AI The door creaked open, its three deadbolts already unlatched from Rory's earlier fumbling. She peered out, one hand gripping the edge, the scent of curry wafting up from the shop below. Rain slicked the Brick Lane pavement outside, turning the streetlights into hazy orbs. Her bright blue eyes widened at the figure on the threshold.
Lucien Moreau stood there, water beading on his tailored charcoal suit, platinum hair slicked back without a strand out of place. His heterochromatic gaze locked on her—one amber eye warm like embers, the other black as void. He leaned on that ivory-handled cane, the one she knew hid a blade sharper than regret.
"Rory." His voice carried that faint Marseille lilt , smooth as aged wine. No hello, no apology. Just her name, like it belonged to him.
She froze, fingers tightening on the door. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, slunk around her ankles, brushing fur against her jeans. The flat behind her sprawled in chaos—books piled on every surface, ancient scrolls unrolled across the coffee table, notes scribbled in margins about demonic realms and underworld pacts. Research she'd buried herself in since he'd vanished.
"You've got some nerve showing up here." She stepped back, but didn't slam the door. Her shoulder-length black hair fell forward as she crossed her arms, hiding the small crescent scar on her left wrist. The one from childhood, the one he'd kissed once, tracing it with lips that promised more.
He didn't move. Rain dripped from his collar. "Nerve? That's rich coming from the woman who once outmaneuvered a room full of shadow dealers."
"Flattery won't get you inside." But her pulse quickened , betraying her. Memories flooded back—the way his hands had mapped her skin in a dingy hotel room off the Thames, the hurt when he'd slipped away before dawn, leaving only a note: *It's safer this way.*
Lucien tilted his head, amber eye catching the light. "Then what will? The truth? I didn't come for games."
She laughed, sharp and short. Ptolemy meowed, weaving between her legs before darting toward the kitchenette. "Truth from you? That's a first. Last time, you left me with half a story and a broken lockpick."
His black eye narrowed. He tapped the cane once against the doorstep, a habit she remembered from tense negotiations in smoke-filled backrooms. "Evan was closing in. Your ex—the one with fists like hammers. I handled it."
"Handled it?" She pushed the door wider, anger flaring. The cramped one-bedroom flat felt smaller already, walls closing in with stacks of leather-bound tomes on fae lore and demon hierarchies. "You disappeared for months. No call, no message. Just poof, like some ghost in one of these bloody scrolls."
He stepped forward, crossing the threshold without invitation. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing them in. His suit carried the scent of rain and something darker, like brimstone faint on the wind. "Ghosts don't bleed, Rory. And I did bleed for you."
She turned away, striding to the kitchen counter cluttered with takeaway containers from Golden Empress. Her part-time gig there kept her afloat, but right now, it mocked her. "Save the dramatics. You're half-demon. Bleeding's just foreplay in your world."
Lucien followed, cane thumping softly on the threadbare rug. He set it against the wall, movements precise. "Foreplay? Is that what you call what we had?"
"Don't." She whirled, bright blue eyes flashing. Ptolemy jumped onto the counter, tail flicking as he eyed the intruder. "We had nothing. A few nights, some stolen moments in your underworld deals. Then you bailed when it got real."
He closed the distance, his presence filling the room. One hand reached out, hesitating inches from her arm. "Real? You think I didn't feel it? That pull, like Avaros itself dragging me under?"
She batted his hand away, but her fingers lingered a second too long on his skin. Warm, alive, not the cold she'd imagined in her angriest dreams. "Then why leave? Why not say it?"
"Say what?" His voice dropped, amber eye searching her face. Rain pattered against the window, the curry house below humming with muffled voices.
"That you wanted more." She swallowed, throat tight. The scar on her wrist itched, a phantom ache. "That it wasn't just convenience. Me, the human girl crashing your supernatural party, and you, the fixer with secrets stacked higher than these books."
Lucien exhaled, running a hand through his slicked-back hair, disrupting the perfection. Strands fell forward, softening his sharp features. "Because wanting more means risk. My father's realm—Avaros—doesn't forgive attachments. They exploit them."
"Excuses." She backed against the counter, Ptolemy leaping down to rub against Lucien's leg, traitor that he was. "You could've trusted me. I'm not some fragile thing. I left Evan, fled Cardiff, built this life. Delivery runs by day, dodging your kind by night."
He smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Dodging? You've been neck-deep in it. These scrolls—research on half-breeds like me? Or on how to bind one?"
Her cheeks heated. She'd scavenged those texts from black-market dealers, piecing together what his demon side meant. The attraction had started as curiosity, bloomed into something fierce during late-night stakeouts in London's underbelly. But the hurt? That came when he'd chosen silence over them.
"Not binding. Understanding." She shoved a stack of notes aside, yellowed pages fluttering. "You never explained. Just kissed me like it was goodbye and vanished."
Lucien's black eye darkened further. He gripped the counter's edge, knuckles white. "Goodbye? It was protection. Evan tracked you to London. I made sure he wouldn't bother you again."
She stilled. The air thickened, charged like the storm outside. "What did you do?"
"Nothing permanent." His tone edged sharper. "A warning. The kind that sticks."
"You had no right." But relief flickered through her, unwanted. Evan—the abusive shadow from her past, the reason Eva had urged her to London. She'd thought she'd escaped on her own terms.
Lucien pushed off the counter, closing in again. His breath ghosted her cheek. "Rights? In our world, survival trumps them. But you're right—I should've stayed. Faced it with you."
She met his gaze, blue clashing with amber and black. Heat built between them, the old spark igniting. "Then why come back now? Another job? Information you need?"
"No." He cupped her face, thumb brushing her jaw. Gentle, but firm. "You. Us. The things I left unsaid."
Her heart hammered. She leaned into his touch, despite herself. Ptolemy circled their feet, purring low. The flat's chaos faded—the books, the scrolls, the deadbolts—leaving only them.
"Unsaid?" She whispered, lips inches from his. "Like what?"
"Like how every deal I brokered since tasted empty without you there, thinking three steps ahead." His other hand found her waist, pulling her closer. "Like how your laugh cut through the noise of Marseille streets in my dreams."
She gripped his lapels, fabric damp under her fingers. "You dreamed of me?"
"Every night." His mouth hovered over hers. "And woke cursing myself for leaving."
The kiss came fierce, no hesitation. His lips claimed hers, tasting of rain and unresolved fire. She responded, hands sliding up to his neck, tangling in platinum strands. The cane clattered forgotten against the wall. Hurt melted into hunger, things unsaid pouring out in the press of bodies.
He broke away first, forehead against hers. "Rory—Aurora—I never stopped wanting this."
She traced his heterochromatic eyes with her gaze. "Then don't leave again."
"I won't." His arms tightened around her. "But there's more. Evan—he's not the only threat. My father's pulling strings from Avaros."
She pulled back slightly , scanning his face. "Tell me everything. No secrets this time."
Lucien nodded, black eye gleaming . "Everything. Starting with why I came tonight."
Ptolemy meowed insistently, batting at a fallen scroll. She scooped him up, setting him on a chair piled with research. The flat smelled of curry and old paper, a reminder of her pieced-together life.
"Start talking." She poured two mugs of tea from the kettle, handing him one. Steam curled between them. "And make it good. I've got deadbolts for a reason."
He accepted the mug, fingers brushing hers deliberately . "It begins with a deal gone south. One that involves your friend Eva."
Her grip tightened on her mug. Eva—the one who'd dragged her to London, the childhood mate now neck-deep in her own supernatural tangles. "What about her?"
Lucien sipped, expression turning grave . "She's missing. And I think it's tied to why I left you."
Rage bubbled up, mixing with the lingering heat of their kiss. "Missing? And you're just telling me now?"
"I came straight here." He set the mug down, reclaiming his cane. "We need to find her. Together."
She slammed her mug on the counter, tea sloshing. "You think you can waltz in, kiss me, and drop this bomb?"
His amber eye sparked. "Not think. Know. Because you're the only one I trust with this."
Trust. The word hung heavy. She paced the small space, kicking aside a book on demon pacts. Ptolemy watched from his perch, tail twitching.
"Fine." She stopped, facing him. "But we do it my way. No vanishing acts."
"Agreed." He extended a hand.
She took it, their palms sealing the pact. Electricity shot through her, old attraction roaring back. Hurt lingered, but so did possibility.
They moved to the coffee table, unrolling a map of London's hidden alleys amid the scrolls. His shoulder brushed hers as they leaned in, planning the search. Rain hammered the window, but inside, the storm shifted— from parting to reunion.
Hours slipped by in murmurs and shared glances. Lucien's multilingual whispers translated ancient texts, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down her spine. She countered with quick insights, her mind racing ahead as always.
When fatigue hit, she collapsed onto the sagging sofa, him beside her. His arm draped over her shoulders, natural as breathing.
"You stayed." She murmured, head on his chest.
"For good." He kissed her hair.
Ptolemy curled at their feet, the flat quiet except for the rain. Unsaid words found voice in the dark, weaving them closer. Attraction burned brighter, hurt fading to scars—like the one on her wrist, now traced again by his fingers.