AI The third deadbolt groaned, a scorched metallic protest that echoed through the narrow hallway. Rory leaned her shoulder against the door, shoving upward to settle the frame while she wrestled the final lock. The scent of cumin and turmeric seeped through the floorboards from the curry house downstairs, thick enough to coat the tongue. Behind her, Ptolemy the tabby cat stretched on a stack of yellowed scrolls, his claws snagging the parchment with a rhythmic , papery rasp.
The door finally swung inward.
Lucien Moreau stood in the dim light of the landing, a sharp silhouette against the peeling floral wallpaper of the corridor. The rain had glazed his charcoal wool coat, turning the fabric a shade closer to midnight. He didn't move. He didn't speak. He simply existed there, a polished obsidian blade dropped into a pile of junk.
Rory gripped the edge of the door, her knuckles turning the colour of bleached bone. The small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist throbbed , a phantom pulse she hadn't felt in months.
"The locks are new."
Lucien’s voice carried the smooth, dangerous weight of velvet wrapped around a stone. He stepped over the threshold without waiting for an invitation, the tip of his ivory-handled cane clicking rhythmically against the warped linoleum.
"Eva worries. Some people don't know how to stay gone."
Rory slammed the door shut. The force vibrated through her boots. She didn't turn around immediately, staring instead at the wood grain, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
"You look thinner, Rory."
Lucien surveyed the cramped flat, his heterochromatic eyes moving with predatory precision. The amber eye caught the flicker of a bare lightbulb, glowing like a trapped spark, while the black eye remained a bottomless void. He looked out of place among the piles of research notes and discarded delivery containers from the Golden Empress. He was a creature of marble and silk , now surrounded by the clutter of a life she’d tried to build out of his reach.
"It’s called work. You should try it when you aren't busy brokering lives."
She finally turned, crossing her arms to hide the slight tremor in her hands. She stood her ground as he drifted deeper into the room, pausing by a shelf of heavy grimoires. Ptolemy arched his back, a low growl vibrating in the cat’s throat. Lucien ignored the animal, his attention fixed on a stray black hair clinging to his sleeve. He flicked it away with a gloved finger.
"Life in the East End suits you. The grit provides a certain camouflage."
"I wasn't hiding from the city, Lucien. I was hiding from you."
He stopped his pacing. The air in the flat shifted, growing heavy and charged , the way it did just before a lightning strike. The half-demon heritage he carried—the taint of Avaros—bled into the room, a subtle pressure against her skin. He turned his head, the platinum blond of his hair shimmering under the harsh bulb.
"And yet, you chose a flat above a curry house with three deadbolts. A fortress for a girl who claims she isn't afraid."
He moved toward her. It wasn't a fast movement, but it possessed a terrifying grace. The ivory cane stayed at his side, a silent witness. Rory refused to back away, even as the heat radiating from him began to melt the chill the rain had brought inside.
"I’m not that girl anymore. I don't work for you. I don't owe you."
"You owe me a conversation we never finished in Marseille."
His black eye seemed to expand, the pupil swallowing the iris until it reflected nothing but her own defiant face. He stopped inches away. The scent of him—expensive sandalwood, rain, and the metallic tang of something ancient—overwhelmed the smell of spices from below. It was a scent that lived in her nightmares and her most guarded memories.
"There was nothing left to say. I left. You stayed. That’s how endings work."
Lucien reached out. His gloved thumb brushed the pulse point on her neck, just above the collar of her jumper. The contact sent a jolt through her, a frantic heat that made her breath hitch. He didn't pull away.
"You didn't leave, Rory. You fled. There is a distinction."
"I survived."
She reached up, grabbing his wrist to pull his hand away, but she didn't drop it. The leather of his glove felt cool, but the strength beneath it was undeniable. They stood locked in the narrow space between the sofa and the door, a mess of books at their feet and months of silence between their mouths.
"The Frenchman returns to the scene of the crime."
Rory’s voice lacked the bite she intended. It came out as a scorched whisper . She felt the heat of his skin through the leather, a reminder of the nights in London’s underworld when they’d shared more than just information.
"I returned for what belongs to me."
He stepped closer, closing the final inch of space. The ivory handle of his cane pressed against her hip, a cold bar of bone. He looked down at her, his amber eye searching hers for the cracks she knew were there.
"I don't belong to anyone. Least of all a fixer for the damned."
"You belong to yourself. But your secrets? Those belong to the man who knows how to keep them."
He leaned in, his breath ghosting over her ear. The heterochromia of his gaze was dizzying up close—one side fire, one side night. Rory felt the old pull, the magnetic slide toward the edge of a cliff she had spent a year trying to climb away from.
"Why now? After six months of nothing?"
She finally let go of his wrist, her fingers trailing over the tailored wool of his coat. The fabric felt soft, a stark contrast to the hardness of the man beneath.
"Because the Golden Empress only delivers so far, and I grew tired of the taste of disappointment."
Lucien pulled a small, crumpled receipt from his pocket—a delivery slip from Rory’s day job. It didn't have a name on it, only a scribbled address and a smudge of grease. He dropped it, the paper fluttering to the floor like a dying moth.
"You followed me through a delivery order? That’s low, even for you."
"Efficiency is never a low blow."
He took a step back, but the tension didn't break; it only stretched, becoming a thin, vibrating wire. He surveyed the room once more, his gaze lingering on the bed nestled in the corner, half-hidden by a folding screen.
"This place is a cage, Rory."
"It’s a home. There’s a difference."
"A home has a hearth. This has a drafty window and the smell of old paper. You were meant for better than hiding in the shadows of Brick Lane, playing at being human."
Rory laughed, a sharp, jagged sound. She walked past him, heading for the small kitchenette to put some distance between them. She gripped the edge of the counter, the Formica peeling under her fingernails.
"I *am * human, Lucien. That’s the part you always seem to forget. I don't have a realm to retreat to when things get bloody. I have this. I have a bike, a flat, and a cat that hates you."
"Ptolemy has excellent taste. He simply recognizes a predator when one enters his territory."
Lucien didn't follow her. He leaned against the bookshelf, his posture relaxed, though his eyes remained sharp. He looked like a king sitting on a throne of trash.
"What do you want, Lucien? Really? You didn't come here to critique my interior design."
"I came to see if the fire had gone out."
He tapped the ivory head of his cane against his palm. The sound was like a heartbeat.
"And?"
He looked at her then, really looked at her, stripping away the layers of her defiance until he reached the hurt she’d buried under her Cardiff-bred stoicism.
"It’s smouldering. Which is far more dangerous."
Rory turned back to him, her black hair swinging against her shoulders. The blue of her eyes flashed, bright and cold as a winter sky.
"You should leave before it catches."
"I’ve never been particularly afraid of a little heat."
He moved again, this time with a purpose that made Rory’s heart skip. He didn't stop until he was standing in the cramped kitchen area with her. The space was so small she could feel the cold dampness of his coat against her arms. He reached out, his bare hand—he’d removed the glove—finding the crescent scar on her wrist. He traced it with his thumb, the skin-to-skin contact sending a shiver of pure, unadulterated electricity through her spine.
"You still have it."
"Scars don't just vanish because you want them to."
"Neither do people, it seems."
He tilted his head, his face inches from hers. The Heterochromatic eyes were steady, unblinking.
"Are you going to scream for help, Rory? Or are you going to realize your locks were never meant to keep me out?"
"They were meant to keep me in."
Her hand rose, unbidden, her fingers curling into the lapel of his suit. She pulled him closer, the movement fueled by a cocktail of resentment and a hunger she couldn't starve.
"Then you’ve failed your mission."
Lucien’s hand migrated from her wrist to the small of her back, his touch firm, pulling her flush against the charcoal wool of his chest. The ivory cane clattered to the floor, forgotten.
"I hate you."
Her voice was a ragged edge, whispered against the space between their lips.
"I know."
He didn't close the gap. He waited, his breath mingling with hers, letting the silence of the flat and the distant sound of Brick Lane traffic build the pressure until it was unbearable. Ptolemy jumped off the scrolls, disappearing into the shadows of the bedroom, leaving them alone in the flickering light of the kitchen.
"Tell me to leave, Rory. Say it like you mean it, and I’ll walk out that door and let the locks do their work."
Rory looked at the black eye, the one that saw the demon in the room, and then at the amber one, the one that saw only her. Her fingers tightened on his lapel, the fabric bunching in her grip.
"The third lock sticks. You’d never get it open in time."
Lucien smiled, a slow, predatory curve of his lips that didn't reach his eyes.
"I suppose I'll have to stay, then."