AI The door creaked open on its rusty hinges, releasing a puff of stale air laced with curry spices from the shop below. Rory's hand froze on the knob, her bright blue eyes narrowing at the figure in the hallway. Lucien Moreau stood there, his platinum blond hair slicked back without a strand out of place, tailored charcoal suit hugging his frame like it had been poured on. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—locked onto hers with that same unreadable intensity she remembered all too well. He leaned on his ivory-handled cane, the one she knew hid a blade sharper than any regret.
She slammed the door shut. Or tried to . His foot wedged in the gap, polished leather boot unyielding against the wood. The three deadbolts rattled in protest.
"Move it, Luc," she snapped, shoving harder . Her shoulder-length black hair swung forward, brushing her cheek. The small crescent scar on her left wrist itched, a phantom reminder of old wounds—childhood ones, and others fresher.
"Not until you hear me out." His voice, smooth as French silk with that faint Marseille accent, slipped through the crack like smoke. He didn't push back, just held position. Always the gentleman, even when crashing back into her life.
The tabby cat, Ptolemy, slunk over from his perch on a stack of yellowed scrolls, rubbing against her ankle with a low purr. Traitor. Rory exhaled sharply, glancing at the chaos of Eva's flat behind her—books piled on every surface, research notes fluttering in the draft like trapped birds. Eva was out, chasing some lead on ancient grimoires, leaving Rory to mind the place. Perfect timing for ghosts to knock.
She released the door, stepping back with arms crossed. "Fine. You've got thirty seconds before I call the cops. Or worse, Silas downstairs."
Lucien eased inside, closing the door with a soft click. He scanned the cramped space, his amber eye catching the light from a single bulb dangling overhead. "Charming. Smells like vindaloo and forgotten lore. Suits you, Rory."
"Doesn't suit you." She circled the tiny kitchen table, putting distance between them. Papers crunched under her boots—Eva's scribbles on demon realms, half in Welsh, half in code. Rory's pulse thrummed, a mix of fury and that damn pull she'd never shaken. Two years since he'd vanished after that night in the warehouse district, leaving her with a bruised heart and questions that burned hotter than any hellfire. "What do you want? Last I heard, you were brokering deals in Paris. Or was it Berlin?"
He set his cane against the wall, fingers lingering on the ivory grip. Ptolemy leaped onto a nearby chair, eyeing him with slit pupils. Lucien ignored the cat, focusing on her instead. "Information, as always. But this time, it's personal."
She barked a laugh, short and bitter. "Personal? That's rich coming from you. You ghosted me after—"
"After I saved your life." He stepped closer, the floorboards groaning under his weight . His black eye seemed to swallow the shadows, while the amber one gleamed. "Evan tracked you down, remember? Your ex, with his fists and his temper. I handled it."
"Handled it?" Rory's voice rose, echoing off the book-stacked walls. She jabbed a finger at his chest, stopping short of touching the crisp shirt. Heat radiated from him, unnatural, demonic. "You slit his throat and dumped him in the Thames. Then you bailed without a word. No goodbye, no explanation. Just poof—gone like some cheap magic trick."
His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching. He grabbed her wrist, gentle but firm, thumb brushing the scar. Electricity sparked at the contact, racing up her arm. "I did what needed doing. Evan would have killed you, Rory. And I... I couldn't stay. My father's kin sensed the blood debt. Avaros calls its own."
She yanked free, but didn't move away. The air thickened, charged with the scent of his cologne—sandalwood and brimstone. "Blood debt? That's your excuse? We had something, Luc. Attraction, yeah, but more. You kissed me that night, promised we'd figure it out. Then nothing."
He ran a hand through his hair, disrupting the slick perfection for once. "It wasn't nothing. Every day since, I've regretted leaving. But you were human, safe in your world. I dragged you into mine—demons, fixers, the underworld rot. Hurt you without meaning to."
Rory turned, grabbing a mug from the counter cluttered with teabags and incantation herbs. She poured water from the kettle, steam rising like unresolved tension . "Hurt? Try abandoned. I woke up alone in that safehouse, wondering if you'd died or just decided I wasn't worth the hassle."
Lucien closed the distance, his presence filling the narrow kitchen. He took the mug from her, fingers grazing hers. "Worth it? You're the only one who's ever made me question my bloodline. That night, when I kissed you..." He set the mug down, voice dropping low. "Your lips tasted like freedom. Like I could be more than half a monster."
She met his gaze, blue clashing with amber and black. Her heart hammered, betraying her cool facade . Quick thinking had always been her edge, but here, with him, thoughts tangled. "Don't. Don't rewrite history with pretty words. You left things unsaid, Luc. Like why you really bailed. Was it fear? Or did Daddy Demon summon you home?"
A smirk tugged his lips, faint but real. He leaned in, breath warm against her ear. "Fear, yes. Of losing you to my world. But unsaid? Fine, I'll say it now. I love you, Rory. Always have. That's why I'm here—unannounced, uninvited. Because something's stirring in Avaros, and it involves you."
She pulled back, but his words hung there, heavy as the scrolls around them. Ptolemy meowed, batting at a loose page on the floor. Rory's mind raced —love? After all this time? Attraction flared, hot and insistent, mingling with the hurt that had festered. "You think you can waltz in, drop that bomb, and what? Pick up where we left off?"
"Not pick up." He cupped her face, thumb tracing her jawline. His touch ignited sparks, demonic energy humming beneath his skin. "Start over. But first, hear me out. Your friend Eva's digging into old texts—ones that mention Malphora."
Rory stiffened. Malphora—one of her aliases, buried in her family's lore. How did he know ? "Eva's out. This is her mess, not mine."
"It's yours now." Lucien's hands dropped to her shoulders, pulling her closer. The flat seemed smaller, walls closing in with books whispering secrets. "A demon lord's rising, and he knows about the Carter line. Your father's barrister tricks won't save you. I came to warn you—and to beg forgiveness."
She searched his eyes, the mismatched pair revealing fragments of his soul. Hurt lingered, but so did the pull, that electric draw she'd felt from their first meeting in Silas' bar. "Forgiveness? Earn it. Tell me everything. No more half-truths."
He nodded, releasing her but staying close. "Everything. Starting with why I kissed you that night." His voice softened, laced with memory. "You stood there, blood on your hands from fighting Evan off, and you looked unbreakable. I pulled you into the shadows, pressed you against the wall. Your breath hitched, and when our lips met, it was fire—pure, consuming."
Rory's cheeks warmed, the recollection vivid. She'd melted into him then, hands fisting his suit, tasting danger and desire . "You whispered my name like a prayer. Rory, not Aurora. Then you vanished."
"Not vanished." He traced her scar again, deliberate. "Watched from afar. Ensured Evan stayed dead. But now, with this threat..."
A knock echoed from downstairs, muffled through the floor—the curry house bustling. Ptolemy arched his back, fur bristling. Rory ignored it, focused on Lucien. "Threat? Details, Luc. Or walk out that door again."
He exhaled, stepping back to retrieve his cane. "Malphora isn't just an alias. It's a title from Avaros, linked to your mother's Welsh roots. Demons whisper it— a human who could bridge realms. The lord wants you for his army."
She laughed again, but it came out hollow. "Me? A delivery girl from Cardiff? Pull the other one."
His expression darkened. "No joke. Eva's notes confirm it—look." He snatched a scroll from the table, unrolling it to reveal faded runes. "This mentions a crescent mark, like your scar. Prophecy stuff."
Rory peered at the text, her intelligence kicking in. Patterns emerged—Welsh myths intertwined with demon lore. "Bloody hell. Eva never said."
"Because she protects you." Lucien rolled it back up, tucking it away. "Like I should have. Instead, I hurt you by leaving."
The admission hung between them, raw. She reached out, fingers brushing his lapel. Attraction surged, undeniable. "Hurt, yeah. But alive because of you. Things left unsaid... like how I felt that night. Terrified, but safe in your arms."
He captured her hand, pressing it to his chest. His heart beat steady, warmer than human. "Say it now."
"I wanted more." Her voice steadied, cool head prevailing even as desire built. "More kisses, more nights. But you ran."
"Then let me make up for it." He drew her in, lips hovering near hers. The flat's clutter faded, world narrowing to them. Ptolemy watched, tail flicking.
She closed the gap, kissing him fiercely. His mouth claimed hers, hungry, tasting of regret and promise. Hands roamed—hers in his hair, disrupting the slick style; his at her waist, pulling her flush. Heat built, demonic fire meeting her human spark.
They broke apart, breathing ragged. "Not here," she murmured, glancing at the door. "Eva could walk in."
Lucien grinned, eyes alight. "Then let's go. Your flat above the bar. We talk—really talk. No more running."
She nodded, grabbing her jacket from a hook buried under books. Hurt lingered, but attraction blazed brighter. Things unsaid poured out in glances, in touches. As they stepped toward the door, the curry scent wafted stronger, mingling with possibility.
Ptolemy meowed in protest, but Rory scooped him up, scratching his ear. "Hold the fort, furball."
Lucien opened the door, cane in hand. "After you, ma chérie."
She slipped past, their shoulders brushing. The hallway stretched dim, but the tension between them lit the way. Unsaid words still simmered, but now, with him here, they had time to voice them.