AI The heavy thud against her door vibrated through the floorboards. Silas' bar was usually a muffled roar on a Thursday, not a rhythmic *thump-thump-thump *. Aurora Carter, mid-way through wrestling a stubborn Tupperware lid, froze. It wasn't the kind of knock Silas' regulars deployed. Too... polite. Too insistent. For a delivery driver lugging takeaway after a late shift, it was an anomaly. She wiped sticky fingers on her jeans, the faint scent of garlic oil clinging to them.
"Alright, who is it?" A sharp call, pitched to travel through the thick wood. No answer, just another sharp rap. Annoyance prickly. "I'm coming!"
She rounded the worn kitchen counter, her bare feet padding softly on the linoleum. The doorframe loomed, old and peeling. The brass lock protested with a metallic groan as she turned the deadbolt, followed by the second. The chain, snug and secure, was the last obstacle. She tugged it free, and with a final twist of her wrist, pulled the door inward.
He stood there.
Lucien Moreau.
The air thickened, catching in her throat like shards of glass. He was every bit the impossibly elegant phantom she remembered, draped in a charcoal wool suit that seemed to absorb the dim hallway light . His platinum blond hair was slicked back, revealing sharp cheekbones and eyes that, even in proximity, held their unsettling, dual glow – one amber, the other a void of black. His signature ivory-handled cane rested against his thigh, an innocuous prop that she knew bristled with lethal intent.
"Aurora." His voice, a low, resonant rumble, coiled around her like smoke. "Fancy seeing you here."
The sarcasm, so smooth, so utterly *him *, was a physical slap. Fancy seeing *him *? Here? In *her * cramped little flat above a South London pub? The universe had a twisted sense of humour.
"More like 'fancy you finding me'," she retorted, her voice tighter than she'd intended. She kept her stance firm, one hand braced against the doorframe. "You shouldn't be here, Luc."
"Shouldn't I?" He took a step forward, the movement fluid, predatory. The cane tapped a soft rhythm against the grimy floor. "Yet, here I am. Open door, welcome guest. Or is it?" The amber eye glinted.
Her jaw tightened. 'Welcome' was a word she hadn't associated with him in years. "You were never invited."
"A technicality." He tilted his head, a predator assessing its prey. "But since you've been so kind as to grace me with your presence... may I step inside? It's rather drafty out here for a gentleman such as myself, and I have matters of some urgency to discuss."
Urgency? With her ? He always had matters of urgency. Matters that pulled her into his orbit, then spat her out, leaving her bruised and bewildered. Her left wrist, hidden beneath the sleeve of her grey t-shirt, itched. The small crescent scar, a relic from a childhood fall, felt suddenly raw.
"No." The word was flat, clipped. She wouldn't let him in. Not again. Not after everything.
Lucien merely smiled, a slow, unnerving stretch of lips that didn't quite reach his eyes . He raised a perfectly manicured hand, not to knock, but to gesture vaguely behind him . "Are you sure? Because I believe dear Silas might have taken exception to me loitering on his doorstep, and you wouldn't want me to cause a scene, would you? Not in your... domain."
A quick glance over her shoulder. The distant drone of the pub, a burst of laughter. Silas was likely occupied. But Luc knew Silas. He knew how to play these games. He could manufacture a scene, or worse, use Silas' presence as leverage. She hated that he knew this. Hated that he knew *her *.
She swallowed, the knot in her stomach tightening. "Fine. Five minutes. And don't touch anything."
The smile widened. He ducked under the threshold, his presence instantly seeming to shrink the cramped hallway. He moved with an unnerving grace, his expensive suit a stark contrast against the<bos> peeling paint and worn carpet. He surveyed the narrow space, taking in the stack of old newspapers by the coat rack, the slightly damp patch near the fuse box. He didn't flinch, didn't sneer. Just observed.
"Your home," he murmured, his gaze finally settling on her . "Modest. Functional. Much like your current occupation, I imagine."
"I deliver food, Luc. It pays the bills." Her voice was sharp, defensive. "Unlike some people, I don't have a trust fund for supernatural underworld fixers."
A low chuckle vibrated from his chest. "Ah, always the quick wit. A lawyer in the making, they said. A shame you abandoned such a promising path for... this." He gestured vaguely again, indicating the general state of her existence.
"I left that life behind," she stated, her back stiffening . "For good reasons. Reasons you were part of."
He waved a dismissive hand. "Details. We're not here to rehash ancient history, Aurora, unless, of course, you wish to. I, for one, find it... stimulating. But I have a proposition. One that might appeal to your particular brand of unconventional problem-solving."
She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe she'd forgotten to close properly. The muted sounds of the bar seemed to press against the silence between them. "A proposition? From you? I highly doubt it. My 'unconventional problem-solving' usually involves making sure I don't end up in a ditch with my organs rearranged. Your propositions tend to involve *causing * the rearranged organs."
He stepped closer, closing the distance she'd tried to maintain. The scent of something sophisticated, like sandalwood and old parchment, wafted from him . For a moment, his heterochromatic eyes held hers, the amber searching, the black depthless. The attraction, sharp and unwelcome, prickled at the edges of her composure. She forced it down.
"My dear Rory," he said, the old nickname a deliberate weapon, designed to disarm. "You wound me. I merely facilitate... solutions. And this particular solution involves a rather significant sum. Enough, perhaps, to buy you out of your current, shall we say, less-than-glamorous role. And maybe even afford you a rather nice Italian sports car, the kind you always did admire."
She scoffed. "You know about the car?"
"I know many things, Aurora. It's my métier, as you well know. And I know you have a certain... penchant for the finer things, buried beneath all this pragmatism." He gestured around the small room. "This life. It doesn't suit you. Not the Aurora Carter I knew."
What the hell was this? Flattery? Bribery? A trap? He was a master manipulator. She knew that better than anyone. "The Aurora Carter you knew made a lot of mistakes. Particularly when she mistook your promises for sincerity."
His smile faltered, just for a fraction of a second. A flicker of something he quickly masked. "That is where you are mistaken. My sincerity is... conditional. Much like loyalty." He straightened his cufflink. "But your skills, your instincts, the way your mind works under pressure – that is never conditional. Which is why I'm here."
He moved past her finally, towards the cramped living area. She could have stopped him , should have. Her hand instinctively went to her left wrist again, to the faint scar. She tried to remember what it felt like to be unaware, to be naive . It had been a long time.
"What do you want, Luc?" Her voice was a low growl. "Spit it out."
He turned, leaning his elegant frame against her cluttered bookshelf. Books on law, criminal justice, obscure folklore she’d collected, sat higgledy-piggledy. He picked up a small, leather-bound volume on ancient Celtic curses, his thumb tracing its worn cover. “A colleague of mine – a rather unpleasant individual, I must confess – has misplaced something. Something that belongs to me.”
“And you think I can find it?” Her brow furrowed . “I deliver parcels, Luc. I don’t track down stolen magical artefacts or whatever this is about.” She gestured to the book.
“Not directly,” he said, his voice deepening . “But this ‘colleague’ is… resourceful. He’s a collector of… oddities. And he owes me. He has something I need back. This ‘item’ is small, easily concealed. He’s likely already passed it on. To someone who appreciates the value of discretion. Someone who knows how to move unseen. Someone like… you.”
She shook her head. "No. Absolutely not. I'm out of that world, Luc. You know why ."
"Precisely," he countered, his gaze sharp and unwavering . "That is *why * you are the perfect candidate. You operate in the shadows the authorities overlook. You know the alleys, the back routes. You have a unique network through your… current profession. A network that might brush shoulders with the sort of lowlifes my colleague would employ."
"And if I refuse?" She met his gaze, her own simmering with a potent blend of fear and defiance.
He placed the book back on the shelf, the movement deliberate. Then, he reached into his inner suit pocket, his tailored jacket shifting just enough to reveal a glimpse of dark fabric. He withdrew what looked like a small, unassuming USB drive .
"Because," Lucien Moreau said, his heterochromatic eyes fixed on hers, "this little trinket happens to contain irrefutable proof of your ex-boyfriend Evan's recent whereabouts. And more importantly, his current activities. Activities that, I suspect, would put you back on the radar of people who… do not forget past grievances. People who might be very interested in finding the woman who escaped their clutches."
The silence that followed was deafening , punctuated only by the distant clatter of glasses from Silas’ bar. Evan. The name alone sent a tremor through her , cold and sharp. He’d promised he’d find her . He’d never stopped. Lucien knew her deepest, most buried fear. And he'd just dangled it, gleaming and venomous, right in front of her face.
"How?" she breathed, the blood draining from her face .
Lucien’s smile returned, sharp and victorious. "As I said, Aurora. I know many things." He held out the USB drive. "The choice, as always, is yours."
Aurora stared at the drive, then at Lucien’s impassive face. The history between them, a tangled mess of desire , betrayal, and unfinished business, suddenly felt like a noose tightening around her neck. To refuse was to invite Evan back into her life, a prospect more terrifying than anything Luc could conjure. But to accept… to accept meant stepping back into the darkness, alongside the very man who had once fractured her world. His offer wasn't a choice; it was a surrender. And in his amber eyes, she saw the undeniable promise of exquisite ruin, wrapped in the sleek disguise of a lifeline. The drive pulsed with unspoken threats, a tiny device holding the fate of her fragile peace. And Lucien watched, waiting for her to take the bait.