AI Aurora twisted the third deadbolt with a click that echoed through the cramped flat. The air inside carried the faint spice of curry wafting up from the restaurant below, mingling with the musty scent of old books stacked on every shelf. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, leaped from the windowsill and rubbed against her legs, his fur brushing her jeans. She scooped him up absentmindedly, her fingers tracing the soft stripe down his back as she pulled the door open.
Lucien stood there, framed by the dim hallway light, his platinum blond hair slicked back without a strand out of place. The charcoal suit hugged his frame, crisp as ever, and in his right hand, he gripped that ivory-handled cane, the one she knew hid a blade sharp enough to slice through resolve . His heterochromatic eyes locked on hers—one amber catching the light like a dying ember, the other black as the void between worlds. The sight of him hit her like a cold gust off the Thames, stealing the breath she'd been holding since the last time they parted.
"Rory," he said, voice low and smooth, laced with that French accent that always twisted her name into something intimate. He didn't smile, but his gaze flickered over her face, down to the small crescent scar on her left wrist peeking from her sleeve, then back up.
She clutched Ptolemy tighter, the cat squirming in protest. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but she kept her chin level, blue eyes narrowing. "Lucien. How the hell did you find me here?"
He leaned on the cane, the tip tapping once against the worn floorboards. "Eva's place isn't exactly a secret. Brick Lane whispers if you listen." His amber eye glinted as he tilted his head. "May I come in? Or do we conduct this in the hallway like petty thieves?"
The flat behind her waited, a chaos of scrolls and notes spilling across the kitchen table—Eva's latest research on some forgotten demon lore. Rory had crashed here after another brutal shift at the Golden Empress, delivering orders that tasted of exhaustion. Eva was out, chasing a lead at some occult shop in Soho, leaving Rory alone with her thoughts and the cat. Now this. Lucien, the half-demon fixer who'd pulled her into London's underbelly six months ago, then vanished after that night in his Mayfair safehouse. Attraction had sparked then—electric, undeniable—but so had the hurt when he ghosted her, leaving only a note that read, "Some debts demand distance."
She stepped aside, the door creaking wider. Ptolemy wriggled free and darted past Lucien's legs into the shadows. "Fine. But make it quick. Eva's got enough weirdness here without adding your brand."
He entered with that deliberate grace, the cane echoing soft thuds as he navigated the narrow path between teetering piles of books. The space shrank around him; his presence filled it like smoke from a hidden fire. He paused by the table, gloved fingers brushing the edge of a yellowed scroll without lifting it. "You look tired. The deliveries wearing you down?"
"Don't." She shut the door, the deadbolts sliding home with finality. Her straight black hair fell across one eye as she crossed her arms. "You don't get to stroll in and play concerned after disappearing. What do you want, Luc? Information? A favor? Because if it's me, we're past that."
He turned, black eye absorbing the light while the amber one held it. "It's always been you, Rory. From the moment you outsmarted that shade in the alley behind Silas'." He set the cane against the wall, freeing his hands. "But I came because of the mark on your wrist. Not the scar—the one that burns when shadows stir."
Her pulse quickened . She glanced at her wrist, the childhood scar pale against her skin, but beneath it, a faint warmth pulsed now, unbidden. That night in his safehouse, after they'd tangled in sheets stained with the remnants of a botched ritual, he'd traced a protection rune there with his own blood. A half-demon's gift, he'd called it. A tether. She'd woken to find him gone, the rune hidden under fresh ink she'd hastily applied to cover it. "You left. No explanation, just shadows in your wake. I waited two weeks, Lucien. Eva had to drag me out of that flat above the bar."
He stepped closer, the scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something sharper, like brimstone—cutting through the curry haze. "I had to. The contract on you came from Avaros. My father's realm. If I'd stayed, they'd have used me to reach you." His voice dropped, fingers hovering near her arm without touching. "The attraction between us... it blinded me at first. But the hurt? That was my choice, to keep you safe."
She laughed, sharp and brittle, backing toward the kitchen counter where a half-empty mug of tea steamed forgotten. "Safe? You think tracing runes and vanishing makes me safe? I see your face in every dark corner now. Every delivery through fogged streets." Her blue eyes flashed, meeting his mismatched gaze. "Things left unsaid, Luc. Like how you kissed me that night, whispered in French that I couldn't understand but felt in my bones. Then nothing."
He closed the distance, his hand finally brushing her wrist, thumb pressing over the scar. The warmth flared under his touch, a spark racing up her arm. "Je t'ai désiré plus que la vie elle-même." The words hung between them, his four languages weaving truth into the air. "I desired you more than life itself. But desire pulls demons closer. I thought distance would sever it."
Ptolemy jumped onto the table, knocking a book to the floor with a thud. The cat's green eyes watched them, tail flicking like a metronome to their tension . Rory pulled her wrist away, but not far—her body betrayed her, leaning into the space he'd invaded. At 5'6", she met his 5'11" with defiance, her shoulder-length hair swinging as she shook her head. "You speak of contracts and realms like they're excuses. I fled Cardiff for this—abusive ex, overbearing parents. Thought London would be escape. Then you show up, all suits and secrets, and I let myself fall. Only to crash alone."
Lucien's jaw tightened, the amber eye softening while the black one darkened further. He removed his glove with deliberate slowness, revealing skin pale and unmarked, save for the faint veins of infernal heritage that shimmered under stress. "The crash was mine too. Every deal I've brokered since, I've seen your eyes in the clients' lies." He cupped her face, callused palm rough against her cheek. "The underbelly chews on weakness. Our night together? That was my weakness exposed."
She froze under his touch, the flat's clutter fading—the books, the scrolls, the cat's indifferent stare. Heat bloomed in her chest, mirroring the rune’s glow. "Then why now? Why show up unannounced, forcing this?"
"Because the mark burns brighter. Something's coming for you, Rory. From Avaros." His thumb traced her lower lip, voice a rumble. "And I won't let it touch what I've left unsaid."
Her breath hitched. The attraction roared back, raw and insistent, pulling her toward him like gravity. She gripped his suit lapel, fabric smooth under her fingers, and yanked him closer. "You left too much unsaid last time. Say it now. All of it."
He kissed her then, fierce and claiming, his lips parting hers with the urgency of six months denied. She met him, hands sliding up to tangle in his slicked-back hair, disrupting the perfect lines. The cane clattered fully to the floor as he pressed her against the counter, the mug tipping over in a splash of tea that neither noticed. Ptolemy scattered, books trembled from the vibration.
When they broke apart, gasping, his forehead rested against hers. "I love you, Aurora Carter. More than realms, more than blood debts. That's what I should have said."
She searched his eyes, the amber warm, the black endless. Hurt lingered, a shadow in her chest, but the pull won. "Prove it. Stay this time. No vanishing."
He nodded, pulling her toward the worn sofa buried under research notes. They sank into it, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her waist. The flat's chaos surrounded them—deadbolts secure, cat circling back with a meow. Outside, Brick Lane hummed with evening life, but here, words spilled forth.
"Tell me about Marseille," she murmured, fingers tracing his cane's handle nearby .
He did, voice weaving tales of sun-baked streets and a mother's human warmth against demonic fire. She shared Cardiff's rains, the barrister father's stern lectures, the Welsh mother's stories that fueled her quick mind. Attraction rebuilt itself in confessions, hurt easing under shared breaths.
Hours blurred as they talked, bodies entwined on the sofa. His hand found her wrist again, peeling back the ink to reveal the rune, glowing softly . "This binds us," he said. "If you'll have it."
She nodded, kissing the mark on his palm. "I will. But no more secrets, Luc. We're in this—London's shadows and all."
The door's deadbolts held firm against the night, while inside, things left unsaid transformed into promises. Ptolemy curled at their feet, purring as the curry scent lingered, a reminder of the world beyond their reclaimed space. Lucien's suit jacket draped over the armrest, her jeans rumpled from his touch. They rose only to brew fresh tea, his cane propped nearby like a sentinel .
As they stood in the kitchen, her back to his chest, his arms encircling her, she felt the rune's warmth steady. "Eva returns soon," she said. "She'll have questions."
"Let her," he replied, chin on her shoulder. "I've answers now."
The flat pulsed with their presence, books silent witnesses to the reunion. Attraction burned steady, hurt a scar they both bore, things unsaid finally voiced in the quiet hours.