AI The door creaked open on its reluctant hinges, the scent of cumin and frying onions wafting up from the curry house below. Rory peered through the narrow gap, her bright blue eyes narrowing at the figure standing in the dim hallway light. Rain slicked the shoulders of his tailored charcoal suit, droplets clinging to the slicked-back platinum blond hair like reluctant stars. Lucien Moreau. The Frenchman. The half-demon fixer who'd vanished from her life six months ago without a word, leaving her to piece together the shards of whatever they'd been building.
She froze, one hand on the topmost deadbolt, the other gripping the doorframe. Her heart thudded against her ribs, a traitor in her chest. "Lucien," she said, her voice steady despite the storm brewing inside. Cool-headed, that's what they called her. But this? This was a test she hadn't studied for.
He tilted his head, that heterochromatic gaze—amber and black—locking onto hers with the intensity of a predator spotting prey. Or perhaps a lover spotting salvation. Water dripped from the ivory handle of his cane, pooling on the worn doormat. "Rory," he replied, his accent curling around her name like smoke from a forbidden fire. "May I come in? The rain is... persistent."
She didn't move. The flat behind her was Eva's domain—a chaotic nest of books and scrolls piled on every surface, the tabby cat Ptolemy sprawled across a stack of ancient grimoires like a furry bookmark. Eva was out, chasing some lead on a cursed artifact in Whitechapel, leaving Rory to house-sit. Or hide. Whichever fit the mood. But Lucien here, now, unannounced? It ripped open wounds she'd barely bandaged.
"Why are you here?" she asked, keeping the chain latched. Her straight black hair fell across her shoulder as she leaned forward, the small crescent scar on her left wrist itching like a bad omen. Childhood accident, she'd always said. But with Lucien, everything felt like it carried deeper meaning .
He shifted his weight, the concealed blade in his cane a secret she knew too well from nights when they'd navigated London's shadowy underbelly together. "I need to talk. It's important." His voice dropped, laced with that multilingual fluency that had once charmed her into stolen kisses in back alleys. French whispers against her ear while demons lurked in the fog.
Important. The word stung. Six months ago, in a dingy pub off Camden Market, they'd argued—harsh words about trust, about his demonic heritage clashing with her human fragility. She'd accused him of holding back, of treating her like a fragile mortal instead of an equal. He'd stormed out, leaving her with a half-empty pint and a heart full of unsaid regrets. No calls, no messages. Just silence, while she delivered takeout for Yu-Fei Cheung by day and dodged supernatural scraps by night.
And now he shows up at Eva's door? How did he even know she'd be here? She unlatched the chain with a sharp click, stepping back to let him in. Not because she wanted to, but because the rain was turning the hallway into a river, and curiosity—damn it—burned hotter than her hurt. "Make it quick. Eva's cat doesn't like demons."
Ptolemy lifted his head from the grimoire pile as Lucien stepped inside, shaking off the rain like a dignified storm. The cat's green eyes fixed on him, tail flicking once in warning before he settled back down. Lucien closed the door behind him, the three deadbolts snicking into place under his precise fingers. The flat felt smaller with him in it, the air thick with the aroma of old paper and lingering curry spices.
He set his cane against the wall, peeling off his wet jacket to reveal a crisp white shirt that clung just enough to hint at the lean muscle beneath. Always impeccable, even soaked. "Ptolemy and I have an understanding," he said, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "From last time."
Last time. When they'd crashed here after a botched deal with a vampire informant, adrenaline high and hands exploring in the dark while Eva slept oblivious in the next room. Heat flushed Rory's cheeks at the memory—his lips on her neck, the way his amber eye had glowed faintly in the shadows, demonic energy humming under his skin. Attraction had sparked fast, fierce, but so had the complications. His father's realm, Avaros, pulling at him like an invisible tether. Her own baggage—Evan's abuse still fresh, making her flinch at vulnerability.
She crossed her arms, leaning against the cluttered kitchen counter to put space between them. Scrolls teetered on the edge, threatening to spill. "You vanished, Luc. No note, no explanation. I thought we were..." She trailed off, hating how raw it sounded. Past the hurt.
He ran a hand through his damp hair, the black eye darkening with something like regret . "I know. I was a fool. My father summoned me back to Avaros. A crisis in the realms—demonic politics, the kind that devours the unprepared." He stepped closer, his presence filling the cramped space. At 5'11", he loomed without trying, but it was the intensity that pinned her. "I should have told you. But I thought... if I involved you, it would put you in danger. You're human, Rory. Brilliant, quick-thinking, but mortal."
There it was—the hurt, flaring like a struck match. "That's what you always say. Like I'm some fragile delivery girl who can't handle your world." She pushed off the counter, closing the distance herself, anger fueling her steps. At 5'6", she had to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze, but she did it with fire. "I left Cardiff, left Evan, because I was done being treated like I needed protecting. We were partners, Luc. Or at least I thought so."
His hand lifted, hesitating before brushing a strand of her black hair behind her ear. The touch sent sparks down her spine , unwelcome and undeniable. "You are more than that. You always were." His voice softened, the French lilt wrapping around the words. "I came back as soon as I could. I've been searching for you—through contacts, whispers in the underworld. Silas mentioned you might be here, watching Eva's place."
Silas. Of course. The bar owner below her own flat had a loose tongue for the right price. Rory's pulse quickened at Lucien's proximity, the heterochromatic eyes searching hers. The amber one seemed to warm, pulling her in, while the black held shadows of his demonic side. Attraction simmered, the same pull that had drawn her to him initially—his sharp intellect matching her out-of-the-box thinking, his calm under fire echoing her own cool head.
But things left unsaid hung between them like fog over the Thames. "Why now?" she whispered, not pulling away from his touch . His fingers lingered on her cheek, cool from the rain.
"Because I couldn't stay away." He leaned in, his breath mingling with hers . "Avaros showed me what I was missing. You, Rory. Your fire, your mind. I hurt you, and for that, I'm sorry. But if you'll let me, I want to make it right."
Her resolve wavered . Ptolemy meowed from his perch, as if sensing the shift, but the cat's judgment faded under the weight of Lucien's gaze . She could feel the hurt cracking, making way for the ache of want. "Sorry isn't enough," she said, but her voice lacked conviction . Her hand rose to his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath the shirt. Strong, alive, half-human like her own tangled heart.
"Then let me show you." His lips brushed hers, tentative at first, a question wrapped in desire . She didn't pull back. Instead, she pressed forward, the kiss igniting like a spell long deferred. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, the cane forgotten against the wall. Rain pattered against the window, a rhythmic counterpoint to their Reunion.
They broke apart, breathless, foreheads touching. "I missed you," he admitted, vulnerability cracking his polished facade . "Every day in that infernal place, I thought of you. Of us."
Rory traced the line of his jaw, her thumb brushing the edge of his black eye. "I thought you'd forgotten. Or worse, that what we had was just a distraction." Hurt lingered, but so did hope. Things unsaid poured out now—confessions of fear, of longing. She'd fled abuse, built walls, but Lucien had slipped through, only to retreat. Now, here he was, forcing them together again.
"Not a distraction," he murmured, kissing her wrist, right over the crescent scar. "A necessity." His lips lingered, warm against the old wound, as if healing deeper scars .
The flat seemed to shrink further, books and scrolls a forgotten audience to their unraveling . Ptolemy leapt down, weaving between their legs with a purr, breaking the tension . Rory laughed, a soft sound that eased the ache in her chest. "Even the cat approves."
Lucien smiled, genuine and rare, his amber eye gleaming . "Then perhaps there's hope." He drew her toward the sagging couch, piled with Eva's research notes, clearing a space with gentle efficiency. They sat, his arm around her shoulders, the rain a soothing drone outside. Words flowed easier now—tales of Avaros, demonic intrigues he'd navigated alone, wishing for her insight. She shared her own months: dodging supernatural deliveries for Yu-Fei, unraveling minor curses with Eva, all while nursing the void he'd left.
As the evening deepened, the hurt softened into understanding. Attraction rekindled, fierce and familiar , his hand entwining with hers. Things left unsaid found voice—promises of trust, vows to face dangers together. No more vanishing acts.
When Eva's key rattled in the lock hours later, they sprang apart like guilty teenagers, but the spark remained. Lucien grabbed his cane, flashing Rory a conspiratorial grin. "To be continued?"
She nodded, heart lighter. "Unannounced visits aside, yes."
He slipped out past Eva's surprised hello, leaving Rory to explain. But in the quiet aftermath , with Ptolemy curling in her lap, she felt the complicated terms of their parting shift toward something whole. Romance, after all, thrived in the ruins of what was, building anew.