AI The door swung open with a creak that echoed through the narrow hallway, and there he stood—Lucien Moreau, his heterochromatic eyes locking onto mine like a predator spotting prey. Ptolemy the tabby cat bolted from his perch on the cluttered bookshelf, fur bristling as he vanished under the kitchen table.
I froze, hand still gripping the knob, the three deadbolts I'd just unlocked mocking my false sense of security. "Lucien."
"Rory." His voice carried that smooth French lilt , unchanged, like he'd stepped out of one of my nightmares dressed in his tailored charcoal suit. He leaned on his ivory-handled cane, the one that hid a blade sharper than his words. "May I come in? Or shall we discuss old wounds on the doorstep?"
Old wounds. That's what he called it now? I stepped aside, not because I wanted to, but because the curry-scented air from the shop below was seeping in, and I refused to let the neighbors overhear whatever poison he carried. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing us in Eva's cramped flat, books and scrolls teetering on every surface like unstable secrets.
He scanned the room, amber eye catching the light from a lone lamp, the black one shadowed and unreadable . "Eva's place, I see. Still crashing here when life gets complicated?"
"Complicated like you showing up unannounced?" I crossed my arms, the small crescent scar on my left wrist itching under my sleeve—a reminder of childhood clumsiness, nothing like the scars he'd left. My heart hammered, betraying me, but I kept my voice steady. Cool-headed, that's what people called me. Quick thinker. "What do you want, Lucien? Last time we spoke, you made it clear you preferred your underworld deals without human complications."
He set his cane against the wall, the soft thud punctuating his steps toward the kitchen counter. Scrolls crinkled under his polished shoes. "Human complications. Is that how you remember it?" His fingers brushed a stack of Eva's research notes, rearranging them with deliberate care. "I recall a woman who dove headfirst into my world, then bolted when the shadows grew too dark."
Bolted? Heat rose in my cheeks. I'd fled Cardiff after Evan, yes, but London—and Lucien—had been my fresh start. Until he revealed his half-demon heritage during that cursed job in the East End, pulling me into a web of supernatural fixes that nearly got me killed. Attraction had sparked then, fierce and forbidden, his touch like fire on my skin. But the hurt? That came when he pushed me away, claiming I couldn't handle his "true nature." Things left unsaid? Plenty. Like how I'd whispered his name in the dark for months after.
"I didn't bolt," I said, moving to the counter opposite him, the Formica cool under my palms. Ptolemy peeked out, eyes wide, then darted back. "You shoved me out. 'Go back to your deliveries and your safe little life,' you said. Remember?"
A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. He plucked a half-empty mug from the sink—Eva's, stained with tea—and examined it like evidence. "Safe? You deliver for Yu-Fei Cheung. That old dragon's restaurant fronts more than dim sum. And living above Silas' bar? Hardly a convent."
"Safer than chasing demons with you." I snatched the mug from his hand, our fingers brushing. Electricity shot through me, unwanted, familiar . I set it down hard, ceramic clinking against the pile of unwashed dishes. "Cut the games. Why are you here?"
He straightened, closing the distance until the scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, like brimstone—filled the space between us. "A mutual acquaintance needs help. Eva, actually. She's tangled in something from Avaros. My father's realm."
Avaros. The demon plane he'd mentioned once, in a rare moment of vulnerability, after we'd shared a bottle of wine in his sleek apartment. I'd pressed for details, my hand on his chest, feeling the dual rhythm of his half-human heart. He'd kissed me instead, distracting, evading. Now he brought it here, to Eva's book-strewn chaos.
"Eva's in Cardiff visiting family. She didn't mention any tangles." My mind raced, piecing it together. Eva, my childhood friend, the one who'd dragged me to London after Evan. She dabbled in the occult, her flat a testament to that—ancient tomes on demonology stacked beside modern thrillers. If Lucien knew about Avaros ties, it meant trouble. "You wouldn't show up unless it's bad. Spill it."
He reached into his suit pocket, pulling out a small, ornate vial. Crimson liquid swirled inside, catching the lamp's glow. "This washed up in the Thames last night. Essence from Avaros. Bound to a human host." He held it out, but when I reached for it, he pulled back slightly , forcing me closer. "Eva's notes mention it. She's been researching portals. Carelessly."
Our breaths mingled. I could see the faint scar on his jaw, from a fight he'd never explained. Attraction surged, damn it, mixing with the old hurt. "If it's careless, why involve me? You washed your hands of us mortals."
"Us?" His black eye darkened further, the amber one flashing with something raw. He set the vial down, his hand lingering near mine. "You think I washed my hands of you? That night in the warehouse, when the imp swarm hit, I pushed you out to save you. From me. From this." He gestured to himself, the elegant fixer masking the demon blood.
Save me. The words twisted in my gut. I'd replayed that night endlessly—his blade flashing from the cane, slicing through shadowy forms while I huddled behind crates, useless. Afterward, in the rain-slicked alley, he'd kissed me hard, then told me to leave. "Humans break too easily," he'd said. Hurt had crashed over me like a wave, drowning the unsaid confession burning in my throat: I didn't care about the demon part. I wanted him anyway.
"You didn't give me a choice," I whispered, my voice cracking despite my resolve . I stepped back, bumping into a tower of books that wobbled precariously. One tumbled, an old grimoire thudding open to a page on binding spells. Fitting.
Lucien's jaw tightened. He caught the next book before it fell, his movements fluid, predatory. "Choice? You had one—stay in your world or risk mine. I chose for both of us." He placed the book aside, then closed in again, his cane forgotten. "But Eva's mess pulls you back in. And I... I need your help."
Need. The word hung there, vulnerable from a man who brokered information like currency. My pulse quickened . "My help? I'm a delivery girl with a pre-law degree I never used. What do I know about demon essences?"
"You know me." His voice dropped, intimate . He traced a finger along the edge of the counter, inching toward my hand. "And you're quick. Out-of-the-box thinking, remember? That's what drew me in the first place."
Drew him in. The admission sparked something—hope? Anger? I couldn't tell. Memories flooded: stolen moments in his car after a job, his lips on my neck, whispering in French while I laughed, pretending I understood. Then the push away, leaving me hollow.
Ptolemy chose that moment to emerge, rubbing against Lucien's leg with a low purr. Traitorous cat.
"Fine," I said, ignoring the warmth spreading through me. "Tell me about this essence. But if you're lying to get back in—"
"I'm not." He picked up the vial again, holding it between us like a peace offering. "It binds to a host, amplifies their darkest desires. Eva experimented with it, I suspect. Her notes reference a trial run."
Trial run. My stomach dropped. Eva, always pushing boundaries, her flat a labyrinth of forbidden knowledge. If she'd bound something from Avaros...
"Where is she now?" I demanded, snatching the vial. The glass warmed unnaturally in my palm, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Lucien hesitated, a rare crack in his composure. "Missing. Since yesterday. I tracked her last signal here."
Missing. The word hit like a punch. I set the vial down, hands shaking. "You lead with that? Eva's gone, and you waltz in with innuendos?"
"Not innuendos." He gripped my wrist gently , thumb brushing the scar. "Truths we left unsaid. Like how I never stopped thinking about you."
The touch ignited everything—the attraction, the hurt, the pull I'd fought for months. I didn't pull away. "Then why push me out?"
"Because demons like my father destroy what they touch." His voice roughened, the French accent thickening . "But losing you destroyed something in me."
Our faces inches apart now, breaths syncing. I could taste the sandalwood on him. Part of me wanted to bridge the gap, to kiss away the unsaid words. But complications loomed —Eva missing, demon essence, his world crashing into mine again.
A sharp knock rattled the door. We both tensed. Ptolemy hissed, fur on end.
Lucien's hand dropped to his cane, fingers twitching toward the hidden blade. "Expecting company?"
"No." I moved toward the door, heart pounding . The knock came again, insistent. Through the peephole, a shadowed figure waited, face obscured by a hood. Something glinted in their hand—metal, sharp.
Lucien positioned himself behind me, his presence a shield. "Open it. But stay back."
I twisted the first deadbolt, the click echoing like a warning. As the door creaked open, the figure lunged, blade flashing toward my throat.