AI Aurora twisted the third deadbolt with a sharp click, her fingers still greasy from Ptolemy's tin of pilchards. The cat wound between her ankles, oblivious to the late hour, his tail flicking like a metronome. She yanked the door open, expecting Eva's bleary face after another all-nighter poring over those dog-eared occult tomes.
Lucien Moreau stood there instead, his platinum hair catching the dim glow from the stairwell bulb. One amber eye gleamed, the other swallowed the light whole. His charcoal suit hung impeccable, not a crease from the trek across London, ivory-handled cane hooked over his arm like an afterthought.
She froze, the chain still half-undone in its slide. Ptolemy hissed low and bolted back into the flat's clutter of books and scrolls.
"Laila," he said, voice smooth as oiled silk , the alias slipping out like it still belonged to her. No knock, no warning. Just him, filling the doorway.
Aurora's pulse hammered in her throat. She gripped the doorframe, nails digging into the peeling paint. Three months since Marseille, since his world of shadows and deals had cracked open hers. Since she'd walked away from the hotel room with his blood on her shirt and promises she'd never meant to keep. "How did you find me?"
He tilted his head, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "London's smaller than you think for those who know where to listen." His gaze flicked past her to the chaos inside, the tabby cat now perched on a stack of yellowed grimoires, eyes narrowed . "Eva's place. Charming. The curry scent lingers."
She didn't invite him in. Instead, she stepped into the hall, pulling the door shut behind her with a thud that echoed down the narrow Brick Lane stairwell. The air out here carried the faint spice of vindaloo from the restaurant below, mixing with the metallic tang of rain on cobblestones outside. "What do you want, Luc? I left that life. Your life."
His cane tapped once against the worn floorboards, a deliberate rhythm. He leaned closer, close enough she caught the subtle cologne, sandalwood laced with something sharper, infernal. "My life? We both know it chose you first." His black eye held hers, unblinking, pulling like a current. "The mark on your wrist. It's spreading."
Aurora's hand shot to her left sleeve, covering the crescent scar that had itched lately, faint lines branching from it like veins of ink. Not from childhood anymore. Not since the deal in Marseille, when his demon blood had saved her from Evan's blade but bound her too. "That's not your concern. We ended it. Clean."
"Clean." He chuckled, low and without humour, the sound vibrating through the cramped hall. "You fled with my secrets, Rory. Or should I say Aurora Carter, delivery girl by day, ghost by night." He straightened, cane now firm in his grip, the concealed blade's weight implied in his stance. "The underworld whispers. A half-demon's resources traced you here, to your friend's doorstep. But it's not me you should fear."
She crossed her arms, the wool of her jumper rough against her skin, a barrier he seemed intent on breaching. Heat flushed her cheeks, that old pull warring with the ache in her chest. Attraction, raw and unbidden, like the first time in the Cardiff rain when he'd appeared as if conjured. But hurt followed, sharp as the scar's fresh burn. "Fear? From you? Or the mess you dragged me into?" Her voice dropped, edged with the Welsh lilt she'd tried to bury in London. "Evan's dead because of you. That wasn't a gift."
Lucien's jaw tightened, the amber eye flashing like struck flint. He reached out, fingers brushing her arm, light as a promise, heavy as a chain. She didn't pull away. Not yet. "Evan was a parasite. I gave you freedom." His touch lingered, thumb tracing the sleeve over her scar, sending sparks up her arm. "And you gave me trust. Briefly."
The hall felt smaller, the walls pressing in with the scent of aged wood and distant traffic. Aurora swallowed, tasting the salt of her own restraint. Ptolemy's muffled yowl filtered through the door, a reminder of the life she'd scraped together, far from his gilded underworld. Eva's flat, with its locks and lore, was sanctuary , not a stage for his games. "Trust? You lied about what your blood would do. About the bond." She shoved his hand away, but her palm lingered a beat too long on his chest, feeling the steady thrum beneath the crisp shirt.
He caught her wrist, gentle but unyielding, his heterochromatic gaze locking her in place. "The bond saves you. From worse than Evan. From the things hunting hybrids like me, and now you." His voice softened, laced with that French inflection, each word deliberate, pulling her back to stolen nights in hidden Marseillais bistros, where whispers had turned to touches, touches to fire.
Aurora's breath hitched. The scar pulsed under his fingers, a warm throb that mirrored the heat pooling low in her belly. Damn him. Damn the way his presence unravelled her cool-headed facade , exposing the girl who'd once dreamed of law degrees and quiet Cardiff evenings. "Let go." But she leaned in, their faces inches apart, the air thick with unspoken accusations .
"Not until you listen." He released her, but stepped closer, his cane now propped against the wall, forgotten. "Avaros stirs. My father's realm. They sense the dilution in my blood, the human weakness. And you've tasted it." His hand cupped her jaw, tilting her face up, thumb grazing her lower lip. The touch ignited memories: his mouth on hers in the dim hotel, the silk sheets tangling as secrets spilled.
She grabbed his lapel, knuckles whitening. "Tasted? You mean poisoned." Hurt surged, bitter as the aftertaste of his essence, the night Evan had cornered her with a knife, and Lucien's intervention had twisted everything. Attraction had bloomed then, fierce and forbidden, in the aftermath of blood and rescue. But she'd seen the cost—his world of deals with demons, information brokered in shadowed clubs. "I won't be your anchor, Luc. Or your regret."
His black eye darkened, but the amber one softened, a fracture in his composure. "Regret? Mon dieu, Rory, you were the only honest thing in it." He pulled her against him, the door at her back, his body solid, unyielding. The kiss came fierce, claiming, his lips parting hers with the urgency of months apart. She responded despite herself, hands fisting his shirt, the fabric tearing slightly under her grip. Taste of him: smoke and spice, the underworld's kiss.
Ptolemy scratched at the door from inside, insistent, but she ignored it. Lucien's free hand slid to her waist, bunching her jumper, fingers splaying over bare skin. Heat radiated from him, unnatural, drawing her in. She bit his lip, drawing a hiss, tasting the faint copper that wasn't quite human . "This changes nothing," she murmured against his mouth, even as her body arched into his.
"Lies," he whispered, nipping her earlobe, voice roughened. "You feel it. The pull." His cane clattered to the floor as he pressed harder, the hall's chill forgotten in the blaze between them. Aurora's mind raced , fragments of their history colliding: the laughter in Marseille's ports, the arguments over his deceptions, the night she'd bandaged his wounds after a deal gone sour, their bodies entwining as trust frayed.
She pushed him back, breaking the kiss, chest heaving. Strands of her black hair stuck to her flushed face. "Eva's due back any minute. And I don't want this. Not like before." But her eyes betrayed her, tracing the line of his throat, the pulse there matching hers.
He straightened his suit, composure slipping back like a mask, though his breathing came uneven. "Eva knows more than you think. She's why I came." He retrieved his cane, the blade's hilt glinting briefly as he gripped it. "There's a summons. For you. In my world."
Aurora's scar burned now, insistent, as if echoing his words . She glanced at the door, the safety of books and locks beyond it. "No. I'm done." But doubt crept in, the underworld's tendrils she'd tried to sever.
Lucien stepped back, but his gaze held, intense, promising storms. "Deny it all you want. But they're coming. And this time, running won't save you."
A floorboard creaked below, footsteps rising from the curry house stairs. Not Eva. Heavier. Multiple sets. Lucien's hand tightened on his cane, the concealed blade whispering free in a fluid motion.
"Inside," he growled, shoving her through the door as shadows lengthened in the hall. The first figure emerged at the landing, eyes glowing unnatural red.