AI The door creaked open on its rusty hinges, revealing a sliver of the dim hallway beyond. Rory's hand froze on the knob, her bright blue eyes widening at the figure standing there, bathed in the flickering light of the single bulb overhead. Lucien Moreau, impeccable as ever in his tailored charcoal suit, his platinum blond hair slicked back without a strand out of place. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—locked onto hers, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that mismatched gaze.
She hadn't seen him in months. Not since that rainy night in the underbelly of London, when words had turned sharp as blades and promises had shattered like glass. The air between them had always crackled with something electric , a pull she couldn't deny, but it had ended in accusations and silence . He'd walked away, or maybe she had— the details blurred now, laced with regret and unspoken truths.
"Lucien," she said, her voice steady despite the knot twisting in her gut. She kept the door half-closed, as if the three deadbolts on Eva's front door could somehow shield her from this uninvited ghost. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, slunk around her ankles, his tail flicking curiously at the intruder.
"Aurora." His French accent wrapped around her name like silk , smooth and deliberate. He leaned slightly on his ivory-handled cane, the one she knew concealed a thin blade, though he made no move to enter. "Or should I say Rory? I see you're still playing house in the most... eclectic of places."
Eva's flat was a far cry from elegant, a cramped one-bedroom above the curry house on Brick Lane, where the scent of cumin and frying onions seeped through the floorboards. Books and scrolls cluttered every surface—Eva's research into the arcane, piled high on the sagging sofa, the rickety kitchen table, even the windowsill overlooking the bustling street below. Rory had been crashing here for the week while Eva chased some lead in Edinburgh, minding Ptolemy and pretending the solitude didn't gnaw at her. But Lucien showing up unannounced? That was no coincidence.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest. Her straight black hair fell across one shoulder, and she resisted the urge to tuck it back, to show any sign of nerves. At 5'6", she had to tilt her head up to meet his 5'11" frame, but she'd never let that make her feel small. Not with him.
He tilted his head, a faint smile playing on his lips—charming, infuriating. "Can't a man check on an old friend? London whispers, Rory. And lately, it's been whispering your name."
Old friend. The words stung, a deliberate dodge around what they'd been. Lovers? Allies? Something tangled and undefined, born in the shadows of the supernatural underworld where he brokered secrets and she stumbled into dangers she barely understood. It had started innocently enough—a chance meeting at Silas' bar, where she'd poured drinks to make ends meet after fleeing Cardiff and that bastard Evan. Lucien had sauntered in, all polished mystery, speaking four languages with effortless grace, his half-demon heritage a secret he'd confessed to her one whisky-soaked night.
She remembered the heat of his touch, the way his amber eye glowed when desire overtook him, the black one a void that pulled her in. But then came the complications: his ties to Avaros, the demon realm that birthed his father; her own fears of getting too close, of repeating the mistakes with Evan. They'd argued—about trust, about secrets he kept buried under that suave exterior. He'd accused her of running, just like she had from her pre-law life, her family. She'd called him a manipulator, a fixer who fixed nothing but his own interests. And then... nothing. Silence, until now.
"Whispers," she echoed, stepping back but leaving the door ajar. An invitation, or a challenge? She wasn't sure. Ptolemy meowed, weaving between her legs before darting toward the kitchen, where a half-eaten bowl of curry sat cooling on the counter. "If this is about that artifact Eva's chasing, I'm not involved. She's the researcher, not me."
Lucien's smile faded, replaced by a flicker of something genuine—concern? "It's not about Eva. It's about you." He glanced past her into the flat, taking in the chaos of tomes and notes, the faint glow of a laptop screen buried under papers. "May I come in? Or shall we discuss this with the entire Brick Lane as audience?"
She hesitated, her fingers tracing the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a habit born from childhood anxiety. The mark from a fall off her bike in Cardiff, when her father had scooped her up and promised the world would always mend. But some things didn't. Like the ache Lucien stirred in her chest, a mix of longing and resentment.
"Fine," she said finally, stepping aside . "But make it quick. I have deliveries in the morning."
He entered with measured steps, his cane tapping softly on the worn floorboards. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing them in the stuffy warmth . The air thickened, charged with the scent of old books and lingering spices, and beneath it, the faint, exotic musk of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, infernal.
Lucien set his cane against the wall and shrugged off his suit jacket, draping it over the arm of the sofa. His shirt clung to his lean frame, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with subtle strength. He moved with the grace of someone who navigated shadows for a living, but his eyes never left her. "You look well," he murmured, his voice dropping low . "The city suits you, even if this flat does not."
"Flattery won't get you far," she shot back, leaning against the kitchen counter. Her heart pounded, betraying her cool facade . Why did he still affect her like this? Months of distance, of burying herself in part-time gigs at the Golden Empress, dodging the supernatural mess she'd glimpsed through him. Yet here he was, unannounced , dredging it all up.
He chuckled, a soft, resonant sound that sent a shiver down her spine. "Always so quick, Rory. That's what I missed." He stepped closer, closing the gap until she could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his black eye seemed to absorb the light. "But I'm not here for games. There's trouble brewing in the underworld. Demons from Avaros—my father's kin—are stirring. They've caught wind of a human meddling in their affairs. Your name came up."
Her stomach dropped. "Me? I haven't—"
"You have," he interrupted gently, his amber eye softening . "That night we... parted. You took something from me. A relic. I let you, thinking it would keep you safe. But now it's drawing attention."
The relic. A small obsidian amulet, etched with runes from Avaros. He'd given it to her during one of their heated nights, pressed into her palm as they lay tangled in sheets at his upscale flat. "For protection," he'd said, his lips brushing her ear. But in the argument that followed, she'd stormed out with it, a petty theft born of hurt. She'd hidden it away, buried in her things at Silas' bar, not here at Eva's. Had he tracked her down for that?
"You let me take it?" she asked, voice rising . "You could have come for it anytime. Why now?"
"Because I didn't want to see you." The admission hung heavy, raw. He reached out, his fingers brushing her arm, sending sparks through her skin. "Not after how we left things. I said things I regret. Called you a runner, when I was the one hiding behind secrets."
She pulled away, but not far. The counter dug into her back, trapping her in the small space. Hurt flared anew, mingled with the old attraction that simmered like a live wire. "You think showing up unannounced fixes that? We had something, Lucien. Attraction, yes—God, the way you looked at me could set fires. But you kept me at arm's length, feeding me scraps of your world while I bared everything. My past with Evan, my family... and you? Just shadows and half-truths."
His face tightened, the black eye darkening further. "My world is dangerous, Rory. I'm half-demon, born of a realm that devours the weak. I protected you by keeping you out." He stepped closer still, his breath warm against her cheek. "But I was wrong. I hurt you, and I've carried that silence like a weight ."
Things left unsaid bubbled up, choking her. The nights she'd lain awake above Silas' bar, wondering if he'd ever reach out. The pull of him, magnetic and maddening. "And the attraction?" she whispered, her hand rising to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart. "Was that just a game too?"
"No." His voice roughened, hand covering hers, holding it there. "Never that." He leaned in, his lips hovering inches from hers, the air between them electric . Ptolemy leaped onto the counter, breaking the spell with a demanding meow, but Lucien didn't pull back. "I've missed you, Aurora. Every sharp word, every out-of-the-box idea that lights up those blue eyes. Tell me you haven't felt it too."
She swallowed, the hurt warring with desire . "I have. But it's complicated."
"Then let's uncomplicate it." His free hand cupped her jaw, thumb tracing her lower lip. The kiss, when it came, was tentative at first—a brush of mouths, testing waters long stagnant. Then deeper, hungry, as months of separation fueled the fire. She melted into him, fingers tangling in his slicked-back hair, pulling him closer. His cane clattered forgotten against the wall as he lifted her onto the counter, books scattering to the floor.
He broke the kiss, forehead resting against hers, breath ragged. "The relic—it's not safe. They'll come for it, for you."
"Then we'll face them together," she said, surprising herself with the resolve . Her cool-headed nature kicked in, quick thinking weaving through the haze of emotion. "But no more secrets, Lucien. No more parting on bad terms."
He nodded, his mismatched eyes gleaming with promise. "Agreed." His lips found hers again, slower this time, savoring. The flat's clutter faded, the street noise below a distant hum. In that moment, forced together by fate or folly, the hurt began to mend, threaded with attraction that had never truly faded.
They talked long into the night, sprawled on Eva's sofa amid the disarray. Lucien shared fragments of his Marseille childhood, his human mother's quiet strength against his demon father's absences. Rory confessed her reluctance for law, the weight of her parents' expectations, the scar on her wrist a symbol of falls she'd risen from. Laughter mingled with touches, tentative at first, then bold—his fingers tracing her scar, her hand exploring the warmth beneath his shirt.
As dawn crept through the window, painting the room in soft gold, Ptolemy curled between them, purring approval. Lucien pulled her close, his cane within reach but unneeded. "Stay with me this time," he murmured.
She smiled, nestling into his side. "I will. But next time, knock first."
His chuckle rumbled through her, a sound of new beginnings. The complications lingered, shadows in the underworld waiting to pounce, but for now, in this cramped flat on Brick Lane, they were together—attraction reignited, hurts acknowledged, words finally spoken.