AI The front door of Eva’s flat groaned under the weight of the deadbolt, the metal teeth snapping shut with a sharp *click *. Aurora Carter stepped inside, her boots crunching over the scattered leaves and twigs that had found their way through the cracks in the floorboards. The air smelled of damp wool and something faintly sweet—coffee, maybe, or the lingering scent of the curry house below. She kicked off her shoes, the soles leaving a trail of dust behind her.
The flat was always a mess, but tonight it felt different. Too still. Too quiet.
Aurora moved past the cluttered desk where Eva’s books and scrolls spilled across the surface, her fingers brushing against the edge of a leather-bound journal. She didn’t need to look up to know she wasn’t alone.
A shadow fell across the desk, and she turned.
Lucien Moreau stood in the doorway, his cane resting against the frame. His amber and black eyes locked onto hers, the usual cool detachment replaced by something sharper—something hungry. His suit was immaculate, tailored to every curve, but his posture was loose, as if he’d been standing too long, too still. The ivory cane he clutched was hidden beneath his sleeve, but Aurora knew the blade was there.
“You shouldn’t have come,” she said, voice low .
Lucien didn’t flinch. “I always do.”
The words hung between them, heavy with the weight of years. Aurora exhaled, her breath fogging the air slightly . She reached for the journal, her fingers trembling just enough to make him notice .
“What are you doing?” he asked, stepping forward .
“Looking for something.” She didn’t wait for him to ask. She flipped through the pages, her fingers skimming over ink and parchment. “Eva’s been writing about the old gods again. About the ones that don’t want to be forgotten.”
Lucien’s gaze followed her movements, his expression unreadable . “She’s always been obsessed with that.”
Aurora didn’t look up. “She’s also been missing.”
A beat of silence . Then, quietly: “I found her.”
The words hit her like a punch. Aurora’s hand stilled. “Where?”
Lucien’s jaw tightened. “Somewhere she wouldn’t expect.”
Aurora’s pulse quickened . “You’re lying.”
He didn’t deny it. “I’m not here to play games.”
She turned back to the journal, her fingers pressing harder against the pages. “Then tell me where she is.”
Lucien’s cane tapped against the floor, the blade glinting faintly in the dim light. “I’ll tell you when I’m ready.”
Aurora’s breath hitched. “You’re not going to.”
“No.” His voice was a low rumble, the kind that made her skin prickle. “But I am going to tell you why.”
She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Lucien exhaled, long and slow. “Because you’re the only one who can stop her.”
The words settled between them, heavy and final. Aurora’s eyes flicked up, meeting his. The scar on her wrist—small, but sharp—pulled at her memory. The accident that had changed everything.
“You know what she’ll do,” he said.
Aurora’s throat tightened. “What does it matter?”
“Because you’re the only one who can stop her.”
The flat felt smaller now, the air thicker. Aurora’s fingers tightened around the journal, her knuckles white. “You’re not helping.”
Lucien stepped closer, his presence a physical weight . “I’m doing what I always do.”
Aurora’s gaze flicked to the cane again, then back to his face. The amber in his eyes burned like embers.
“You’re not here for me,” she said.
Lucien didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small, leather-bound book. The cover was worn, the edges frayed. Aurora’s stomach twisted.
“This is what she’s been writing about,” he said. “The old gods. The ones that don’t want to be remembered.”
Aurora’s fingers hovered over the journal. “Eva’s been researching them for years.”
“And now she’s gone too far.” Lucien’s voice was a whisper , dangerous. “She’s trying to wake them.”
Aurora’s breath caught. “You think she’s trying to summon something?”
Lucien’s gaze was steady. “I think she’s trying to break the rules.”
The flat seemed to tilt, the air thick with tension . Aurora’s fingers trembled as she flipped through the pages of her own journal, her mind racing . She remembered the last time she’d seen Eva—how she’d been laughing, how she’d said something about the old gods whispering in the dark. The way she’d looked at her, like she’d found something she’d been searching for.
“You’re not helping,” Aurora said again, her voice barely above a whisper .
Lucien didn’t answer. He just watched her, his expression unreadable . The cane tapped against the floor, the blade glinting in the dim light.
Aurora’s fingers stilled. “What do you want from me?”
Lucien’s gaze flicked to the scar on her wrist, then back to her face. “You’re the only one who can stop her.”
Aurora’s breath hitched. “You’re not going to tell me where she is.”
Lucien’s jaw tightened. “No.”
She exhaled, long and slow. “Then what?”
He stepped closer, his presence a physical weight . “I’m going to tell you what you need to know.”
Aurora’s fingers tightened around the journal. “What’s that?”
Lucien’s voice was a low rumble, the kind that made her skin prickle. “You’re the only one who can stop her.”
The flat felt smaller now, the air thicker. Aurora’s gaze locked onto his, the scar on her wrist pulling at her memory.
“You’re not helping,” she said.
Lucien didn’t answer. He just watched her, his expression unreadable .
Aurora’s fingers trembled as she flipped through the pages of her journal, her mind racing . She remembered the last time she’d seen Eva—how she’d been laughing, how she’d said something about the old gods whispering in the dark. The way she’d looked at her, like she’d found something she’d been searching for.
“You’re not here for me,” she said.
Lucien didn’t answer. He just watched her, his expression unreadable .
Aurora’s breath hitched. “What do you want from me?”
Lucien’s gaze flicked to the scar on her wrist, then back to her face. “You’re the only one who can stop her.”
Aurora’s fingers stilled. “You’re not going to tell me where she is.”
Lucien’s jaw tightened. “No.”
She exhaled, long and slow. “Then what?”
Lucien stepped closer, his presence a physical weight . The cane tapped against the floor, the blade glinting faintly in the dim light.
Aurora’s gaze locked onto his, the scar on her wrist pulling at her memory.
“You’re not helping,” she said.
Lucien’s voice was a whisper , dangerous. “I’m doing what I always do.”
Aurora’s fingers tightened around the journal. “You’re not here for me.”
Lucien didn’t answer. He just watched her, his expression unreadable .
The flat felt smaller now, the air thick with tension . Aurora’s gaze flicked to the cane again, then back to his face.
“What do you want from me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper .
Lucien’s gaze locked onto hers, the amber in his eyes burning like embers. “You’re the only one who can stop her.”
Aurora’s breath caught. “You’re not going to tell me where she is.”
Lucien’s jaw tightened. “No.”
She exhaled, long and slow. “Then what?”
The flat seemed to tilt, the air thick with the weight of what was unsaid . Aurora’s fingers hovered over the journal, her mind racing .
“You’re not here for me,” she said.
Lucien didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The cane tapped against the floor, the blade catching the dim light.
Aurora’s gaze locked onto his, the scar on her wrist sharp in her memory.
“What’s that?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper .
Lucien’s voice was a low rumble, the kind that made her skin prickle. “You’re the only one who can stop her.”
Aurora’s fingers tightened around the journal. The flat felt too small, the air too thick.
“You’re not helping,” she repeated.
Lucien’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’m doing what I always do.”
Aurora’s breath hitched. “You’re not here for me.”
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint sound of the cane tapping against the floor.
Aurora’s fingers stilled. “What do you want?”
Lucien’s voice was a whisper , sharp with something she couldn’t name. “You.”
Aurora’s gaze flicked to the scar on her wrist, then back to his face. The air between them crackled, thick with the unspoken .
“You’re not helping,” she said.
Lucien didn’t deny it. He just watched her, his expression unreadable .
Aurora exhaled, her fingers trembling. “Then what?”
The flat felt like it was closing in around her . The air was heavy, the silence pressing down.
Lucien stepped closer, his presence a physical weight . The cane tapped against the floor, the blade glinting faintly in the dim light.
Aurora’s gaze locked onto his, the scar on her wrist sharp in her memory.
“You’re not here for me,” she said.
Lucien’s voice was a whisper , dangerous. “I’m doing what I always do.”
Aurora’s breath hitched. “You’re not here for me.”
The flat seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with tension . Aurora’s fingers tightened around the journal, her mind racing .
“What do you want?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper .
Lucien’s gaze was steady, his expression unreadable . The cane tapped against the floor, the blade catching the dim light.
Aurora’s fingers stilled. “You’re not helping.”
Lucien’s voice was a low rumble. “I’m doing what I always do.”
Aurora’s gaze locked onto his, the scar on her wrist pulling at her memory.
“You’re not here for me,” she said.
The flat felt smaller, the air heavier. The silence stretched, broken only by the faint sound of the cane tapping against the floor.
Aurora’s fingers hovered over the journal, her mind racing . She remembered the last time she’d seen Eva—how she’d laughed, how she’d said the old gods whispered in the dark. The way she’d looked at her, like she’d found something she’d been searching for.
Lucien’s voice cut through the tension , rough and low. “You’re the only one who can stop her.”
Aurora’s breath caught. “You’re not telling me anything.”
His gaze flicked to her wrist, then back to her face. “You’re the only one who can stop her.”
Aurora’s fingers tightened around the journal. The flat felt too tight, the air too thick.
“You’re not helping,” she said.
Lucien didn’t move. The cane tapped once against the floor, the blade catching the light.
Aurora’s voice was a whisper . “Why?”
Lucien’s voice was a growl. “Because you’re the only one who can.”
The flat held its breath. Aurora’s gaze locked onto his, the scar on her wrist sharp in her memory.
“You’re not here for me,” she said.
Lucien’s jaw clenched . “I’m doing what I always do.”
Aurora’s fingers trembled . “What do you want?”
The cane tapped against the floor, the blade glinting faintly. Lucien’s voice was a low, dangerous rumble.
“You.”
Aurora’s breath hitched. The flat felt like it was closing in around her .
“You’re not helping,” she said.
Lucien didn’t answer. Just watched her, his expression unreadable .
Aurora exhaled, her fingers stilling around the journal. The silence stretched, thick with the weight of what was unsaid .
The door creaked open behind her, the deadbolt clicking shut. Aurora turned, her gaze locking onto the scar on her wrist.
Lucien’s voice was a whisper . “You’re the only one who can stop her.”
Aurora’s breath caught. The flat felt too small, the air too thick.
She turned back to the journal, her fingers trembling. “You’re not here for me.”
Lucien’s gaze was steady, his expression unreadable . The cane tapped against the floor, the blade catching the dim light.
Aurora’s voice was barely a whisper . “What do you want?”
Lucien’s voice was a growl. “You.”
Aurora’s breath hitched. The flat held its breath.
“You’re not helping,” she said.
Lucien didn’t answer. Just watched her, his expression unreadable .
Aurora exhaled, her fingers stilling. The silence stretched, the air thick with tension .
The journal lay open between them, the pages fluttering slightly in the draft from the door. Aurora’s gaze locked onto Lucien’s, the scar on her wrist sharp in her memory.
“You’re not here for me,” she said.
Lucien’s voice was a whisper , rough. “I’m doing what I always do.”
Aurora’s breath hitched. The flat felt like it was closing in around her .
“What do you want?” she asked.
Lucien’s gaze flicked to her wrist, then back to her face. The cane tapped against the floor, the blade catching the dim light.
Aurora’s fingers tightened around the journal. The silence stretched, the air thick with the weight of what was unsaid .
“You,” Lucien said.
Aurora’s breath caught. The flat felt too small, the air too thick.
She exhaled, her gaze locking onto his. The scar on her wrist pulled at her memory.
“You’re not helping,” she said.
Lucien didn’t move. The cane tapped once against the floor.
Aurora’s voice was a whisper . “Why?”
Lucien’s voice was a growl. “Because you’re the only one who can stop her.”
Aurora’s fingers trembled . The journal lay open between them, the pages fluttering.
“You’re not here for me,” she said.
Lucien’s gaze was steady, his expression unreadable . The flat held its breath.
Aurora exhaled. “Then what?”
The door creaked open again, the deadbolt clicking shut. Aurora turned, her gaze locking onto the scar on her wrist.
Lucien’s voice was a whisper . “You.”
Aurora’s breath hitched. The flat felt like it was closing in around her .
She turned back to him, her fingers stilling around the journal. The silence stretched, thick with the weight of what was unsaid .
Lucien’s cane tapped against the floor, the blade catching the dim light.
Aurora’s voice was barely a whisper . “Why?”
Lucien’s gaze flicked to her wrist, then back to her face. The air between them crackled.
“Because you’re the only one who can stop her,” he said.
Aurora’s breath caught. The flat felt too small, the air too thick.
She exhaled, her fingers trembling. The journal lay open between them.
“You’re not here for me,” she said.
Lucien didn’t answer. Just watched her, his expression unreadable .
Aurora’s gaze locked onto his, the scar on her wrist sharp in her memory.
The silence stretched, the air thick with tension .
Aurora’s voice was a whisper . “What do you want?”
Lucien’s voice was a growl. “You.”
Aurora’s breath hitched. The flat held its breath.
Aurora stepped back, the journal clutched tight. “You’re not helping.”
Lucien’s cane tapped against the floor, the blade catching the dim light. His gaze never left hers.
“You’re the only one who can stop her,” he said.
Aurora’s fingers dug into the pages. “You’re not here for me.”
The flat’s silence stretched, the air too tight. Aurora’s gaze flicked to the scar on her wrist, then back to him.
Lucien exhaled, slow and deliberate. “I’m doing what I always do.”
Aurora’s breath hitched. The journal trembled in her grip.
“What do you want?” she asked.
Lucien’s voice was rough. “You.”
Aurora’s gaze locked onto his, the scar on her wrist sharp in memory. The flat felt like it was suffocating her .
“You’re not helping,” she said.
Lucien didn’t move. The cane tapped once against the floor.
Aurora’s voice was a whisper . “Why?”
His jaw tightened. “Because you’re the only one who can stop her.”
Aurora’s fingers tightened around the journal. The flat held its breath.
“You’re not here for me,” she said.
Lucien’s gaze was steady. The air crackled.
Aurora exhaled. “Then what?”
The door creaked open again, the deadbolt clicking shut. Aurora turned, the scar on her wrist burning in her memory.
Lucien’s voice was a whisper . “You.”
Aurora’s breath caught. The flat felt like it was closing in .
She exhaled, her fingers stilling. The journal lay open between them.
Lucien’s cane tapped against the floor, the blade catching the dim light.
Aurora’s voice was barely a whisper . “Why?”
Lucien’s gaze flicked to her wrist, then back to her face.
Aurora’s breath hitched. The silence pressed in.
“You’re the only one who can stop her,” he said.
Aurora’s fingers trembled . The flat felt too small.
She exhaled. “You’re not here for me.”
Lucien didn’t answer. Just watched her, the air between them charged .
Aurora’s gaze locked onto his, the scar on her wrist sharp.
The journal fluttered . The flat held its breath.
Aurora stepped forward, her voice low. “What do you want?”
Lucien’s voice was a growl. “You.”
Aurora’s breath caught. The flat felt like it was suffocating her .
She exhaled, her fingers stilling. The silence stretched, thick with the weight of what was unsaid .
Lucien’s cane tapped against the floor, the blade catching the dim light.
Aurora’s gaze never left his. The scar on her wrist burned in her memory.
“You’re not helping,” she said.
Lucien’s jaw clenched . The air crackled.
Aurora exhaled. “Then what?”
The door opened again, the deadbolt clicking shut. Aurora turned, the scar on her wrist sharp in her mind.
Lucien’s voice was a whisper . “You.”
Aurora’s breath hitched. The flat felt too small.
She exhaled, her fingers trembling. The journal lay open between them.
Lucien’s gaze was steady. The air between them charged .
Aurora’s voice was barely a whisper . “Why?”
Lucien’s jaw tightened. The silence stretched.
Aurora’s breath caught. The flat held its breath.
Aurora exhaled. “You’re not here for me.”
Lucien’s cane tapped against the floor, the blade catching the light.
Aurora’s gaze locked onto his, the scar on her wrist pulling at her memory.
The silence stretched, the air too thick.
Aurora’s voice was a whisper . “What do you want?”
Lucien’s voice was a growl. “You.”
Aurora’s breath hitched. The flat felt like it was closing in .
She exhaled, her fingers stilling. The journal lay open between them.
Aurora’s gaze flicked to the scar on her wrist, then back to him.
Lucien’s voice was rough. “Because you’re the only one who can stop her.”
Aurora’s breath caught. The flat felt too small.
Aurora exhaled. “You’re not here for me.”
Lucien’s gaze was steady. The air crackled.
Aurora’s voice was a whisper . “Then what?”
The door opened, the deadbolt clicking shut. Aurora turned, the scar on her wrist sharp in her memory.
Lucien’s voice was a whisper . “You.”
Aurora’s breath caught. The flat felt suffocating.
She exhaled, her fingers trembling. The journal lay open between them.
Aurora’s gaze locked onto his, the scar on her wrist pulling at her memory.
The silence stretched, the air too thick.
Aurora’s voice was barely a whisper . “I don’t know what you want.”
Lucien’s jaw tightened. The cane tapped against the floor.
Aurora exhaled. “I don’t know what to do.”
Lucien’s voice was a growl. “You’re the only one who can stop her.”
Aurora’s breath hitched. The flat felt like it was closing in .
She exhaled, her fingers stilling. The journal trembled .
Aurora’s gaze met his, the scar on her wrist sharp.
The flat held its breath.