz in? What do you want, Lucien? Forgiveness? A shag to ease your conscience?"
He reached out, thumb brushing her wrist, right over the scar. Electricity sparked, warm and unwelcome. "I want you safe. The rift's spilling over. Demons in the Underground, whispers in the markets. Evan's gathering them. He knows where you live, Rory. Above that dive bar. But here, with Eva's wards..."
She jerked back, but not far. His touch lingered, phantom heat. Ptolemy hissed from the shelves, tail lashing. The flat felt smaller, walls leaning in with their scribbled runes—Eva's handiwork, half-scholarship, half-madness.
"Wards that kept you out before." Her voice wavered , betraying the pull. She hated it, this draw to his darkness. Cool-headed Rory, quick-thinking Rory, reduced to this.
"I have my ways." He withdrew his hand, but his eyes pinned her. "Listen. Last night, in Whitechapel, I handled a scout. Avaros spawn, sniffing for you. It mentioned your name. Laila—the alias you used with Evan."
Her stomach dropped. Laila. The name she'd buried with that life. The flat's air turned stale, curry fading under the acrid tang of fear-sweat. She paced to the window, peering out. Brick Lane pulsed below: a group of lads shouting over falafel, a woman in hijab hurrying past with shopping bags rustling like dry leaves.
"You're lying." But doubt gnawed. Evan had always known too much, his rages laced with unnatural fury. "Why now? Why here?"
Lucien followed, his presence a shadow at her back. "Because I can't lose you again. Not to him. Not to the rift." His hand settled on her shoulder, firm, igniting sparks down her arm. "Stay with me. Let me protect you."
She spun, facing him. Inches apart, breaths mingling. His black eye seemed endless, pulling her in. The amber one burned with something raw—need, perhaps. Or possession. The scar throbbed , a echo of old falls and newer wounds.
"Protect me?" She searched his face, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone. Memories surged: tangled sheets in his safehouse, his whispers in French as dawn crept in, promising more than shadows. Then the fallout—his disappearance, her racing through London's underbelly, dodging claws that shouldn't exist. "Last time your protection nearly killed me."
His grip tightened, drawing her closer. The cane leaned forgotten against the wall. "I know." Voice rough, laced with something like regret . "But this..." His free hand cupped her jaw, thumb grazing her lip. Soft, insistent. "This is real."
Heat bloomed, warring with the chill of betrayal. She leaned in, against sense, lips brushing his in a ghost of a kiss. Fire. His mouth claimed hers fully then, demanding, all the unsaid hurts pouring into it. She tasted salt and smoke, his half-demon essence thrumming like a second heartbeat. Hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him down the hall toward the bedroom, books scattering underfoot.
They tumbled through the door, the narrow bed creaking under their weight . His suit jacket hit the floor, cane clattering after. Fingers traced scars—hers on her wrist, his hidden ones from Avaros wars. Whispers turned to gasps, the flat's wards humming faintly, as if approving the chaos .
But midway through, as his teeth grazed her neck, a sharp crack split the air. Glass shattered from the front room. Ptolemy yowled, fur bristling.
Lucien bolted upright, hand diving for the cane. "Stay here."
She scrambled after him, heart slamming. In the main room, the window gaped, shards glittering like fallen stars. A figure huddled on the fire escape outside—cloaked, eyes glowing unnatural red. Evan's voice slithered through the night, warped and deep.
"Rory, darling. Time to come home."
The wards flickered , failing under the assault. Lucien drew the cane's hidden blade, ivory handle gleaming . The demon spawn from Whitechapel? Or worse—Evan himself, rift-twisted.
She grabbed a heavy tome from the shelf, spine cracking as she hefted it like a club. No running this time.