AI Aurora twisted the third deadbolt with a sharp click, the sound echoing in the narrow hallway of the curry house below. Steam from the kitchen vents curled up through the floorboards, carrying the tang of cumin and garlic. She tugged the door open, expecting the delivery kid with her usual stack of takeout containers—Eva was buried in her research again, too deep in scrolls to surface for food.
Lucien stood there instead, framed in the dim glow of the streetlamp outside. His platinum hair caught the light like polished silver, slicked back without a strand out of place. The charcoal suit hugged his frame, the ivory-handled cane hooked over his arm like an afterthought. One amber eye gleamed under the bulb, the other a void of black that pulled at the edges of her vision.
Her fingers tightened on the doorframe. The scar on her wrist itched, a phantom burn from that old accident, but she ignored it. "You."
He inclined his head, a ghost of a smile lifting the corner of his mouth. "Rory. Or should I say Laila, these days? The aliases pile up."
She crossed her arms, blocking the threshold. Ptolemy slunk between her legs, brushing fur against her calf before darting into the hall to inspect the intruder. The cat's tail flicked like a question mark. "How did you find me? And don't give me that underworld network bollocks. I left London for a reason."
Lucien's gaze dropped to the cat, then back to her. He stepped forward, not quite invading, but close enough that she caught the faint scent of bergamot and smoke clinging to his collar. "Eva's not subtle. Brick Lane flat, three deadbolts—it's like a signature. I knocked on the right door."
The flat behind her hummed with the rustle of pages; Eva's voice murmured to herself over some ancient text, oblivious. Aurora glanced over her shoulder, then back at him. Heat flushed her skin, not from the curry steam, but from the way his presence filled the doorway. They had ended it in Marseille, hadn't they? That night in the rain-slicked alley, after the deal with the Avaros demon went south. His father's realm, his blood—complications she couldn't untangle. She had walked away, or so she told herself.
"Get out," she said, but her voice lacked edge. The words hung there, weak against the pull of his mismatched eyes.
He didn't move. Instead, he tapped the cane once on the threshold, the ivory handle glinting . "We need to talk. About the relic from the baron's vault. It's surfaced again, and it's pointed straight at you."
Her pulse kicked up. The relic—the one that had bound them in that cursed alliance last year. She had delivered it for him, played courier through the shadows of Paris and back to London, only for it to unravel everything. Attraction sparked in stolen moments: his hand on her waist during a narrow escape, his laugh low and rough over cheap wine. Then the hurt, when he chose his demon ties over her, leaving her to face the fallout alone. Things unsaid, like the way her name sounded on his lips, or why she still dreamed of his touch.
"Eva's place isn't your playground," she shot back, but she stepped aside, just enough for him to slip past. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing them in the cramped space.
Ptolemy leaped onto the arm of the sagging sofa, yellow eyes fixed on Lucien as if weighing his soul . Books teetered on every surface: stacks of leather-bound tomes, yellowed scrolls unfurled across the coffee table, notes scribbled in Eva's frantic hand. The air tasted of ink and dust, a far cry from the polished underworld dens Lucien haunted.
He scanned the room, cane tracing a lazy arc. "Charming. Your friend's taste in decor screams 'occult scholar in denial.'"
"She's not in denial. And it's not your business." Aurora moved to the kitchenette, pouring water into a chipped mug to steady her hands. The flat felt smaller with him in it, walls pressing in like forgotten memories. "What relic? I buried that chapter. You saw to it."
Lucien leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. His black eye seemed to absorb the light, while the amber one pinned her in place. "Buried? Demons don't bury grudges, Rory. The baron's emissary tracked it to Golden Empress. Yu-Fei's not discreet when cornered."
Her stomach twisted. Yu-Fei, her boss, the one who covered her shifts without questions. If the relic's trail led there... "You think I want this dragging up? I fled Evan, started over. No more chases, no more half-demon deals."
He pushed off the frame, closing the distance in two strides. The cane stayed hooked on his arm, but his free hand brushed her elbow—light, testing. "You fled him, yes. But not me. Not entirely."
She jerked back, mug sloshing water onto the counter. The droplet traced a path down her wrist, over the scar. His touch lingered like a brand, stirring the ache she had shoved down. In Marseille, after the vault heist, they had collapsed into each other in that dingy hotel room. His fingers mapping her skin, whispering promises in French that dissolved with dawn. Attraction, raw and electric , until his father's realm called him back. He chose duty; she chose survival. Hurt festered unspoken , a wound neither acknowledged.
"Don't," she warned, voice low . "You left. Picked your blood over us."
Lucien's jaw tightened, the smile fading. He set the cane against the wall with a soft thunk, freeing both hands. "Blood? It's a chain, not a choice. Avaros claimed me long before you. But you—you walked into that vault knowing the risks. For me."
Eva's muttering paused from the bedroom, a door creaking open. Footsteps padded closer, but Aurora waved her off without looking. "Go back to your notes. I've got this."
Eva poked her head out, curls tousled, glasses perched on her nose. "Rory? Who's—oh." Recognition dawned, her eyes widening at Lucien . "The Frenchman. This isn't social, is it?"
"Hardly," Lucien replied, his tone smooth as he turned to her . "Miss...?"
"Eva. And you can call me gone." She shot Aurora a meaningful glance—worry mixed with that old protectiveness—before retreating, door clicking shut.
Alone again, the air thickened. Aurora set the mug down harder than intended, ceramic clinking against the sink. "What do you want, Luc? Really."
He stepped closer, close enough that she saw the faint scar along his jaw, a memento from some underworld skirmish. His amber eye softened, the black one unreadable . "The truth. You vanished after Marseille. No word, no trace. I thought—" He cut off, hand hovering near hers on the counter.
"You thought what? That I'd wait?" She met his gaze, blue eyes clashing with his mismatched ones. The attraction hummed between them, a live wire. Hurt sharpened her words, but underneath, questions burned: What if he had chosen her? What if the relic hadn't forced their paths apart?
His fingers closed the gap, brushing hers. Warmth spread, unbidden. "I searched. London swallowed you, but I knew you'd surface. Here, with her. Safe, for now."
She didn't pull away. Ptolemy jumped down, weaving between their legs, oblivious to the tension . "Safe's relative. The relic—tell me everything."
Lucien exhaled, thumb tracing her knuckles. "It's awakened. Pulses with Avaros energy. The emissary thinks you hold the key, from the vault binding. They come for you, Rory. I can stop them, but not without you."
Her breath caught. The flat's clutter faded, the world narrowing to his touch, his voice. History crashed back: the way he had shielded her in that alley, rain soaking them both as he fought off the shadows. Attraction had bloomed then, fierce and immediate. Hurt followed when he turned away, duty dragging him to the realm's edge. Unsays piled up—regrets, what-ifs.
"Why now?" she whispered, leaning in despite herself. His scent enveloped her, bergamot cutting through the curry haze.
"Because I can't lose you again." His other hand cupped her face, gentle but firm, tilting her chin up. The amber eye held fire, the black a promise. "Marseille wasn't the end. Say it wasn't."
She searched his face, the scar, the slicked hair. Ptolemy's purr vibrated against her ankle, grounding her. Eva's flat, with its books and security, felt like a fragile shield . But here, with him, the complications unraveled. "It wasn't," she admitted, voice barely audible . Her hand rose, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer.
Their lips met, hesitant at first, then urgent. His mouth tasted of salt and forgotten nights, hands roaming her back, pressing her against the counter. The mug tipped, water spilling, but neither cared. Attraction reignited, hotter than before, chasing away the hurt in waves of heat.
He broke the kiss, forehead against hers. "Help me end this. Then we talk—really talk."
She nodded, heart pounding . The door's deadbolts held the world out, but inside, possibilities stirred. Ptolemy leaped onto the counter, batting at the spilled water, as if to remind them life persisted.
But the relic's shadow loomed , and with it, the underworld's pull. Lucien straightened, retrieving his cane, the blade within humming faintly. "We leave at dawn. Eva can hold the fort?"
"She's tougher than she looks." Aurora wiped her mouth, tasting him still. The flat's clutter seemed less oppressive now, books whispering secrets they might finally share.
He lingered by the door, eyes on her. "Rory Carter, always the wildcard."
She smirked, crossing to him. "And you're stuck with it." Her hand found his again, lacing fingers. Hurt lingered, but attraction bridged it, unsaid words hovering on the tip of her tongue.
As he opened the door to the night, the streetlamp flickered , casting long shadows. They stepped into the hall together, the flat's warmth fading behind them, but the spark between held firm.
Eva emerged from her room as the door clicked shut, Ptolemy trailing her. She picked up the mug, eyeing the spill. "Trouble?"
"Always," Aurora called back from the stairs, Lucien's cane tapping rhythm beside her. But for the first time in months, trouble felt like home .
No—the scene stretched further. Down the stairs, the curry house's kitchen clanged, pots bubbling. Lucien paused at the bottom, turning to her in the dim light. "One more thing."
She raised a brow. "What?"
His free hand slipped into his pocket, pulling out a small, etched stone—the relic's echo , pulsing faintly. "I kept this. For you."
Her fingers closed over it, warmth seeping into her palm. History bound them, attraction pulled, hurt healed in fragments. Unsays could wait for dawn.
They emerged onto Brick Lane, the night alive with distant chatter and spice-scented air. His arm brushed hers, a silent vow. The flat receded, but their paths converged again, complicated and alive.
The street swallowed them, but the tension simmered, ready to ignite. Lucien hailed a cab, his voice low as he gave directions to a safe house across the river. Inside, the leather seats creaked, city lights streaking past. Aurora leaned against him, the stone heavy in her pocket.
"Tell me about Avaros," she said, breaking the silence . "No holding back."
He chuckled, arm draping over her shoulders. "It's a realm of fire and deals. My father rules a sliver—tyrant with a soft spot for humans. Like my mother."
She traced the cane's handle, feeling the concealed blade. "And you? Half in, half out."
"Always." His fingers played with a strand of her black hair, shoulder-length and straight. "But with you, I choose out."
The cab jolted over a pothole, pulling them closer. Attraction flared in his touch, hurt dissolving in the rhythm of the city. Eva's flat, with its books and cat, anchored her past; this, with him, promised more.
They arrived at the safe house, a nondescript mews in Mayfair. Lucien unlocked the door with a key from his chain, ushering her in. The space was sparse: a four-poster bed, a desk with maps, no clutter like Eva's.
He poured wine from a dusty bottle, handing her a glass. "To unfinished business."
She clinked hers against it, sipping. The red warmed her throat. "Complicated terms, Luc. We can't ignore that."
His black eye darkened, amber glowing in the lamplight. "Then don't. Tell me what hurt."
She set the glass down, stepping into his space. "You left me to the wolves after the vault. Duty over us."
He nodded, setting his cane aside. "I was wrong. Avaros pulls—demands. But I regret it."
Her hands fisted his shirt, pulling him down. "Prove it."
Their kiss deepened, bodies pressing. Clothes shed in a trail to the bed, skin meeting skin. His hands explored, tracing her scar, her curves. Attraction consumed them, raw and honest. Hurt faded in gasps and whispers.
After, tangled in sheets, she traced his heterochromatic eyes. "The relic. How do we destroy it?"
"Together," he murmured, pulling her close. Dawn crept in, but they had time—time for words, for touch, for mending.
The safe house held them, the city outside a distant hum. History rewritten, one beat at a time.
But whispers of the underworld stirred, the stone in her pocket pulsing stronger. Lucien slept beside her, cane within reach. Aurora watched the ceiling, heart full, ready for whatever came next.