AI The doorbell jolts Aurora from the hum of her electric kettle. It’s not a delivery—Eva, her best friend, usually calls ahead—and the regulars at Yu-Fei’s never ring twice. She dries her hands on her apron, the one stained with caramel from last night’s late shift, and crosses the small kitchen. The peephole is smudged with cat hair (Ptolemy’s doing, though he claims it’s “artistic”), but she squints anyway.
It’s him .
Lucien Moreau.
Her chest tightens. Not because of the way his platinum hair glints under the hall light, or the tailored charcoal suit that fits him like a second skin, or the ivory-handled cane propped against his thigh. Not because of the way his one amber eye and one black eye lock on hers, unblinking, as if he can see straight through the door to the way her pulse has spiked. *Because of what he left behind *.
She fumbles with the deadbolts—three, just like the codex says—then twists the lock. The door creaks open.
“Rory,” he says. His voice is a low rumble, the same as it was when he’d laugh at her terrible puns over takeaway curries, when he’d press a hand to her waist and whisper that she was *the * storm he’d been waiting for. It still does things to her. She hates that.
“Moreau,” she replies, her voice steadier than she feels. She steps back, leaving the door wide enough for him to see the chaos behind her: a mountain of books balanced on the edge of the dining table, a half-finished spell (she’s been dabbling in runes to keep the ghosts in the curry house at bay) scrawled in charcoal on the wall, and Ptolemy, curled on the couch, who blinks once and goes back to napping. “What are you doing here?”
It’s not a question that lacks curiosity. He’s the last person she expects, let alone invites. They’d parted six months ago in a storm on the roof of Eva’s old flat, his words sharp with something like grief, hers raw with betrayal . *You can’t protect anyone *, she’d said. *Not even yourself.* And he’d answered, quieter, *Maybe I never had to *.
He steps inside, the cane tapping once against the floorboard. It catches her eye—the blade hidden in its stock, a relic from the supernatural jobs he used to call “fixing.” He sees her look and tucks it away, though she’s not sure if it’s out of habit or to avoid the reminder . “Needed to see you ,” he says.
She crosses her arms, the scar on her left wrist—from the kitchen knife that had slipped when she was sixteen—prickling. “Why? Because Eva’s been asking after me? Because you heard I fled Cardiff? Spare me, Lucien. I don’t need your *concern *.”
It’s a lie. A thick, jagged thing she’s told herself for months. She’d found the texts, after all: *He can ’t leave. The coven will kill him if he does.* She’d confronted him , breathless, in the rain, and he’d… *disappeared *. Left her a note that said *I’m sorry * and a locket with a single black feather inside. She’d thrown both in the Thames.
He stops in the middle of the room, his gaze sweeping over the clutter. “You’re still drawing runes,” he says, like that’s the most important thing. “You told me runes are for protection. *Your * protection.”
Aurora’s jaw tightens. He remembers. Of course he does. He remembers the way she’d traced the scars on his back after he’d come home from a run-in with the Mob, the way she’d stayed up all night translating a demon’s sigil to keep him alive. He remembers the way she’d kissed him in the library stacks, quiet and fierce, like the world was just the two of them.
“I don’t need a *Frenchman * to tell me how to protect myself,” she says, but her voice wavers. Ptolemy stirs, stretching, and she glances at him , a flicker of guilt . The cat had taken to Lucien, once. Slept on his lap for hours, purred when he stroked its ears. Now it just stares, as if waiting for her to make a decision.
He takes a step closer. “Then let me help you ,” he says. “That’s why I’m here. There’s a job.”
“A job?” She snorts. “You think I’d fall for that? ‘Oh, Rory, I need your brains—please forget we used to be inseparable and work with me.’”
“Because this job is *dangerous *,” he says, and her name cracks, just a little. “Dangerous for *you *. For the people around you . I saw the reports. The ones from the shifter pack in Whitechapel. Someone’s hunting humans with magic. With *you * in their sights.”
Her heart pounds. He’s right—she’s been noticing the signs, too: the missing runes in her study, the way the dogs in the street growl at her when she walks by. But she’d never tell him that. Not after he’d walked away.
“I don’t need a *fixer *,” she says, but she already knows she’s lying. She needs *him *. She needs to know that he’s alive, that he’s not just a ghost in her memories. “I need to be left alone.”
He reaches into his coat, and she tenses. But he pulls out a small, leather-bound book, worn at the edges. She recognizes it—the one she’d lent him , filled with notes on Avaros, the demon realm his father came from. *Return when you’re ready to listen *, she’d written in the margin.
He places it on the dining table, the same table where they’d planned their escape to Edinburgh, where she’d imagined them settling into a flat with a garden and a fireplace. “Eva gave it to me,” he says. “Said if I kept it, I’d come back. I didn’t think… I didn’t think you ’d still be here.”
“I didn’t think you ’d *come * back,” she says, and the words hang between them, fragile as a spider’s web.
He sits on the edge of the couch, the cane thudding against the floor. Ptolemy, ever the diplomat, jumps onto his lap and starts purring. “I left because I had to,” he says. “The coven—they wanted me to take my father’s place. Ruling Avaros. But I wanted… *you *. I wanted a life where I wasn’t a weapon. A life where I could *choose *.”
Aurora’s breath catches. “You chose to run,” she says, but the words don’t cut as deep as they used to.
“I *chose * you ,” he says. “But they found me. They killed my mother. I had to go back to finish it. To make sure they never hurt you .” He pauses, his amber eye darkening . “And when I couldn’t… when I couldn’t reach you … I thought you ’d hate me. That you ’d be better off without a man who can ’t even protect himself.”
“You *can * protect yourself,” she says, and it’s true. The last time they’d worked together, he’d taken down a gang of nephilim with only a flicker of his demon blood, a roar that had shook the walls of the warehouse. But he’s quiet now, so vulnerable, and she aches to touch him . To run her fingers through his platinum hair, to press her forehead to his and tell him she’s been waiting.
“You were right,” he says, and she startles. “I can ’t protect anyone. Not you . Not myself. So when you asked me to choose … I chose the only thing I’ve ever really known how to. I ran.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a key, silver and old. “I can ’t ask you to forgive me. But I can ask you to let me try. Let me be your fixer now. Not the one who runs, but the one who stays . Who fights *with * you .”
The key clinks against the table. It’s the same key he’d given her when she’d moved into Eva’s flat—said it was for the door, but she’d known it was for her heart.
He stands, the cat protesting, and takes a step toward her. “I know I don’t deserve it,” he says. “But I need you to know… I’ve thought about you every day. I’ve dreamed about you . About the way you laugh when I burn the toast, about the way you fall asleep with your head on my shoulder, about the way you look at me like I’m *human *. Like I’m *enough *.”
Tears burn her eyes. She hates that he’s right—she’s thought about him , too. She’d seen him at Yu-Fei’s, once, across the room, and she’d frozen. He’d looked at her, too, his black eye softening, and she’d fled before he could speak.
“You left,” she says, and her voice is a whisper .
“I know,” he says, and he reaches out, his hand hovering just above her wrist, where her scar still glows. “But I’m here now. And I’m not leaving again. Not without you .”
He touches her scar, his thumb brushing over the raised skin, and she gasps. It’s been years since anyone has touched it so gently —Eva had bandaged it when it happened, but she’d never lingered. Lucien’s touch feels like a prayer.
“You were my storm,” she says, and he stills. “The one I didn’t know I needed. But storms pass. They leave damage behind.”
He closes the distance between them, his lips brushing hers in a kiss so slow it feels like a promise. “Then let me be a calm,” he says. “Let me weather the rain with you . Let me build a home instead of breaking one.”
The kettle whistles in the kitchen, but she doesn’t move. Ptolemy leaps onto the table, the book sliding open to a page covered in Lucien’s笔记. He kisses her again, deeper, and she wraps her arms around his neck, feels the key in her palm, the scar on her wrist where he touches her.
Maybe storms do pass. Maybe calm is better.
But right now, she doesn’t care.
She has her storm back.
And she’s going to hold on.