AI The knock was sharp, a confident, insistent rhythm against the cheap wood of her door. Not Eva, not Silas from downstairs, not the usual late-night delivery run. Rory paused, mid-stretch, the ache in her shoulders a familiar protest after a twelve-hour shift. The chain rattled as she slid it free in the dim hallway light, the scent of stale cooking oil from the restaurant faint on her uniform. She squinted through the peephole, a frown deepening. The face in the distortion was too sharp, too familiar , framed by hair that defied gravity and London's damp air. A jolt, cold and instantaneous, shot down her spine . She fumbled with the deadbolt, turning it with a click that seemed deafening in the sudden silence of her own making.
Opening the door fully, Rory braced herself.
There he stood. Lucien Moreau. Impeccably dressed, as always, in a charcoal suit that seemed woven from the London fog . His platinum hair was slicked back, a silver halo under the dim glow of the solitary porch light above the pub entrance. His eyes, one the colour of aged amber, the other an abyss of pure black, met hers without hesitation. He held his signature ivory-handled cane, the polished surface reflecting the streetlights like scattered jewels. He was not just a visitor; he was a disruption, a storm cloud given human form, standing on her doorstep as if time had folded neatly between the last moment they’d seen each other and this one.
The air between them thickened, charged with the unspoken , the years of distance and the phantom warmth of a past intimacy she’d sworn to bury. Rory’s breath hitched, the cool, collected facade she’d so carefully cultivated for years threatening to crack. He was all sharp angles and dangerous grace, a creature of shadows and secrets, and he had found her. Here. In her quiet, unassuming corner of the world, a world she’d built brick by painstaking brick after… after everything.
"Rory," his voice was low, a velvet rumble that vibrated somewhere deep in her bones. It held the faintest trace of a French lilt , a melody that could both seduce and disarm. It had always done both.
She leaned against the doorframe, her hand resting on the wood, feeling the grain beneath her fingertips. It was a small anchor. "Lucien." Her own voice sounded strangely thin, reedy. She hadn't uttered his name in… how long? It felt like a lifetime. Years. But the recognition was instantaneous, primal. He hadn't changed. Or rather, the essence of him hadn't. The polished surface might have acquired new layers of polish, but the predator underneath was still there, a glint in those mismatched eyes.
"You're not supposed to be here," she said, the words flat, devoid of emotion she couldn't afford to show. Not yet.
He offered a slight, almost imperceptible inclination of his head, a courtly gesture that felt entirely out of place on this grimy East London street, above a pub smelling faintly of fried onions and spilled beer. "And yet, here I am." A ghost of a smile touched his lips, a dangerous curve that promised both amusement and something far more potent. "May I come in? It's rather… inclement." He made no move to step forward, waiting, as if granting her the courtesy of a refusal .
Rory hesitated. Every instinct screamed at her to shut the door, to slam it in his face and pretend she’d never opened it. But the same instincts that warned her of danger also recognized the allure, the irresistible pull that had once drawn her in. He was trouble, wrapped in fine tailoring and dangerous charisma. And then there was the look in his eyes, a flicker of something that wasn't entirely predatory. Concern? Or perhaps just a finely honed skill for creating the illusion of it.
She pushed herself away from the doorframe. "It's not exactly a palace."
"I've always found your accommodations charmingly… authentic," Lucien replied, stepping past her into the narrow hallway. He brought with him the scent of expensive cologne and the chill of the night air, a stark contrast to the faint warmth and organized chaos of her flat.
As he moved into the small living area, Rory followed, her eyes tracking his every step. The space was small, a testament to the life she’d carved out for herself. A worn armchair occupied one corner, covered in a patchwork throw. Stacks of books, some legal texts from her abandoned university days, others well-thumbed novels, teetered on precarious piles. Her delivery uniform, a crisp gold and red, hung on a hook by the door, a splash of jarring colour against the muted tones of the room. A small table served as both dining and workspace, littered with bills and a half-finished crossword. It was a life lived in the margins, a careful balancing act, and Lucien’s presence felt like an earthquake threatening to shatter the fragile foundations.
Lucien paused, his gaze sweeping over the room, taking in the details with an unnerving stillness. He didn't judge; he simply observed, his heterochromatic eyes absorbing everything. He turned back to Rory, his expression unreadable . "Still delivering exotic fare, I see."
"Someone's got to," Rory said, forcing a lightness into her tone. She moved towards the small kitchen counter, busying herself by running water into a chipped mug. "What do you want, Lucien? You don't make surprise visits for old times' sake. Not anymore." The last part was a concession, a painful acknowledgement of what they once were.
He walked over to a stack of books, running a gloved finger along their spines. The ivory cane tapped lightly on the floorboards. "I wish it were that simple, Rory. But as you know, the world we inhabit rarely offers such pleasantries." He turned, his eyes finding hers again. "I'm here because there's trouble. Serious trouble. And it has your name, or at least a strong resemblance to it, written all over it."
Rory’s hand stilled under the tap. The water overflowed the mug and spilled onto the counter. A small, ignorable mess. Her heart began to pound, a frantic drum against her ribs. "My name? I'm just some delivery girl, Lucien. I'm not involved in… whatever it is you do."
"Aren't you?" He took a step closer, closing the distance between them. He smelled like rain and old secrets and the kind of danger that felt like coming home . Rory involuntarily inhaled, a foolish, traitorous reaction. "Evan is back, Rory. And he's not just looking for you; he's poking around places he shouldn't. Places that intersect with mine."
The name, Evan, hit her like a physical blow. She stumbled back, knocking a stack of mail onto the floor. Her scar, hidden beneath the fabric of her sleeve, throbbed unconsciously. Evan. After all this time, after London, after Silas' bar and the Golden Empress, after everything she'd done to put miles and years between her and him, he was back. And Lucien knew. Of course, Lucien would know. He knew everything about everyone in the city's shadow realms.
"Evan? He’s… he’s supposed to be gone," she whispered, the cool-headed intelligence faltering, replaced by a primal fear.
"He's returned. And he's asking questions. Questions that involve a certain young woman who fled Cardiff for London, a certain young woman who once had a very close relationship with a certain half-demon fixer." Lucien’s gaze was steady, unwavering , but there was a new intensity in it, a protective edge that made her breath catch erratically. "He's asking about you, Rory. And he's not alone. He's… changed. Stronger. And very , very angry."
Rory ran a hand through her black hair, pushing it away from her face. The organised calm she usually projected was dissolving . "Why come to me? Why not just deal with him?"
"Because," Lucien advanced another step, his shadow falling over her. "Evan is your problem. And until he poses a direct threat to my interests, or yours, I merely observe." His amber eye seemed to glow for a fraction of a second. "But this is escalating. He’s crossed a line, and he’s heading towards a part of the underworld I’ve been trying to keep you out of. If he falls into the wrong hands, or if he decides to use whatever leverage he has against you, it could be… messy. For all of us."
He reached out, not to touch her, but to gesture vaguely towards the window, towards the teeming city outside. "He’s been seen near the old docks. Whispers of acquiring something… potent. Something that doesn't belong in human hands, let alone Evan's."
Rory's knuckles cracked as she recalled the way Evan’s eyes used to glitter with a terrifying emptiness. "Look, he's not just a bully anymore, Lucien. This is bigger than him. He's got other people involved. People who deal with the… the other side. And he'll use whoever he has to, to hurt me." She remembered the flicker of his eyes, the chilling certainty in his voice when he threatened her last time. He was capable of anything.
"Precisely," Lucien said, his jaw tightening . He stepped closer, his cane tapping a sharp staccato rhythm against the floor. He was so close now Rory could feel the warmth radiating from him. "Which is why I am here. To ensure you don't make a mistake. To ensure he doesn't drag you back into that darkness, not without a fight. Not without me."
His voice dropped, the velvet rumble deepening, becoming more raw, more intimate. "I told myself, when you left, that I wouldn't interfere. That you'd made your choice. But Evan… Evan has always been a stain, Rory. A foul stain on your life, and I won't let him erase you again. Not while I can still reach you."
He reached out then, his gloved fingers brushing against her cheek. The contact sent a jolt through her, a shock of returning sensation. His touch was cool, impossibly gentle. Rory’s breath hitched. Her body, which had been rigid with fear and apprehension , began to soften. The years of hurt, the lingering attraction, the confusion – it all swirled in the small, cramped space between them. She remembered the nights they'd spent together, the intense conversations, the feeling of being truly seen. He had seen her, truly seen her, in a way Evan never could, and in a way she hadn't allowed herself to be seen since.
"Lucien…" her voice was a raw whisper . She tilted her head slightly into his touch, a silent confession of vulnerability.
His amber eye softened, the black one remaining impassive, watchful. "Rory. You cannot face this alone. Not this Evan. And if you are to face him, perhaps… perhaps you shouldn't face him alone, either."
His gaze dropped to her lips, and Rory’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The sterile scent of the city outside, the faint aroma of cooking oil from downstairs, it all faded. There was only him, his intense gaze, the phantom comfort of his touch, and the daunting, terrifying prospect of what lay ahead. Her mind, ever the quick thinker, had no ready answers. It was too busy remembering the way his hands felt, the way his promises had once felt too good to be true, and the way they still, inexplicably, made her hope. She looked up at him, and in the depths of his mismatched eyes, she saw not just the fixer, not just the half-demon, but the man who had once held her heart , and who seemed, in this moment, determined to do so again.
She leaned in, just a fraction. It was a question. "Lucien… what do we do?"
He didn't answer with words. Instead, his thumb traced a slow, deliberate path across her cheekbone, inching closer to the corner of her mouth. The air crackled with anticipation . Rory's eyes fluttered closed, her scar aching faintly on her wrist, a forgotten wound from a far simpler childhood. This wasn’t simple. This was dangerous, intoxicating, and terrifyingly familiar . It was the precipice, and both of them knew, with a certainty that defied logic, that they were about to step off it together.