AI The first knock was soft, almost polite. Rory looked up from the grimoire spread across Eva’s kitchen table, a cold knot tightening in her stomach . No one knocked like that. Eva used her keys and called ahead. The takeaway delivery guy from the curry house downstairs just buzzed. This was different.
Ptolemy, the tabby, lifted his head from a nest of scrolls on the sofa, his tail twitching.
The second knock came, firmer this time. Three precise raps.
Rory closed the book, her fingers tracing the crescent scar on her left wrist out of habit. She padded to the door, the floorboards creaking under her socks. She didn’t bother with the spyhole. The three deadbolts were a chore, each one sliding back with a heavy, metallic clunk that echoed in the silent flat.
She pulled the door open six inches, the chain still engaged.
The hallway light was out, but the amber glow from the streetlamp outside the building’s front door spilled up the stairwell, silhouetting the man on the landing. Tall, lean, the familiar shape of a cane in one hand. The scent of rain and expensive cologne cut through the smell of old paper and cumin from downstairs.
Her breath hitched.
“Rory.” His voice was low, smooth, the French accent faint but unmistakable.
She didn’t move. “Lucien.”
“May I come in?”
“It’s not my flat.”
“Eva is in Edinburgh until Thursday. I know.” He shifted his weight, the tip of his cane tapping softly on the worn linoleum. “I need to speak with you.”
“You have a phone.”
“You changed your number.”
She had. After the last time. She stared at the slice of his face visible through the gap. The sharp line of his jaw, the platinum hair slicked back from his forehead. She couldn’t see his eyes from this angle, and she was glad. One amber, one black. Looking into them always felt like stepping off a ledge .
“Whatever it is, I’m not interested.” She made to close the door.
The cane shot forward, the ivory handle catching the edge. Not forceful, but immovable . “It’s about Evan.”
The name was a punch to the gut. Her ex. The one she’d fled Cardiff to escape. The one Lucien had helped her disappear from, over a year ago. The one who wasn’t supposed to know where she was.
She unlatched the chain and opened the door fully.
He stepped inside, bringing the damp chill of the night with him. He was, as always, impeccable. A charcoal suit that probably cost more than her yearly rent, the fabric tailored to his frame without a wrinkle. His overcoat was draped over one arm. He closed the door behind him with a quiet click and engaged the top deadbolt out of habit.
The flat seemed to shrink around him. Ptolemy gave a low, uncertain meow and vanished behind the sofa.
“How do you know about Evan?” Her voice was tighter than she intended.
Lucien leaned his cane against the wall by the door. He didn’t answer immediately, his heterochromatic gaze sweeping the chaotic room—the towers of books, the unrolled scrolls weighted down by mugs, the cat hair drifting in the lamplight. His eyes finally settled on her. The amber one seemed to catch the light, warm and molten; the black one was a void, absorbing it.
“He’s in London,” Lucien said. “He’s been asking questions in certain circles. My circles.”
“What kind of questions?”
“About a black-haired girl with bright blue eyes who works for a Chinese restaurant in Soho. About where she lives. Who she sees.”
A cold trickle of fear traced her spine. “How did he find me?”
Lucien’s mouth tightened, a barely perceptible line. “That is the question, isn’t it? The trail you left was cold. I made sure of it.” There was an edge in his voice, a hint of something that sounded like offense . Professional pride, perhaps. Or something else.
“You think I led him here?”
“I think someone did. And it wasn’t me.”
They stood three feet apart in the cramped space between the door and the cluttered table. The air between them was thick with everything they hadn’t said the last time they were in a room together. It had been his office, all dark wood and silence . He’d given her a new identity packet, a bank card, a key to the flat above Silas’s bar. His fingers had brushed hers as he handed it over. She’d pulled her hand back as if burned.
“Thank you for the warning,” she said, her tone formal, distant . “You’ve delivered it. You can go.”
He didn’t move. “Is that all?”
“What else is there?”
“Rory.” He said her name like a sigh, a soft exhalation that held a world of fatigue. “We cannot keep doing this.”
“Doing what? You show up out of the blue with bad news, I say thank you, you leave. That seems to be our pattern.”
“The pattern is you running. From him. From me.”
The accusation hung in the air . She crossed her arms over her chest, a defensive gesture she immediately hated. “I didn’t run from you. We had a business arrangement. You provided a service. I paid.”
“You paid with a kiss,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper . “And then you vanished.”
The memory surged, unbidden. The rain-slicked street behind his office, two in the morning. The relief of being free, of being safe, a dizzying, giddy intoxication. Him walking her to the door of the taxi. Her turning, grabbing the lapels of his charcoal coat, pulling his mouth down to hers. It had been fierce, desperate, a collision of gratitude and something darker, something that had been simmering for months. He’d kissed her back, his hands coming up to frame her face, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones. Then she’d broken away, slipped into the cab, and never looked back. Never called.
“That wasn’t payment,” she said, the words brittle. “That was a mistake.”
His black eye seemed to deepen. “Was it?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
He took a step forward. She held her ground, but her heart hammered against her ribs. He was close enough now that she could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the tiny scar bisecting his left eyebrow . She could smell the specific scent of him—sandalwood, ozone, and something metallic, like a storm about to break.
“Why are you really here, Lucien? To collect on a debt? To remind me I owe you?”
“You owe me nothing.” The words were sharp. “I am here because Evan Thorne is a violent, obsessive man with resources he should not have. I am here because when he finds you—and he will—he will not ask questions first. I am here…” He paused, his gaze dropping to her mouth for a fraction of a second before meeting her eyes again. “Because I could not live with myself if I did not come.”
The raw honesty in his voice disarmed her. It was a weapon he rarely used.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked, her own voice softening despite her resolve .
“Come with me. Tonight. I have a safe house. It’s warded, untraceable.”
“And then what? I hide forever? I did that already. I’m tired of hiding.”
“Then we find him first.” Lucien’s hand lifted, as if to touch her arm, but he stopped himself, curling his fingers into a loose fist . “We end it. Together.”
“We?” She let out a short, humourless laugh. “There is no ‘we,’ Lucien. There’s you, in your world of demons and deals, and there’s me, delivering dumplings and trying to forget. You made it very clear where the line was.”
“I drew that line to protect you.”
“From what? From you?”
His jaw tightened. “From what I am. From what comes with me.”
“I never asked for protection from you.” The words spilled out, quiet and fierce. “I asked for help with Evan. You gave it. And then you pushed me away. You pushed so hard I had no choice but to fall back.”
“It was the only way.” For the first time, she heard a crack in his polished composure. A sliver of frustration, of pain. “My world is not safe, Rory. It is not for someone like you.”
“Someone like me,” she repeated, bitterness coating her tongue . “A human. A mundane little liability.”
“A good person,” he corrected, his voice rough . “A person who deserves a life without looking over her shoulder for monsters. I am one of the things you should be running from.”
She looked at him then, really looked. At the elegant predator in the tailored suit, the half-demon with the mismatched eyes who moved through shadows as easily as breath. The man who had held her face so gently in the rain.
“You’re not a monster,” she said.
“You don’t know what I am.”
“I know you’re here. I know you came when you didn’t have to.” She uncrossed her arms, let her hands hang at her sides. “That’s not what monsters do.”
He was silent for a long moment, his gaze searching her face. The amber eye glowed softly in the dim light. The flat was so quiet she could hear the distant hum of the refrigerator, the faint patter of rain starting against the window.
“What do you want, Rory?” he finally asked, the question a bare whisper .
The truth rose in her throat, stark and terrifying. “I want to not be afraid anymore. Of him. Of… this.”
“This?”
“Whatever this is. Between us.”
He closed the last of the distance between them. He didn’t touch her, but she could feel the heat radiating from him, could see the pulse beating at the base of his throat.
“There is no between,” he murmured, his head dipping slightly . “There is only you. And me. And a very dangerous man who wants to hurt you. That is the reality.”
“Reality’s overrated.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. It transformed his face, softening the severe angles, making him look younger, almost human. “Spoken like someone who has spent too much time with grimoires.”
“They give good advice.”
“And what are they advising now?”
She took a shallow breath. “To stop running.”
His hand came up then, slow, giving her every chance to pull away. His fingers brushed a strand of black hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. The touch was electric , a jolt that went straight to her core. His skin was warmer than a human’s.
“If you stop running,” he said, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw, “you have to be prepared to stand. And fight.”
Her eyes locked with his. “I’m prepared.”
He leaned in, his forehead resting gently against hers. His breath fanned across her lips. “This is a terrible idea.”
“The worst.”
“I cannot promise you safety.”
“I’m not asking for promises.”
His mouth found hers.
It was nothing like the first kiss. That had been fire and desperation. This was slow, deliberate, a reclamation. His lips were soft, insistent, mapping hers with a tenderness that made her chest ache. She melted into him, her hands coming up to clutch at the front of his suit jacket, the fine wool soft under her fingers. He tasted of black coffee and something dark, smoky, uniquely him. His arm slid around her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she felt the lean strength of him, the controlled power she’d always sensed simmering beneath the surface.
The world outside—Evan, the rain, the dusty books, the lurking danger—all of it faded into a distant hum. There was only the heat of his mouth, the solid anchor of his body, the rightness of it that terrified her even as she surrendered.
He broke the kiss first, but didn’t pull away. He kept his forehead against hers, his eyes closed, his breathing slightly ragged.
“We should go,” he said, his voice thick . “Now. Before…”
Before what? Before she changed her mind? Before he did?
She nodded, her fingers still tangled in his lapels. “My things…”
“Leave them. I’ll get you whatever you need.”
She looked past his shoulder at the chaotic , book-strewn flat that had been her sanctuary . Ptolemy peered out from behind the sofa, his green eyes wide. It wasn’t her home. It was another hiding place.
“Okay,” she whispered.
He straightened, his professional mask sliding back into place, but his eyes remained soft, the amber one holding a warmth that hadn’t been there before. He retrieved his cane, his movements efficient . He held out his free hand to her, palm up.
She stared at it for a second, then placed her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers, firm and sure.
He led her to the door, released the deadbolts, and pulled it open. The damp night air rushed in.
She didn’t look back.