AI The knock comes at 2:17 a.m., sharp and staccato, the kind that doesn’t let up. Rory is curled on the edge of her bed, one foot propped on the mattress, a tattered copy of *The Great Gatsby * open on her lap—Eva’s, she’d stolen it last week. The flat above the curry house hums with the distant clatter of dishes from the kitchen below, the radiator hissing, and Ptolemy’s soft purr from where he’s squashed himself between the bookshelf and her suitcase. Her first thought is *eviction notice*—the landlord’s been on her case for “improper waste disposal” since the last time Eva burned a pot of chili. She pads to the door, pausing to adjust the tank top that’s ridden up her thigh, the one she’s had since college, threadbare at the cuffs. The deadbolt clicks, then the chain—Eva’s rule: no one in after dark unless announced.
She swings the door open an inch, peeking through the gap.
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
The man on the other side is backlit by the sodium streetlamp across the lane, but she knows him. The platinum-blond hair, slicked back even in the dark, the lean shoulders, the tailored charcoal suit that clings to his frame like it’s been custom-molded —*custom-molded * for a man who moves like he’s always one step from a fight . His left hand rests on the handle of an ivory cane, the carvings on the handle so fine they look like lace. And his face—*that face *—still pins her to the spot. One eye amber, the other black, like someone took a coal and a flame and dropped them into his sockets.
“Rory,” he says, and his voice is a low rumble, the same as it was seven years ago, the same as it was when he whispered her name like a secret. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.
She yanks the door open the rest of the way, the chain clattering. “What the hell are you doing here, Lucien?” Her voice is steady, but her hands are fisting at her sides. The scar on her left wrist prickles—childhood, a kitchen knife, a slip that still haunts. Evan’s face flickers behind her eyes for a second, and she blinks it away. “You’re not… you’re not *supposed * to be here. Not without a call. Not unless—”
“Unless what?” He takes a step closer, and she doesn’t back down. The aura of him hits her before she can describe it: cedar and smoke, something metallic, like old coin. *Demon *, her brain supplies, but she doesn’t flinch. She used to. “Unless I’m dead? Or mad? Or both?” His lip curls, just a little, the half-smile he only used when they were alone flickering through. “You still look like you want to run, though. Same blue eyes, same sharp edges. If anything, you’ve *sharper * them.”
“Funny.” Rory crosses her arms, the fabric of her tank top stretching. “Thought you’d be in a penthouse in the City, counting your dead-demon coins and forgetting I existed.”
He pauses, then clicks the tip of his cane against the wood floor. The sound is a metronome, steady, deliberate. “I don’t ‘forget’ things, Rory. Not the ones that matter.”
“Matter?” She scoffs, but it comes out harsher than she means. “Seven years, Lucien. You vanish. No word. No calls. Then you show up like this? Like I’m not the girl who had to sleep with the lights on her first month in London, who cried in a public bathroom because I couldn’t afford milk for my tea. Like Evan never happened.”
“Evan.” The word tastes like ash on his tongue. He takes another step, and she can see the way his jaw tightens, the way his black eye glints. “I know about Evan. About the *others *. You told me, once, that you’d rather burn than beg. Turns out, you were right to burn .”
“Then why the hell are you here?” She shouts, but her voice cracks. It always does with him. It always has.
He stops. The distance between them is a breath now, close enough to smell the peppermint in his mouth, the way he’s always chewed. “Because I need you. Because someone had to come get you.”
“Get me?” She laughs, a harsh, bitter sound. “From what? You? You were the one who *left *. You said—”
“I said *I’d come back *,” he interrupts, his voice rising . “I said *wait * because I couldn’t—”
“Couldn’t what?” She pushes past him, into the flat, and he lets her . The door clicks shut behind her , and Ptolemy rubs against her ankle, purring like he knows something she doesn’t. “You couldn’t face it? Couldn’t face that I needed you? That I *loved * you?”
He’s silent. The amber eye glows, the black one hard. “I loved you, too,” he says, so quiet she almost misses it. “I love you. I’ve never stopped.”
The flat is a storm of books. Rory’s research on demon lore—Eva’s project, not hers—covers the kitchen table, scrolls unrolled next to a half-empty mug of green tea that’s gone cold. A framed photo of them from three years ago leans against the bookshelf: Rory, grinning, with her head on his shoulder, a slice of pizza in her hand; Lucien, leaning down, his black eye soft, a rare smile on his face. She didn’t take it down. She never could.
“Prove it,” she whispers.
He blinks, slow. “Prove what?”
“That you’re not here to break my heart again.” The words fall from her lips, shaky, and she hates herself for them. But the scar on her wrist burns, and Evan’s voice—*you’ll never leave me *—echoes , even now.
He sets his cane down, the blade hidden inside clicking into place with a satisfying *snick *. Then he reaches for her , his hand hovering an inch from her cheek. “I can’t take back the way I left ,” he says, his thumb brushing the apple of her cheek . “I was running from things that would have killed you, Rory. Avaros doesn’t care about humans. They don’t care that you’re mine.”
“Yours .” She laughs, but it’s wet, and she doesn’t pull away. “That’s what you said, back then. *Yours *. Like I was a trophy, not a person.”
“I was an idiot.” He closes the gap, his palm covering her cheek, his warmth seeping through her skin. “I thought I was protecting you. But protection isn’t letting someone think they can survive on their own. Especially not you. You *fight *. You *burn *. That’s why I loved you. That’s why I had to leave.”
“Why didn’t you *tell * me?” She asks, her voice breaking . “Why didn’t you let me fight with you, instead of letting you fight for me alone?”
He leans in, his forehead pressing to hers. “Because I’m a coward. Because I knew you’d come after me, and I couldn’t let you get hurt. And then… it was too late. You were gone . I looked for you for months. Found out you were in London, that you’d changed your name. Tried to find you a dozen times, but Evan—” He swallows. “Evan was watching you. I saw him. He followed you to the restaurant once, when you were delivering. I couldn’t get to you fast enough.”
Rory closes her eyes. She remembers the morning she woke up to a note on the kitchen table: *Stay away from her . She’s mine.* She thought it was a prank. Turns out, it was a warning.
“You should have told me,” she says, and it’s not a plea. It’s a fact.
“I know.” He kisses her then, slow, like he has all the time in the world. His lips are warm, minty, and when he pulls back, his black eye is wet. “But I’m here now. And I’m not leaving. Not unless you want me to.”
She doesn’t want him to leave. She’s wanted him to come back, every night for seven years, when the nightmares of Evan came, when she stood behind the bar at Silas’ and watched the regulars—humans, demons, whatever—bargain with each other, and thought, *He would have known what to do. He would have protected me.*
“You’re going to have to,” she says, and he kisses her again, harder, like he’s making up for lost time. His hands are on her waist, pulling her close, and she wraps her arms around his neck, feeling the solidness of him, the way his heart beats against her chest. The world narrows to this—his mouth, his scent, the ghost of the scar on her wrist where he once traced the crescent with his thumb, saying *a moon for a lover’s curse *.
Ptolemy meows, loud and indignant, and they break apart, laughing. He looks at the cat, then at her , and grins. “You kept him, then?”
“Eva’s cat. She forgot about him when she moved to Dublin.” Rory scratches Ptolemy behind the ears, and he purrs, leaning into her hand. “He’s a good judge of character, though. He likes you.”
“Good.” He takes her hand, lacing their fingers together, and brushes her wedding ring—*her * old ring, the one she’d taken off when she left him—with his thumb. “So I can stay? For a while?”
She looks at his face, at the way his amber eye glows in the dim light, at the flecks of gold in the black one. “Don’t make me regret it,” she says, but her voice is soft, and she pulls him closer .
He kisses her again, and this time, the world feels like it’s finally right. Some things, she thinks, even after seven years, are worth waiting for. Even if they do come with a cane, a scar, and a demon father.
Even if they come with everything that’s complicated.
Especially if they come with everything that’s complicated.
Because love, Rory realizes, isn’t about being easy. It’s about being worth the fight .
And Lucien Moreau has always been worth the fight .