AI The door swung open with a reluctant creak, the three deadbolts clunking like reluctant sentinels finally standing down. Rory blinked into the dim hallway light, her hand still gripping the knob, expecting Eva back from her late-night research binge or maybe a neighbor complaining about the curry smells wafting up from below. Instead, there he stood—Lucien Moreau, impeccably tailored in charcoal, his platinum hair slicked back like a challenge to the chaos of Brick Lane. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, glowing faintly like embers in a dying fire, the other black as a void—locked onto hers with that infuriating mix of surprise and inevitability.
"Rory," he said, his voice a smooth lilt , French accent curling around her name like smoke. He leaned lightly on his ivory-handled cane, not because he needed it, but because it was part of the persona, the fixer who concealed blades in plain sight. "I didn't expect... well, perhaps I did."
Her heart stuttered, a betraying rhythm she'd sworn she'd forgotten. It had been eight months since Paris—since that rain-slicked night in the Marais when she'd walked away, leaving him with a half-spoken confession and a wound that wasn't just metaphorical. She'd fled back to London, to Eva's cluttered flat, burying herself in delivery runs for the Golden Empress and pretending the supernatural underworld he'd dragged her into was just a bad dream. But here he was, unannounced , forcing the past into the present like a demon summoning itself.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she snapped, her bright blue eyes narrowing. She didn't step aside, didn't invite him in. The air between them hummed with unsaid things, the kind that festered. Attraction, yes—that electric pull she'd felt from the first time he'd bought her a drink in that dingy supernatural speakeasy, his half-demon charm wrapping around her like velvet chains. Hurt, too—his secrets, the way he'd vanished when she needed him most, leaving her to face Evan's echoes alone. And the unsaid: words like love, or trust, or goodbye, all tangled in the mess of their parting.
Lucien's lips quirked, not quite a smile. "Charming as ever. May I come in? Or shall we discuss this in the hall, where the neighbors might overhear tales of demons and deliveries?"
She hesitated, her straight black hair falling across her shoulder as she glanced back into the flat. Eva was out, chasing leads on some arcane artifact, leaving Rory to cat-sit Ptolemy and sift through the piles of books and scrolls that buried every surface. The tabby in question lounged on a stack of yellowed manuscripts, his green eyes slitting open to regard the intruder with lazy suspicion. The scent of cumin and garlic from the curry house below seeped through the floorboards, mixing with the musty odor of old paper. It was a far cry from Lucien's world of shadowed deals and silk -lined pockets.
"Fine," she muttered, stepping back just enough to let him pass. "But make it quick. Eva's due back soon, and I don't need her grilling me about why the Frenchman is darkening her doorstep."
He slipped inside, his movements fluid, cane tapping softly against the worn hardwood. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing them in the cramped space. Rory crossed her arms, feeling the small crescent scar on her left wrist itch under her sleeve—a childhood reminder of falls and folly, now a talisman against newer scars. At 5'6", she had to tilt her head slightly to meet his gaze, his 5'11" frame filling the room more than it should. He was 32, seven years her senior, but his half-demon heritage made him seem timeless, ageless in a way that both fascinated and infuriated her.
Lucien set his cane against the wall, surveying the chaos with a raised eyebrow . "Eva's place hasn't changed. Still a library exploded in a broom closet." He picked up a scroll from the coffee table, unrolling it just enough to glance at the faded runes. "Demonology, bien sûr. She's persistent."
"She's helping me," Rory said, sharper than intended. "Unlike some people."
He winced, setting the scroll down. The amber eye softened, the black one unreadable . "Rory—"
"Aurora," she corrected, though her friends called her Rory, and he'd always been more than that. They'd met through Eva's tangled web of supernatural contacts, back when Rory was still licking her wounds from Evan, the abusive ex who'd left bruises deeper than skin. Lucien had been the charming distraction, the information broker who'd whispered secrets in four languages, his half-demon blood lending him an allure that was equal parts danger and desire . They'd shared stolen nights in London hideouts, his hands tracing her scars while she pretended not to notice the infernal heat beneath his skin. But then Paris happened—a job gone wrong, demons from Avaros spilling into the mortal realm, and Lucien choosing his underworld ties over her pleas to run. She'd left him there, words caught in her throat: I love you, but you're breaking me.
Now, he stepped closer, the space between them shrinking. "Aurora, then. I didn't come to argue."
"Then why did you come?" She backed up a step, bumping into a teetering stack of books. Ptolemy meowed indignantly, leaping down to twine around her legs. She scooped him up, using the cat as a shield, his tabby fur soft against her chest.
Lucien's gaze flicked to the cat, then back to her. "Word travels in my circles. I heard about the relic Eva's after—the one tied to Avaros. It's dangerous, Rory. More than she knows. And you're in the middle of it, playing delivery girl by day and demon hunter by night?"
She laughed, bitter. "Jealous? Or just here to play the hero again?"
His expression darkened, that black eye swallowing light. "You think I left you in Paris to play games? I had obligations—my father's kin, pulling strings from the shadows. I thought... I thought you'd understand."
"Understand?" Heat flushed her cheeks. "You vanished, Luc. Left me with a note and a promise you'd 'handle it.' I waited two weeks before I realized you weren't coming back. And now you show up here, unannounced, like nothing happened?"
He reached out, his fingers brushing her arm, warm despite the cool air. She didn't pull away, damn it. The attraction surged, unbidden—a memory of his lips on hers, tasting of wine and brimstone, his body pressing her against a wall in some forgotten alley. Hurt mingled with it, a sharp ache in her chest. Things left unsaid: She'd wanted to tell him about the nightmares, how Evan's ghost still haunted her, how Lucien's absence had echoed that abandonment. But pride had sealed her lips then, and now...
"I came because I couldn't stay away," he admitted, voice low . "Not after hearing your name whispered in the dens. You're in danger, Aurora. The relic Eva seeks—it's a key to Avaros. My father's realm. If it falls into the wrong hands..."
She set Ptolemy down, the cat scampering off to claim a pile of notes. "And you think I'd trust you with this? After everything?"
He closed the distance, his hand cupping her cheek, thumb tracing the line of her jaw. She froze, breath catching. His scent—sandalwood and something darker, infernal—enveloped her. "Trust is earned, I know. But Paris... I was a fool. I chose duty over you, and it cost me everything. I've spent months unraveling my ties, cutting deals to free myself. For you."
Her pulse raced , blue eyes searching his mismatched ones. The amber glowed warmer now, pulling her in. "You expect me to believe that? After the hurt?"
"Not expect. Hope." His other hand found her waist, drawing her closer. The flat felt smaller, the books and scrolls fading into irrelevance. "There are things I left unsaid, too. Like how every night since, I've regretted letting you go. How your laugh haunts me, your quick mind challenges me. I love you, Rory. I should have said it then."
The words hung there, bridging the chasm. She wanted to shove him away, to cling to the anger that had armored her these months. But the attraction won, melting the ice. Her hands fisted in his suit lapels, pulling him down. Their lips met in a rush, hungry and desperate, all the unsaid pouring out in the press of mouths, the tangle of tongues. He tasted like redemption, like the fire she 'd craved. His cane clattered forgotten as he lifted her onto the cluttered table, scrolls crunching beneath them.
She broke the kiss, gasping. "This doesn't fix everything."
"No," he murmured against her neck, lips trailing fire. "But it's a start."
Ptolemy yowled from the corner, batting at a fallen book, but they ignored him. Rory's fingers worked at his shirt buttons, revealing the pale skin marked by faint demonic runes—souvenirs from Avaros. He shuddered under her touch, his hands sliding up her thighs, bunching her shirt. The hurt lingered, a shadow, but the attraction burned brighter, igniting the things left unsaid into flames.
"You fled to London," he whispered, voice rough . "To Eva's. Why not come to me?"
"Because I was scared," she confessed, vulnerability cracking her cool facade . "Evan broke me, and you... you almost did too. But I couldn't stop thinking about you. The way you speak French in your sleep, or how you hide that blade in your cane like it's nothing."
He chuckled, low and warm, pressing her back against the table. "Je t'aime, Aurora. Let me prove it."
Their bodies moved in sync, a dance of reconciliation. She traced his heterochromatic eyes with her fingers, memorizing the contrast, while he kissed the scar on her wrist, as if erasing old pains . The flat's chaos mirrored their history—messy, layered, but enduring. Outside, Brick Lane buzzed with late-night revelers, oblivious to the reunion unfolding above the curry house.
As they lost themselves, the unsaid dissolved. Hurt gave way to healing, attraction to something deeper. When Eva returned later, she'd find them tangled on the couch, Ptolemy perched judgmentally nearby. But for now, in this forced togetherness, they rebuilt what had been parted .
Hours passed in whispers and touches, the night stretching. Lucien traced patterns on her back, his cane propped by the door like a sentinel . "Stay with me this time," he said.
She smiled against his chest. "Only if you promise no more vanishing acts."
"Deal." His amber eye winked in the lamplight.
The door had opened to the past, but they'd stepped through to something new.