AI Aurora twisted the top deadbolt, the third one clicking into place with a satisfying thud. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, weaved between her ankles, his tail flicking against her jeans. The flat smelled of turmeric from the curry house below, mingling with the faint must of old books stacked on every shelf. She had crashed here after a double shift at the Golden Empress, Eva out chasing some lead on a missing artifact. Sleep tugged at her eyelids, but the knock—sharp, insistent—had yanked her upright on the lumpy sofa.
She yanked the door open, expecting Eva's sheepish grin or maybe a neighbor complaining about the cat's midnight yowls. Instead, Lucien Moreau stood there, his platinum hair slicked back under the dim hallway light, one amber eye catching the glow while the black one swallowed it whole. His charcoal suit hung perfect on his frame, the ivory-handled cane hooked over his arm like an afterthought. He didn't smile. Didn't blink.
"Rory." His voice rolled out low, that French lilt wrapping around her name like smoke. He leaned forward, just enough to test the threshold.
Her hand tightened on the doorframe, nails digging into the chipped paint. The crescent scar on her wrist itched, an old echo . "Lucien. How the hell did you find me here?"
He glanced past her shoulder, eyes scanning the chaos of scrolls and half-empty tea mugs. "Eva's not subtle with her addresses. Brick Lane. Three deadbolts. A cat that scratches like a demon's claw." He shifted his weight, the cane tapping once against the floorboards. "May I come in?"
She blocked the doorway, crossing her arms. Heat flushed her cheeks, not from the draft snaking up the stairs, but from the way his gaze lingered—on her tangled black hair, the oversized jumper slipping off one shoulder. Months had passed since Paris, since that hotel room where words had twisted into accusations and touches had burned too hot. He had vanished after, left her with a bruised heart and questions that clawed at night.
"Why? You made it clear last time—business only. No strings." Her voice cracked on the last word, sharper than she meant.
Lucien's jaw tightened, the amber eye flickering like embers. He uncrossed his arms, letting the cane dangle. "This isn't business. Not entirely." He stepped closer, the scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, infernal—cutting through the curry spice. "I need to talk. About us. About what I left unsaid."
Ptolemy hissed from the floor, arching his back. Aurora's pulse hammered in her ears. She should slam the door. Send him back to the shadows of London's underbelly, where half-demons like him brokered deals with things that went bump in the night. But her feet didn't move. Instead, she stepped aside, the door creaking wide.
"Fine. But if Eva walks in and finds you here, you're explaining the mess yourself."
He entered, the flat shrinking around his presence. The door clicked shut behind him, the deadbolts left undone. Lucien surveyed the room, his fingers trailing over a stack of yellowed scrolls on the coffee table. Dust motes danced in the light from the single bulb overhead. "Charming. Fits you—cluttered, full of secrets."
She snatched a mug from the table, dumping cold tea into the sink. Water splashed, cold against her skin. "Sit if you're sitting. Don't touch anything."
He lowered himself onto the armchair, the cane leaning against his knee. His eyes followed her as she paced the narrow space between kitchenette and sofa, bright blue meeting mismatched ones. Silence stretched, thick as fog off the Thames.
"You look tired," he said finally, voice soft . "The delivery routes wearing you down?"
Aurora stopped, hands gripping the counter's edge. "Don't. Don't pretend you care now. You ghosted me after that night. Left me to wake up alone, wondering if it meant anything or if I was just another mark in your ledger."
Lucien's fingers drummed the cane's handle, a slow rhythm. He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "It meant everything. That's why I left. My world—it's poison. Demons don't do clean breaks, Rory. And you... you deserve clean."
She laughed, bitter, turning to face him. Her hair fell across her face; she shoved it back. "Clean? Coming from the man who pulls strings in the supernatural black market? You think I can't handle your shadows? I fled Cardiff for this—for London, for the mess. Evan's fists were cleaner than your lies."
His amber eye narrowed, the black one unreadable . He rose, crossing the room in two strides, stopping inches from her. Heat radiated from him, unnatural, like a furnace banked low. "Evan was a fool who hit what he couldn't control. I'm not him. But I am half of what he feared—half of what you should fear." His hand lifted, hovering near her cheek, but he didn't touch. "That night in Paris, when I traced the scar on your wrist, I saw it all. Your strength. Your fire. I wanted more. Still do."
Aurora's breath hitched. She could feel the pull, that magnetic draw from their first meeting in Silas' bar, when his information on her ex had come with a wink and a warning. Attraction had sparked then, fed by stolen glances and late-night calls in four languages she half-understood. Then Paris—the gala, the hotel, bodies tangled in silk sheets, whispers of futures neither believed in. Hurt followed when he pulled away, citing dangers from Avaros his father's realm dragged behind him.
"You left without a word," she whispered, voice raw . "I waited. Checked my phone like an idiot. Thought maybe you'd call, explain why you bolted after saying you couldn't stay away."
Lucien's hand dropped, curling into a fist at his side. He turned, pacing to the window overlooking Brick Lane's neon haze. Streetlights buzzed below, vendors hawking late-night samosas. "I watched you. From afar. Made sure Evan stayed gone, that your routes at the Golden Empress stayed safe. But getting close? It invites the wrong eyes. My father's kin—they sense weakness. And you, Rory, you're mine."
The word hung between them, possessive, electric . She stepped closer, the floorboards groaning. Ptolemy jumped onto the windowsill, tail lashing as he eyed the intruder. "Yours? Like a deal you brokered? Or something real?"
He spun, closing the gap again. This time, his fingers brushed her arm, light as a feather, sending sparks up her skin. "Real. Too real. That's the complication." His voice dropped, laced with that lilt . "I came because I can't stay away anymore. The underworld's shifting—artifacts moving like the ones Eva chases. But that's excuse enough to knock. Truth is, I miss you. The way you challenge every shadow I cast."
Aurora's heart thudded, a drumbeat echoing the distant tube rumble. She searched his face, the sharp lines softened in the lamplight, the heterochromatic eyes holding storms she wanted to weather. Hurt lingered, a knot in her chest, but so did the pull—the unfinished sentences from Paris, the touches cut short.
"You hurt me," she said, stepping into his space, their breaths mingling. "Made me doubt everything. But damn if seeing you here doesn't make me want to forget it all."
Lucien's hand cupped her jaw, thumb tracing her lower lip. His touch ignited, warm and insistent. "Then forget. Or don't. Yell at me. Throw the cat at me. But let me stay. Just tonight."
She tilted her head, lips brushing his thumb. The flat faded—the books, the scrolls, the deadbolts—leaving only him, the half-demon with secrets in his veins and longing in his gaze. Ptolemy meowed, breaking the spell, leaping down to rub against her leg.
"Not so fast," she murmured, pulling back just enough to hold his eyes. "We talk first. All of it. No vanishing acts."
He nodded, a rare vulnerability cracking his polish. "Agreed. Start with Paris. I never told you how your laugh haunted me—sharp, cutting through the gala's noise like a blade."
Aurora sank onto the sofa, patting the cushion beside her. He joined, the armchair abandoned, their knees touching. Words spilled then, cautious at first, then freer. She described the emptiness after he left, the way deliveries blurred into numbness, Eva's flat a temporary refuge from her own above Silas'. He confessed the pull of Avaros, whispers from his father's realm tempting him back, but her face anchoring him to Earth.
"Why now?" she asked, voice steady as she leaned into his shoulder . His suit jacket scratched her cheek, familiar .
Lucien draped an arm around her, fingers weaving into her hair. "A lead on Eva's artifact crossed my desk. Brought me to Brick Lane. But the flat? That was me, choosing."
She lifted her head, meeting his amber eye, the one that burned. Attraction reignited, a slow burn. "And if I choose to kiss you? Erase the hurt with something better?"
His black eye darkened, lips curving. "Try me."
She did. Leaned in, captured his mouth—soft at first, testing. He responded, hand sliding to her neck, pulling her closer. The kiss deepened, tongues tangling with months of unsaid hunger. Hurt melted into heat, the flat's clutter forgotten as bodies shifted, her jumper tugged aside, his cane clattering to the floor.
Ptolemy retreated to the bedroom, tail high. Outside, Brick Lane pulsed with life—taxis honking, laughter from the curry house—but inside, time slowed. Lucien's hands explored, mapping scars and curves like territory reclaimed. "Rory," he breathed against her collarbone, "you're my weakness. My strength."
She arched into him, fingers undoing his shirt buttons, revealing skin marked by infernal lines faint as whispers. "Then stay weak. With me."
They moved together, the sofa creaking under weight , breaths ragged. Dialogue fractured into gasps—promises murmured, hurts aired in the spaces between. "I should've fought for this," he said, pausing to trace her wrist scar.
"You are now," she replied, pulling him back.
The night unfolded in layers, attraction weaving through old wounds, things left unsaid pouring out with every touch. Dawn crept closer, but they lingered, entangled, the deadbolts forgotten, the world outside irrelevant.
Eva's key turned in the lock hours later, but that was another complication. For now, the flat held only them—two souls, complicated and complete.