AI The knock came sharp and insistent, three raps that echoed through the cramped hallway of Eva's flat. Rory paused with her hand on the third deadbolt, Ptolemy the tabby cat weaving figure-eights around her ankles. She had crashed here for the night after a late delivery run, Eva off chasing some obscure scroll in Edinburgh. No one knew she was here. No one except...
She twisted the lock and yanked the door open.
Lucien Moreau stood on the threshold, his heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—fixing on her with that familiar , predatory gleam. His platinum blond hair gleamed under the corridor's flickering bulb, slicked back without a strand out of place. The tailored charcoal suit hugged his frame, and he leaned on that ivory-handled cane, the one that hid a blade sharper than any promise he'd ever broken.
"Rory," he said, his voice a smooth roll of French-accented English, each syllable laced with that effortless charm . "Or should I say Aurora? You look... occupied."
She gripped the doorframe, her bright blue eyes narrowing. The small crescent scar on her left wrist itched, a ghost from childhood that always flared when trouble loomed . "Lucien. What the hell are you doing here?"
He tilted his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Charming as ever. May I come in? The curry house downstairs is wafting scents that offend my sensibilities."
Ptolemy hissed low, fur bristling, and darted back into the flat. Rory didn't move. "This isn't my place. It's Eva's. And you weren't invited."
"Details." He stepped forward anyway, forcing her to either shove him back or yield. She yielded, just enough, the door swinging wider as he brushed past her. His cologne hit her—a mix of sandalwood and something darker, like brimstone masked by civility. It stirred memories she had buried deep, nights in shadowed London alleys where his touch had promised escape from her past, only to chain her to new dangers.
She slammed the door shut, the three deadbolts clicking into place one by one. The flat swallowed them both, every surface cluttered with Eva's books and scrolls, yellowed pages spilling from shelves onto the worn Persian rug. A half-eaten bowl of instant noodles sat on the coffee table, steam long gone cold.
Lucien surveyed the chaos, his cane tapping once against the floorboards. "Cozy. Reminds me of that bookshop in Marseille where we first... discussed terms."
"Cut the nostalgia." Rory crossed her arms, leaning against the kitchenette counter to put space between them. The flat smelled of old paper and lingering spice from below, but his presence overpowered it all. "You vanished six months ago. No note, no call. Just gone, after everything."
He set his cane against the arm of the sagging sofa and shrugged off his suit jacket, folding it with precise movements over the back of a chair. "Business, ma chérie. The underworld doesn't pause for sentiment."
"Sentiment?" She laughed, sharp and bitter . It echoed off the stacks of research notes piled on the windowsill. "Is that what you call it? Dragging me into your deals, using my deliveries as cover for your demonic errands, and then bailing when Evan showed up sniffing around?"
Lucien's jaw tightened, the amber eye flashing. He spoke four languages fluently, but his silences said more. "Evan. Your charming ex. I handled him."
"You left me to clean up the mess." She pushed off the counter, pacing to the window where Brick Lane buzzed below, street vendors hawking samosas and knockoff watches. But she didn't look out; her gaze stayed on him, on the way his shirt clung to his shoulders, hinting at the half-demon strength beneath. Attraction surged, unbidden, mixed with the old hurt—like a wound that refused to scar over.
He moved closer, his steps silent on the rug. "I left to protect you. Avaros called. My father's realm doesn't negotiate."
"Bullshit." Rory whirled, her straight black hair whipping across her face. She was 5'6" to his 5'11", but she met his stare level, unflinching. "You left because things got real. Attraction, sure. But hurt? Things left unsaid? That's your specialty, Luc."
A muscle in his cheek twitched at the nickname. He reached out, fingers brushing her arm, light as a whisper . Electricity sparked where he touched, a reminder of stolen moments in his upscale flat, where he'd traced her scar with lips that burned like sin. "What do you want me to say? That I regretted it every day? That I tracked you here through half of London's supernatural web?"
She didn't pull away. Not yet. "Why are you really here? Eva's out of town. No one's buying your coincidence story."
His black eye darkened further, like ink spreading in water. He dropped his hand, but the space between them hummed. "Information. Always information. Word on the street says your friend's digging into something dangerous. Avaros artifacts. The kind that summon more than just memories."
Rory's mind raced , quick as ever. Eva had mentioned a lead on ancient scrolls tied to demon realms, but she hadn't shared details. "Eva can handle herself. What's it to you?"
"Everything." Lucien retrieved his cane, twisting the ivory handle with a soft click. The hidden blade didn't emerge, but the threat lingered. "If she uncovers the wrong thing, it pulls me back in. Pulls you in. We both know how that ends."
She stepped into his space now, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him. Half-demon blood ran hot, or so he'd claimed during one of their nights tangled in sheets. "We? There is no we, Lucien. You made sure of that."
His free hand cupped her jaw, thumb tracing her lower lip. "Liar. You feel it still."
The kiss came sudden, his mouth claiming hers with the same intensity that had first drawn her in—a fixer who bent rules like they were suggestions. She responded despite herself, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. Hurt andwant collided, her body remembering what her mind tried to forget. His cane clattered to the floor as he backed her against the wall, books toppling from a nearby shelf in a cascade of paper.
Ptolemy yowled from the bedroom, but Rory ignored it, lost in the taste of him, the way his heterochromatic gaze bored into her when they broke for air.
"Tell me to leave," he murmured against her throat, voice roughened. "Say it, and I'm gone."
She didn't. Instead, her fingers found the buttons of his shirt, popping them one by one. "Shut up and make this count."
They moved to the sofa, clothes shedding like old skins. His hands explored her with familiar precision, tracing the curve of her hip, the scar on her wrist. She arched under him, nails digging into his back, drawing a hiss that sounded more demon than man. The flat's clutter faded, replaced by the rhythm of their breathing, the creak of springs protesting their urgency.
But midway, as his lips trailed fire down her collarbone, a sound pierced the haze—the front door's deadbolts clicking open, one by one, without a key.
Rory froze, pushing him off. "What—"
Lucien rolled to his feet, cane in hand, blade sliding free with a metallic whisper . The door swung inward, revealing a figure in the hallway shadow. Not Eva. Not anyone she recognized.
The intruder smiled, teeth too sharp, eyes glowing with infernal light. "Moreau. You've been avoiding my calls."
Lucien's posture shifted, all seduction gone, replaced by lethal grace. "Kael. How did you find me?"
The demon—because what else could it be?—stepped inside, kicking the door shut. "The girl. Your little human pet. She led me straight here."
Rory scrambled for her discarded shirt, heart pounding . Things left unsaid? Now they exploded into the open, with fangs and fury.
Kael's gaze locked on her, hungry. "And now, we finish what your father started in Avaros."
Lucien lunged, blade flashing, but Kael moved faster, a blur of shadow and claw. The fight erupted, furniture splintering as they crashed through the flat. Rory grabbed a heavy tome from the floor, swinging it like a weapon, but Kael backhanded Lucien into the wall, cracks spiderwebbing the plaster.
"You think you can hide behind her?" Kael snarled, advancing on Rory. "Pathetic half-breed."
She dodged, quick thinking kicking in. The kitchenette—Eva's hidden stash. She yanked open a drawer, fingers closing on a vial of what looked like holy water, or whatever Eva used for warding.
Lucien recovered, tackling Kael from behind. They rolled, knocking over the coffee table, Ptolemy screeching and bolting under the bed.
Rory uncorked the vial, splashing its contents. Kael howled as smoke rose from his skin, but he twisted free, claws raking Lucien's side. Blood welled, dark and viscous.
"Run!" Lucien shouted, but Rory stood her ground, grabbing his fallen cane and thrusting the blade forward.
Kael laughed, swatting it aside. "Feisty. I see why he likes you."
He lunged at her, and time slowed. Lucien's eyes met hers—amber and black, full of unspoken regret—and then Kael's claws descended.
But at that instant, the flat's wards flared to life, Eva's scribbled runes on the walls igniting in blue flame. Kael recoiled, screaming as the magic seared him.
It wasn't enough. He recovered, eyes blazing, and charged again.
Rory and Lucien backed toward the bedroom, weapons raised, as the demon shattered the barrier with a burst of dark energy. The flat shook, books flying like shrapnel.
This wasn't over. It was just beginning.