AI The latch clicked, the first of three deadbolts sliding back with a metallic groan. Rory Carter expected Eva, then. Always Eva. Her hands, usually quick and sure from years of delivering parcels, fumbled with the final lock. She pulled the door inward, ready with a breezy greeting, but the words died in her throat. Standing on the threshold, silhouetted against the dim communal hallway light, was Lucien Moreau.
Her breath hitched. It wasn't a soft intake; it was a sharp, arrested gasp. The worn floorboards of Eva’s cramped flat seemed to tilt. Lucien stood as always, impossibly neat. His platinum blond hair slicked back from his forehead, charcoal suit sharp enough to cut glass, the ivory handle of his cane gleaming softly . But his eyes – one the colour of warm amber, the other a void of black – held a stillness that pinned her. They scanned her, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings, then resettled on her face. A flicker, too quick to name, crossed his features.
"Rory." His voice. It was a low rumble, carrying the faint, sophisticated lilt of far-off lands she’d only glimpsed on delivery routes. It had been years. Too many years.
She took a step back, her hand instinctively going to the crescent scar hidden on her left wrist, a ghost of a childhood fall she hadn't thought about in ages. "Lucien. What… how did you find me?" Her voice was a rough whisper , betrayal and surprise warring within her. This was Eva’s place. Safe. Or it was supposed to be.
He didn’t step forward, respecting the invisible line she’d drawn. He simply inclined his head. “London isn’t as large as you might hope, Aurora.” He used her full name, the formal address a deliberate reminder of their past and, perhaps, the distance he felt between them now.
She gripped the doorframe, knuckles white. "You shouldn't be here." The words came out colder than she intended, a shield forged from old hurts and present anxieties. The last time she saw him, everything had been a tangled mess of unspoken words and bitter endings. She’d fled Cardiff, fled Evan, fled the ghost of what she’d thought love might be, and landed in London with Eva’s help. Lucien had been part of the world she’d desperately tried to outrun.
A faint shadow touched his lips, not quite a smile . "And yet, here I am." He gestured with his cane towards the interior of the flat. "May I?"
Eva’s flat. Cramped. Overflowing. A sanctuary of paper and ink. The air perpetually thick with the scent of old paper, dust, and the faint, spicy aroma that seeped up from the curry house below. It was a far cry from whatever polished domains he usually inhabited. She hesitated, her mind racing through a dozen reasons to slam the door shut, but the sight of him, so solid and unexpected, rooted her. She finally stepped aside, leaving the doorway open, an invitation she immediately regretted.
He entered with a quiet grace that seemed to absorb the room's accumulated chaos . He moved past her, his tailored suit a stark contrast to the overflowing bookshelves that lined the walls, scrolls spilling from precariously stacked paperbacks, research notes pinned to every available inch of plaster. A tabby cat, Ptolemy, uncurled from a patch of weak sunlight on the rug, stretched languidly , then eyed Lucien with narrowed, unimpressed green eyes before retreating to a higher perch amidst Eva’s textual Everest.
Rory watched him, her back now to the door. She could still feel the phantom pressure of its weight , the urge to bolt. Lucien’s gaze swept over the room, a silent, appreciative survey of Eva’s obsessive scholarship. It was the sort of thing he might do, assessing a mark or a treasure.
"She's still at it, then?" he murmured, his eyes finally returning to Rory . "Still chasing shadows in forgotten scripts?"
"Eva’s brilliant," Rory said, her voice regaining some of its usual crispness, a defence mechanism. "She uncovers things others miss."
"No doubt. She always did have a flair for the… obscure." His gaze lingered, a subtle assessment that made Rory acutely aware of her worn jeans and the faint smudge of grease on her cheek from the earlier delivery run. He looked like a creature of polished marble dropped into a dust-filled attic.
"And you?" she challenged, crossing her arms. "What brings the esteemed fixer to Brick Lane? Looking for lost artefacts hiding amongst Eva’s incunabula?" Her attempt at a light tone fell flat, brittle.
Lucien turned his full attention to her then. The heterochromatic eyes seemed to pierce right through her defences. “I was looking for you, Rory.” He let the statement hang, heavy with implications. The air between them thickened, charged with years of silence and the raw, undeniable hum of attraction that had always simmered beneath the surface, even as their interactions dissolved into acrimony.
Rory’s jaw tightened. “You found me. Congratulations. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She made a move towards the door, a clear dismissal.
Lucien’s hand shot out, not to grab, but to rest his ivory cane on the floorboards an inch from her path. The gesture was purely symbolic, a statement of presence. “I thought we might talk. Properly. Uninterrupted.”
"We had our chance to talk. We ran out of road years ago." She met his gaze, a challenge. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The hurt was a dull ache, yes, but beneath it, the old, dangerous spark flared, a heat she’d sworn to extinguish.
He offered that half-smile again, the one that never quite reached his eyes. “Perhaps you ran out of road. I merely took a different route.” His eyes flickered to her left wrist, a flicker that made her skin prickle. He hadn’t missed a thing. "Did you leave Cardiff with nothing but the clothes on your back and a few good friends?"
Rory flinched. The question, so loaded, so direct, struck a nerve. She had fled Evan, fled the suffocating pressure of her father’s expectations, and now Lucien was here, dredging it all up. "What do you want, Lucien?" Her voice was tight, strained. The room suddenly felt suffocatingly small. Ptolemy shifted on his perch, a soft, inquisitive meow.
He finally took a slow step forward, his gaze never leaving hers, weaving through the precarious stacks of books and scrolls that separated them. He stopped just beyond the edge of the rug, close enough that she could detect the subtle, proprietary scent of expensive cologne beneath the general mustiness of Eva’s flat. "I have information. Information that concerns you. Information you need to hear."
"Information? About what? My ex? My career as a delivery driver? The fact that I pay rent above a pub?" She laughed, a short, sharp sound devoid of humour. "I thought you dealt in bigger things, Luc." The old nickname slipped out, a slip of the tongue she immediately regretted .
His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. He leaned on his cane, a picture of controlled impatience. “The world you’re trying to build, Rory, is built on foundations you don’t fully understand. And those foundations are cracking.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “Evan wasn't just some bloke with a temper. And the people who came looking for you after he couldn’t find you… they aren't going to give up.”
Rory felt a cold dread seep into her bones. She pushed the thought of Evan away, a dark chapter she’d fought hard to close. But Lucien knew things. He always knew things. “Who are you talking about?”
He straightened, his expression unreadable . “People who have a vested interest in your particular heritage. Aurora Carter. Malphora.”
The name hung in the air , heavy and alien. Malphora. A name whispered in hushed tones by Eva, a name ripped from ancient texts. Rory recoiled as if struck. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't you?" His gaze was intense, challenging. He took another step, closing the remaining distance until he stood directly before her, the clutter of Eva's life forming a bizarre barrier between them. She could see the faint pulse beating in his throat, the sharp line of his jaw. The attraction, that old, unwelcome current, surged, battling with the fear and resentment.
"You ran, Rory. You ran from Cardiff, from Evan, from the life they expected you to lead. You thought you could disappear into anonymity, delivering parcels and living above a pub. But some things, once awakened, cannot be easily silenced or ignored." He reached out, his fingers hovering inches from her face, a gesture of possessiveness her mind screamed against, yet her body remained frozen. His thumb brushed a stray strand of black hair from her cheek, his touch both feather-light and searingly intimate. Her entire body hummed with the contact. She forgot to breathe. The air crackled.
"They know you're here, Rory," he said, his voice dropping to a low, resonant tone that vibrated deep within her. "And they know what you are. And I," he paused, his amber eye meeting her bright blue, "am here to warn you. Or perhaps," his black eye seemed to glint with something more, something ancient and dangerous, "to offer you protection."