AI The knock came at seven-thirty, when the curry shop below hit its lull. The steam from the wok in the kitchen above seeped through the floorboards, mixing with the scent of damp wool from Rory’s coat draped over the back of a chair. She was hunched over a desk cluttered with scrolls—Eva’s latest obsession—her pen scratching at a paragraph in Gaelic when the first tap stuttered through the wall. *Not the milkman.* Silas, the bar’s owner, only sent his chef up when the oven needed watching, and that was three nights ago.
She stood, her socks sliding on the threadbare rug, and crossed to the door. The three deadbolts clicked in sequence, a rhythm she’d memorized since moving in: *one, two, three *—the same count as her father’s heart rate when he’d had a bad day. She pressed her eye to the peephole.
Platinum hair, slicked back so it looked like it cost a king’s ransom . A charcoal suit, tailored so tight it strained at the shoulders, the fabric a shade darker than the night outside. Ivory cane, the handle carved with vines that coiled like veins, the metal tip catching the streetlight. The amber eye flicked up, catching hers, before the black one narrowed, slitted like a predator sizing up prey.
Rory’s throat went dry. “What the hell do you want, Lucien?”
The peephole betrayed her. She could see his mouth curving, that infuriating mix of amusement and something softer—something that used to make her chest ache, tight as a fist. “Leaving so soon, Rory? I wouldn’t have taken up so much of your time.”
She opened the door. Just enough to wedge her shoulder against the frame, her left hand gripping the edge. The scar on her wrist, that crescent-shaped thing from when she’d slipped on a kitchen knife at seven, tightened. *Focus.*
“Domestic ,” he repeated, stepping forward . The cane scraped the floor, a high, thin note that made her teeth grind. “Books, scrolls, a cat that’s probably judging me .” He nodded at the corner, where Ptolemy, tabby as sin, was curled on a pile of yet-to-be-sorted notebooks, tail twitching like a metronome.
Rory shut the door harder. The deadbolts clicked again, louder this time. “You’re not supposed to be here . Not *here *—you stick to the club, or the alley behind the bank. This is… *domestic *.”
“Domestic ,” he parroted, reaching into his satchel. The snap of the clasp made her jaw clench. “Hardly. A client. But first—” His amber eye flicked to her wrist. “Healed well.”
She flinched. The scar was faint now, a white crescent against her blue skin, but it still felt raw when someone mentioned it. “Childhood accident,” she said, sharp, her voice cracking. “Like you care.”
He stepped closer. Too close. The scent of sandalwood and something metallic—brimstone, maybe—wrapped around her, thick as fog. “I care about *you *.”
The words hung. Rory stared at him, her heart thudding so loud she could hear it in her ears. Then she laughed—cold, bitter, empty. “You disappeared. For three months. No calls, no notes, just… *gone *. And now you show up, saying you care? Why? Because I finally stopped pining for you like a lovesick schoolgirl?”
“Because the case involves a nephilim,” he said, flat, like she’d asked a trivial question. “And nephilim don’t survive Avarosian magic. Not alone. I need a fixer. And you ’re the best.”
She scoffed, but it was hollow. “Fixer, my ass. You need me because I’ll do the dirty work you can’t—too many people know your face. Too many expect you to play nice.”
“Is that what you think?” He reached into his satchel, pulled out a photo. Rory’s breath hitched. It was a warehouse, fire-gutted, smoke curling from the wreckage like gray ribbons. In the center, a woman with dark hair, wings sheared at the shoulders, eyes like embers.
“Elara ,” she said, quiet . “She reached out to me . Said someone was hunting her. I sent her to you . Told her you ’d protect her.”
“You sent her to *me *,” he said, voice harder now, and she saw it—the flicker of guilt in his amber eye. “After I left. After I told you the truth about what happened with Evan—”
“You told me you had a demon to kill!” she exploded, her voice rising . “That you couldn’t risk me getting hurt! But you didn’t need to *disappear *. You could have called! I would have—”
“You would have gotten yourself killed!” He took a step, the cane thudding. “Do you think I didn’t see the way Evan looked at you ? The way he *touched * you ? I had to take him out. Permanently. Avarosian fire doesn’t leave traces, Rory. But it *does * leave scars. On *people *.”
Rory staggered back. The desk behind her caught her elbow; she didn’t flinch. “You… you killed him.”
“I *burned * him,” he said, softer, and she saw the knife-edge of pain in his black eye. “So he wouldn’t ever touch you again. But I didn’t count on him having a contact. Someone who owed him. They used you as leverage. Beat you . Left you in that alley.”
Her hand flew to her cheek, half-expecting a bruise. There was a faint mark, a purple smudge just below the jawline, the same color as the flowers in Eva’s window box. She’d thought it was from the fall—she’d hit her head on a curb when they’d dragged her from the alley—but now…
“Why didn’t you …?”
“Because I was stuck in Avaros,” he said. “The rift was collapsing. I couldn’t leave. I sent Eva to you . I *begged * her to keep you safe. To keep you *away * from me .” He held up his cane, the blade flicking out with a *snap * when he tapped the floor, casting a shadow that stretched across her face. “I thought if I was gone , you ’d heal. That you ’d find someone who didn’t bring death with him.”
Rory stared at the blade, then back at him, her throat tight. “You’re an idiot,” she said, but her voice wasn’t harsh . It was hollow, like a drum.
He took another step, and this time she didn’t back away . His hand brushed her cheek, the pad of his thumb gentle against the bruise, and she leaned into it, just for a second. “I am. But I’m your idiot.”
The words hung. Ptolemy mewed, stood, and padded into the kitchen, tail high, as if announcing the ruin of all peace . Rory closed her eyes. The scent of sandalwood was stronger now, mingled with the curry from below, warm and thick. She remembered the night before he left, his hands trembling as he traced her scar with his fingertips. *I’m sorry *, he’d whispered. *I have to go.* *Don’t go *, she’d said. But he had.
“I should hate you ,” she said, but her voice broke .
He leaned in, his forehead touching hers, and she could feel his breath, warm on her lips. “You should. But you don’t.”
His lips brushed hers, soft, tentative, like he was afraid she’d vanish if he pressed too hard. She kissed him back, fierce and angry and relieved, her hand fisting in the fabric of his suit. His free hand tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, as if he could memorize the last three years—every scar, every mark, every heartbeat—in one touch. The cane clattered to the floor, forgotten.
Somewhere, a clock chimed eight, and Rory laughed into his mouth. *Domestic *, she thought. *God, we’re so domestic .*
He pulled back, pressing his palm to her chest, and she felt the thud of his heart, fast and wild. “Fixer,” she said, breathless, “you still haven’t told me why you need me .”
He smiled, that infuriating, charming smile, and Rory wanted to kiss it off his face. “Later. Right now… I need you to come back to bed with me .”
She laughed, but it was warm, soft, and she let him lead her toward the bedroom, where a single lamp glowed, casting shadows over the pile of books on the floor. Ptolemy followed, curling up on the foot of the bed, and Rory wondered if this was a dream. If she closed her eyes, would Evan’s face replace his? Would the floor collapse, and she’d wake up in the alley, alone?
But then he kissed her again, and she thought—*no. This is real.*
The door clicked shut.