AI Three solid clicks of the deadbolts, heavy brass against the older wood, echoed in the stairwell. Rory pulled the door inward, expecting her friend Eva, whose keys always seemed to be waging a silent war against the locks. Instead, the frame filled with a silhouette that made her breath catch, sharp and sudden, in her throat.
Lucien.
He stood impeccably, effortlessly, on the landing, completely out of place amidst the curry-scented air and worn-out linoleum. His tailored charcoal suit, dark as a moonless night, seemed to absorb the dim light, making his slicked-back platinum blond hair an even starker contrast. One amber eye, luminous and feline, narrowed slightly , while the other, a midnight black, was unreadable . He carried his ivory-handled cane with an easy grace that almost made her forget the thin blade it concealed.
"Aurora." His voice, a low rumble, was undeniably French, a rich sound that had once made her shiver for entirely different reasons. Now, it only tightened the knot in her stomach . “Or do you prefer Rory these days?”
Her own name, spoken with such casual intimacy after weeks of silence , felt like a trespass . She gripped the doorknob, her knuckles white. “Lucien. What are you doing here?” The question came out sharper than she intended, laced with a mix of surprise and the familiar sting of old hurt. She hadn't seen him since… since that night in Soho. The details were still a blur of whiskey, sharp words, and a final, lingering kiss that had tasted of regret.
A ghost of a smile, cool and detached, touched his lips. It didn't reach his eyes. “My apologies for the impromptu visit. I tried calling.”
She hadn't answered. She’d seen his number light up her screen, had watched it with a sick fascination, then had ruthlessly deleted the contact. “My phone seems to be on the fritz.” It was a lie, and they both knew it. Her phone worked perfectly; she just hadn’t wanted to talk to him.
He inclined his head, a gesture of mock deference. “A convenient affliction.” His gaze swept over her , taking in her worn jeans and paint-splattered t-shirt – her uniform for an evening of attempting to decipher Eva’s cryptograms. She hated how easily he could dissect her , how her bright blue eyes, usually so guarded, felt suddenly transparent under his scrutiny. He was a fixer, an information broker, a man who saw everything.
“Are you going to invite me in, Rory?” He used the nickname this time, a subtle pressure.
She hesitated, her mind racing . Every instinct screamed for her to slam the door shut, to pretend he was a bad dream she could lock away. But he wouldn't leave. She knew Lucien well enough to know he always got what he wanted. Besides, he didn’t just show up to chat. There had to be a reason, and a dark part of her was morbidly curious.
With a sigh she didn't bother to hide, she stepped back, pulling the door wider. “Fine. But make it quick.”
Lucien entered, and the cramped space of Eva’s flat, already overflowing with books, scrolls, and research notes, seemed to shrink further around him. He moved with an almost ethereal quietness, his charcoal suit a stark anomaly amidst the bohemian chaos. Beneath his crisp lapels, she could just make out the subtle gleam of a silver pocket square. The scent of whatever high-end cologne he wore—something expensive and faintly citrusy, like a winter morning in the South of France—entered with him, battling valiantly against the persistent aroma of the curry house downstairs.
His gaze flicked around the room, taking in the precarious stacks of ancient texts on every surface, the maps pinned haphazardly to the walls, the half-eaten bowl of ramen on the rickety coffee table. Nothing escaped him. Her eyes followed his, a frantic desire to tidy, to conceal the mess the apartment truly was, warring with her stubborn pride.
Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby cat, emerged from a fortress of divination manuals, tail twitching, and rubbed against Lucien’s expensive trousers. Lucien didn't flinch. He bent, a slow, deliberate movement, and scratched the cat behind the ears. Ptolemy purred, a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards.
“You ’ve made a friend,” Rory said, the words laced with an acidity she couldn't quite contain . Even animals flocked to him.
He straightened, his expression unreadable . “Ptolemy always had good taste, even if his owner’s choice in… company… occasionally wavered .” His eyes found hers, a direct hit. The subtext hung heavy in the air between them: *You *.
The heat flushed her cheeks. It was a cheap shot, designed to remind her of their last argument, of the things he’d said when he thought she was being reckless, when he thought he knew better. He always thought he knew better.
She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to project an image of unyielding resolve . “To what do I owe the pleasure, Lucien? I’m busy.”
He retrieved a slim leather-bound notebook from an inside pocket and flipped it open with a practiced ease . “I have information you might find… pertinent. Regarding Evan.”
The name landed like a punch to the gut. Evan. Her abusive ex, the reason she’d fled Cardiff, the ghost she was still trying to outrun. Rory felt a cold dread creep up her spine. “What about him?” she managed, her voice suddenly tight .
Lucien paused, watching her reaction. It was a calculated move, designed to assert control, to prove he still held some sway over her emotions. “He’s asking questions.”
Her heart hammered against her ribs. “What kind of questions?”
“Pertinent ones. About your sudden disappearance. About your new life in London. He’s persistent, Aurora. More so than the average jilted lover.”
“He’s not a jilted lover, he’s a stalker,” Rory snapped, her cool façade cracking . “Why are you even looking into this? I left that behind.”
“Did you?” His gaze was piercing. “Or did it simply follow you?” He took a step closer, reducing the already small distance between them. The scent of him, that expensive cologne, intensified, wrapping around her . “My business, as you know, is information. I heard whispers, put two and two together. It seems your past is more tenacious than you anticipated.”
He was a half-demon, with connections in the darkest corners of London’s supernatural underworld. If he was digging, it wasn’t out of idleness. It was always for a price, or for reasons veiled in his own complex manipulations. But Evan… the thought of him finding her , of him being here, in *her * city, in *her * space, made her stomach clench.
“What do you want, Lucien?” She kept her voice even, despite the tremor in her hands she was desperately trying to conceal.
He leaned against a stacks of books, miraculously not toppling them. His finger traced the worn spine of an ancient grimoire. “Simply to offer my services, Aurora. Protection. And perhaps… an opportunity.”
“Protection from Evan?” She scoffed. “I don’t need you to rescue me. I did that myself.” She thought of their last fight, of him trying to control her choices, telling her who she could and couldn’t trust. He’d implied she was naive, that she couldn’t handle herself. The memory burned.
“Indeed, you are remarkably resilient,” he conceded, the corner of his mouth twitching . “But this situation, my dear, carries certain… implications. Implications that might draw unwanted attention. Attention from entities far more troublesome than a disgruntled human ex-boyfriend.” He pushed off the books, closing the distance again, until he was close enough that she could feel the faint warmth radiating from him. Close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his amber eye, the subtle curve of his lips.
“What entities?” she challenged, refusing to back down . Her heart beat a rapid tattoo against her ribs, a mixture of fear and something else, something she refused to name.
“You ’ve been exploring the edges of this city’s underbelly, haven’t you, Aurora?” His voice softened, became a silken whisper . “Yu-Fei Cheung’s Golden Empress. Silas’s bar. Eva’s… esoteric projects. You ’re not just delivering takeaways anymore, are you? It’s a dangerous game you’re playing, Rory.”
He knew too much. He always knew too much. And the way he said "Rory" this time, it was a caress, a reminder of the intimacy they’d once shared. Her mind flashed to his hands on her skin, the surprising gentleness beneath his polished exterior.
“I can handle myself,” she insisted, though her voice lacked conviction this time . She took a step back, needing space, needing to break the spell he was weaving around her . The air in the flat felt suddenly too thick, too charged .
Lucien’s gaze remained fixed on her , unwavering . “Perhaps. But a lone wolf often falls prey to the pack, no matter how sharp her teeth.” He gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug. “I am merely offering a partnership. My resources, my knowledge… for a small consideration, of course.”
“A small consideration? You don’t do anything for a ‘small consideration’,” she countered, her anger rekindling . “You always have an angle. You always want something.”
“Don’t we all, Aurora?” He let the silence stretch, loaded with unspoken history. The attraction between them, always a simmering ember, felt like it had just been doused with kerosene, flaring brighter and more dangerously than ever. All the hurt, all the anger, all the desperate longing from their complicated parting, swirled in the small cramped space.
“Just tell me the price, Moreau,” she said, her voice barely a whisper . She hated him for making her need him, for being the only one who seemed to truly understand the darkness that lurked beneath London’s surface. She hated him for being so infuriatingly attractive.
He regarded her for a long moment, his heterochromatic eyes searching hers, as if trying to decipher the complex calculus of her emotions . A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips, a genuine one this time, full of a knowing that both infuriated and thrilled her .
“Let’s just say,” Lucien murmured, his voice dropping, “that the initial consultation comes with a certain… understanding. A rekindling of old alliances. The price comes later. And it might not be what you expect.” He held her gaze, and in the depths of his mismatched eyes, she saw not just calculation, but a flicker of something far more complex: a yearning, a ghost of the connection that had once bound them. The unspoken words hung in the air , a challenge, a promise.
Rory swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that she was walking into a trap. But with Evan lurking, and Lucien offering a shield she couldn’t afford to refuse, she had little choice. The game had already begun.