AI The knock comes at 2:17 a.m., sharp and insistent, through the thin wood of the door. Rory pauses with a takeout container in her hand—garlic naan, still warm from Golden Empress—and her keys clinking in her pocket. The deadbolts click as she twists the lock, half-expecting a late-night delivery, half-hoping it’s a paramedic (Eva’s had another coughing fit). But the peephole shows only a man.
Platinum-blond hair, slicked back like he spent a century rearranging it, though it falls a little loose today, as if he ran a hand through it a dozen times in transit. Tailored charcoal suit, the cuffs neatly pressed, no wrinkles—even in the gutter, he’d look like he stepped out of a catalog. That’s Lucien.
Her breath hitches. She knows that spine, that broad shoulder, even before the face comes into focus. Heterochromatic eyes: one amber, like burnt honey, the other black, deeper than the Thames at high tide. The scar above his left eyebrow , a thin white line from a demon blade, silver in the hall light.
“Rory ,” he says, and his voice is lower than she remembers, rougher, like he’s been shouting into the wind. He lifts a folder, leather-bound, embossed with a snake eating its tail—his family crest. “Can I come in? It’s… cold out.”
She blinks. The words stick in her throat. *It’s cold out *—as if he cares. As if he ever cared about the cold. “What are you doing here?” she asks, her voice steadier than she feels. She steps back, and he slips past her, the door shutting softly behind him. The lock clicks again, deliberate.
His eyes dart around the room. It’s her usual chaos: a stack of leather-bound books (LGBTQ+ law, ancient demon contracts, a dog-eared copy of *Pride and Prejudice *—Eva insisted), a half-finished mug of nettle tea, a blanket slung over the arm of a chair. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, emerges from under the bookshelf, tail twitching. He sniffs the air, then rubs against Lucien’s calf.
“Ptolemy,” Lucien says, scratching behind the cat’s ears. “Still as greedy for attention as when you were a kitten.”
Rory ’s fingers curl into the fabric of her apron—she’d changed out of her delivery uniform, but the stain of soy sauce on the sleeve lingers. “Stop that. Don’t act like you remember him.”
“I remember everything about you,” he says, too quickly . He turns, and for a second, their eyes meet. The amber one flickers, like he’s fighting something. “May I?” He nods to the rickety kitchen chair by the table, where a half-empty bowl of takeout sits.
She hesitates, then seats herself on the edge of the couch, her legs crossed. The scar on her left wrist itches, a dull throb . *Childhood accident *, she’d told Eva a hundred times. *Cut myself on a kitchen knife *. But it was Evan, her ex, 22 and drunk, yelling that she was “ruining his perfect life” before he pushed her into the counter. The knife had been his, not hers. She’d never told anyone but Eva.
“Your cane,” she says, nodding to his hand. It’s propped against the wall, ivory handle carved with vines. “Broken?”
He glances down. “A *demon * with a trident. Got lucky. Didn’t break the blade, though.” He sets the folder on the table, the snake crest catching the light. “I need your help, Rory .”
That stops her. The steady rhythm of her breath stutters. “You need my help? Or you need someone to do the job you can’t handle, again?”
“It’s not again. This is… different.” He pulls a chair over, sits, and his suit creaks. “I can’t go to the Guild. Can’t go to the fae. Can’t go to anyone who knows my name. Not anymore.”
“Not anymore? Since when?”
“Since they started asking questions about the amulet. The one you gave me.”
The amulet. She closes her eyes. It was a birthday present, 21st birthday, when they were stupid and in love and thought the world was a place where demons could go to coffee shops without getting torched. A small, unassuming thing, carved from white stone. She’d bought it at a market in Camden, didn’t know it was a ward against possession, didn’t know Lucien’s father had been the one to craft it.
“Who’s asking questions?” she says, her voice tight .
“Malphora .”
Her name. *Malphora *.
The folder on the table snaps shut. She leans forward, the scar on her wrist burning. “Why her?”
“Because she thinks I have it. Or that I know where it is. She’s been tracking me for months. I can feel her—like a nail in my spine, all the time.” He runs a hand through his hair, and the platinum blond shifts, catching the light. “I need you to hide it. To keep it safe. Until I can figure out how to get it back.”
“Why me?” The words are out before she can stop them. “Why not Eva? She’s got deadbolts on her door. She can shoot. She—”
“Because you see the world differently than anyone else. You notice the cracks. The things the rest of us miss.” He meets her eyes, and for a second, she’s 21 again, at his flat in Kensington, his hands on her hips, his mouth on hers, promising forever. “You’re the only one who can keep me alive. And the amulet.”
“You’re not alive? From where I’m standing, you’ve been living like a king for three years.”
“I haven’t *lived * in three years. I’ve been running. From her. From the guilt. From the fact that I let you think I didn’t care.” His voice cracks. “I’m sorry, Rory . For the way I left. For the silence . I never meant—”
“You never meant to stay. You were a fixer, a *demon ”,* whatever the hell you are. You had business, and I was… I was *human *. A distraction.” She stands, pacing, her shoes scuffing the floor. “Evan was bad, but you… you left before I could even try to fix it. Before I could—”
“Before you could love me back,” he says, quiet .
That stops her. She turns. His face is vulnerable, the hard edge of the fixer gone, replaced by a man who’s been carrying something heavy for too long. “You thought I loved you?”
He steps toward her, and she doesn’t back away. “I know I loved you. More than anything. And then I had to go. To Avaros. My father was dying , and Malphora … she was gaining power, and if she knew I had the amulet—”
“So you left me. To die. Or to marry some demon princess?”
“I left to *protect * you. You know what happens to humans who get close to us. Her kind, they don’t just kill—they *consume *. They take pieces of you, and you’re left hollow. I couldn’t… I couldn’t let that happen to you.” He reaches out, his hand hovering inches from her cheek. “I’m sorry I scared you. I’m sorry I made you think I wasn’t worth fighting for.”
She closes her eyes. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something sharper, like rain on hot stone—fills her nose. *Stay *, her body begs. *Touch me. Tell me it’s not over.* But her mind screams *no *. Evan’s face flashes in her memory: red, drunk, pulling her hair, calling her a “pathetic human fool.” She can’t be a fool again.
“I think I need to sit,” she says, and sits, her legs giving way. Her hands shake, and she presses them to her knees. “You can’t just… show up here. You can’t just—”
“I know . I know . And I’m sorry. I should have sent a message. I should have—”
“Rory ,” she says, cutting him off. “Why did you tell me your name? Malphora calls you Luc. The Frenchman. Why change that for me?”
He flinches. “Because when I’m with you, I’m not Luc. I’m not the fixer. I’m just… me. A man who’s never been good at anything but running.”
The cat jumps onto the couch, settling on her lap. He purrs, warm and heavy, and for a second, she feels safe. “You need to leave,” she says, but her voice is soft, not angry .
He takes a step closer, and this time, she lets him touch her—his thumb brushes her cheek, his skin warm against her cold flesh. “Just one night. Let me stay. Just… let me explain.”
“No,” she says, but she tilts her face into his hand, and he knows it’s a yes.
He leans down, and his kiss is slow, careful, like he’s afraid she’ll break. His lips are soft, not chapped, his breath warm against her jaw. She thinks of all the nights she’d cried into her pillow, wondering where he’d gone, how he could forget her so easily. But now, as his hands cup her face, as he pulls her closer, she remembers the way he used to laugh at her terrible jokes, the way he’d read her legal cases aloud and mock the judges, the way he’d call her *Rory * instead of Aurora, like it was a secret.
“I’m here,” he says, when he pulls away. “I’m not leaving again. Not while I still have a chance.”
She kisses him again, harder this time, her hands tangled in his hair. The scar on her wrist throbsonly once, a faint reminder of the past, but the present is warm, and alive, and for the first time in years, she feels like she’s not running.
The door creaks, and they jump apart. Eva stands in the doorway, arms crossed, a mug of tea in her hand. “Took you long enough,” she says, but her eyes are soft . She sets the mug on the table, next to the folder. “I heard the name *Malphora *. You two better not be plotting murder. I want in.”
Rory laughs, wet and shaky, and Lucien pulls her close. Outside, the rain starts to fall, drumming against the window. Inside, the lamp glows, and Ptolemy purrs, and for the first time in a long time, Rory feels like she might survive.