AI Aurora twisted the third deadbolt with a sharp click, her fingers slick from the curry steam wafting up from the restaurant below. She'd barely yanked the door open when Lucien stood there, his ivory-handled cane planted like a challenge on the threadbare mat. Heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—locked onto hers, pulling the air from the cramped hallway.
"Rory." His voice rolled low, French lilt curling around her name like smoke. He didn't step forward. Not yet.
She gripped the doorframe, nails digging into the peeling paint. The tabby cat, Ptolemy, slunk between her ankles, his fur brushing her calves in silent accusation. Books teetered on the side table behind her, scrolls spilling onto the floor amid Eva's latest research notes on forgotten runes. Lucien had no business here. Not after Marseille.
"What the hell are you doing on Brick Lane?" She kept her tone even, but her pulse hammered against her wrist, right over that old crescent scar. The one he'd traced once, in the dim light of his flat, whispering promises that tasted like lies .
He tilted his head, platinum hair catching the bulb's harsh glow. "Eva's place. Your scent's all over it. Delivery routes brought you back to the fold?" His gaze flicked past her, scanning the chaos of the flat—the sagging bookshelves crammed with leather-bound tomes, the faint spice of turmeric clinging to the air from downstairs.
"None of your concern." She didn't move to let him in. Ptolemy arched his back, hissing softly at the intruder's polished shoes. Lucien ignored the cat, his free hand slipping into his charcoal suit pocket. The fabric whispered as he withdrew a slim envelope, creased at the edges.
"This is." He extended it, but not close enough to touch her fingers. "Your ex. Evan's not done sniffing around Cardiff. Word's out he's tapping old contacts. Yours included."
Her stomach twisted. Evan. The name alone conjured the bruise on her ribs from last summer, the way he'd twisted her arm until she promised to stay. She'd run to Eva, crashed here while piecing together deliveries for Yu-Fei's Golden Empress. Lucien had helped then—slipped her a new alias, Laila, and a lead on the flat above Silas' bar. But then came the night in his office, his lips on her throat, his demon heat searing through her skin. Attraction exploded into something raw, desperate. Until his world pulled him back—Avaros business, he'd said. Demons didn't share, and neither did fixers. He'd left her breathless on his desk, unspoken words choking the air. Hurt? Yeah. But she'd locked it down, same as the deadbolts.
"Post it next time." She snatched the envelope anyway, the paper cool against her palm. Inside, a grainy photo: Evan in a pub, arm around a burly type with a tattoo snaking up his neck. Underworld ink. Lucien's doing, no doubt.
His lip quirked, not quite a smile. "Post doesn't carry warnings like I do. He's closer than you think. Spotted your bike outside a drop last week."
Bullshit. She delivered in broad daylight, helmet on, routes random. But doubt wormed in. Lucien dealt in truths that sliced. "And you just happened to be lurking? Fixer business, or playing knight again?"
He leaned on his cane, the ivory handle glinting . "Both. Eva called. Said you vanished from your flat above Silas'. Thought you might need... extraction."
Eva. That meddlesome witch with her scrolls and secrets. Aurora shot a glare over her shoulder into the flat, where Ptolemy now batted at a loose page from some occult journal. "She worries too much. I'm fine. Go broker your deals elsewhere."
Lucien's amber eye narrowed, the black one swallowing light. He stepped closer, invading the threshold. The scent of him hit her—sandalwood and something sharper, like brimstone after rain. "Fine? Hiding in a book tomb, dodging shadows. That's not you, Rory. Cool-headed, quick-thinking. Remember the warehouse? You spotted the wards before I did."
Her cheeks burned. The warehouse job, three months back. He'd dragged her into it—tracking a relic for his demon contacts. She'd saved his arse from a collapsing beam, and later, in the adrenaline haze, their hands had tangled. Mouths. More. Things left unsaid piled up like the books around them. Why'd he vanish after? Why'd she let him?
"That was one night." She folded her arms, the envelope crinkling. "Doesn't buy you a key to Eva's door."
He chuckled, low and rough. "One night? Try convincing Avaros of that. Father's kin don't forget debts. Or distractions." His gaze dropped to her wrist, lingering on the scar. Heat flushed her skin where his eyes touched.
Distractions. That's what she'd been. A human fling in his immortal game. "Debts? You mean the one where you ghosted after screwing me senseless? Spare me the demon drama."
Ptolemy yowled, darting inside as if sensing the shift . Lucien followed, uninvited, his cane tapping the warped floorboards. The flat swallowed him—shelves groaning under tomes on alchemy and forgotten London lore, notes pinned to every wall with curses scrawled in charcoal. Eva's domain, a sanctuary Aurora borrowed when deliveries turned dicey.
He shut the door behind him, the deadbolts clicking home under his fingers. Too smooth. Too deliberate. "Ghosted? I left a blade in your glovebox. Protection. You kept it?"
She had. Tucked under her bike's seat, sharp and cold. "Didn't ask for your souvenirs."
His cane hooked the arm of a sagging chair, pulling it out. He didn't sit. "Evan's not playing human anymore. That tattoo? Marks him with the Sable Circle. They're sniffing for leverage. You."
She paced to the kitchenette, the linoleum sticky under her boots. Copper pots hung from hooks, clanging softly as she brushed past. The fridge hummed, stocked with Eva's half-eaten takeaway and milk gone sour. "Leverage? I'm a delivery girl. No one's hunting me."
Lucien followed, his presence filling the narrow space. He set the cane against the counter, freeing his hands. One brushed her elbow as he reached for a glass—accidental, maybe. Or not. "You're more. Pre-Law brain, out-of-the-box moves. I saw it in Marseille. Saw you."
Marseille. The trip he'd insisted on, weaving her into his web to dodge his father's summons. Nights in hidden bistros, his fingers mapping her scars while he spoke four languages of half-truths. Attraction sparked then, hot and forbidden. His demon side clawed close once, eyes flickering red, and she'd pulled back. Hurt bloomed when he chose Avaros over her questions. Complicated terms? Understatement.
"Save the flattery." She filled the glass with tap water, gulping it down. It tasted metallic, like blood pennies. "Why now? Your underworld's got you by the balls. Can't drop in for tea."
He plucked the glass from her hand mid-sip, setting it down with a clink. His body heat pressed close, the charcoal suit brushing her arm. "Because unresolved threads unravel . Evan knows about us. Thinks I owe him for the ex files I fed your father."
Brendan Carter, the barrister dad who'd disowned her flight to London. Lucien had meddled there too, burying Evan's threats in legal red tape. For a price. Always a price.
"Us?" The word hung bitter. Ptolemy leaped onto the counter, tail flicking as he eyed Lucien's watch —a slim gold thing ticking too loud.
"Yes. Us." His hand captured her chin, tilting her face up. Thumb grazed her jaw, rougher than she remembered. The black eye held secrets, the amber fire. "Things left unsaid. Like how you taste of salt and defiance."
Her breath hitched. The flat's air thickened, scrolls rustling in a draft from the window. She shoved his chest, but her palms lingered on the crisp shirt. "You left. Chose your realm. Don't pretend regret now."
"Regret?" He stepped into her space, backing her against the counter. The edge bit her hips. "I left to keep you breathing. Avaros demons don't court humans. They consume. But Evan? He's human filth with hell's backing. I won't let him touch you."
Attraction surged, traitorous. His scent wrapped her, pulling memories: his mouth on hers in the warehouse shadows, cane discarded, bodies colliding in a frenzy of need and escape. Hurt lingered, but so did the pull. Things unsaid: Why me? What next?
She twisted away, snatching the envelope. "Back off. Eva'll be home soon. Her research—"
"Eva's out. Told me to handle this." His fingers caught her wrist, thumb circling the scar. Gentle. Possessive. "Talk to me, Rory. No games."
The word snapped something. She yanked free, spinning to face him. "Talk? Fine. You vanished. Left me piecing my life from scraps. Deliveries, aliases, Eva's couch. While you fixed your immortal messes."
His jaw tightened. "I fixed yours too. That blade? Forged in Avaros. Saved your skin twice, you said."
"Twice you weren't there for." She jabbed his chest. "Hurt doesn't vanish with steel."
He caught her hand, holding it against him. Heartbeat thrummed under her palm—faster than human. "Then let me mend it. Stay with me. No more running."
The offer dangled, tempting. But trust fractured easy. Ptolemy hissed again, fur bristling as a thud echoed from the hallway—footsteps , heavy and off-rhythm.
Lucien's head snapped toward the door. His cane was in hand before she blinked, blade whispering free from its sheath. "Not Eva."
The deadbolts rattled. Someone pounded, wood splintering under a boot. Evan's voice boomed, muffled but clear. "Open up, Rory! We need to chat about your Frenchman friend."
Lucien's eyes blazed—amber to flame, black to void. He positioned himself between her and the door, blade gleaming . "Stay back."
The first kick buckled the frame. Shouts followed—Evan's goons, Circle muscle. The flat's sanctuary shattered as the door flew inward, a tattooed arm reaching through.