AI The heavy knock vibrated through the floorboards, rattling the loose pane in the kitchen window. Rory jumped, nearly dropping the chipped mug of lukewarm tea she’d been nursing. Not Eva, then; Eva always tapped three short beats, a private Morse code from their Cardiff days. This was firm, impatient, someone who knew they’d be heard.
She stalked to the door, her old trainers silent on the worn rug. Moonlight, thin and watery, bled through the landing window, making the dust motes dance in the air. The faint, yeasty scent of Silas’s bar drifted up from below, a familiar comfort that now felt like an intrusion in this sudden, tense quiet. She didn’t bother asking who it was. If it was a stranger, she wouldn’t open it. If it was trouble, she’d know soon enough.
Her fingers curled around the cold brass knob. Three swift clicks of the deadbolts, one for each turn, echoed in the small space. She pulled the door inward, just a crack, ready to slam it shut.
Then she saw him.
Lucien Moreau.
He stood perfectly still on her landing, a dark silhouette against the muted glow of the hallway bulb. His tailored charcoal suit seemed to absorb the dim light, making him appear carved from shadow and smoke. Platinum blond hair, slicked back as always, shone almost white. His eyes, though. One amber, one black, they were a familiar , unsettling constellation that had haunted her sleep for weeks. He held his ivory-handled cane lightly in one gloved hand, its tip resting with unnatural grace on the scuffed linoleum.
“Rory,” he said, his voice a low thrum that sent a shiver straight down her spine . Not a question, but a statement, as if her appearance here, on her own doorstep , was merely confirmation of a fact he already knew.
Her breath hitched. She hadn't seen him since… since that night in Notting Hill, when the world had tilted on its axis and he’d slipped away like a ghost. She hadn’t expected to see him again, not like this, not on her turf. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs, a drumbeat of surprise and something else she refused to name.
“Lucien.” Her own voice sounded foreign, clipped, far too steady for the turmoil churning inside her . She widened the gap in the doorway fractionally, her grip tightening on the wood. “What are you doing here?”
A corner of his mouth tilted upwards, a movement so subtle it was barely a smile. It was more a recognition of her shock. “A pleasantry, perhaps? A duty call?” He didn’t elaborate, didn’t step forward, but his presence filled the small landing, electric and inescapable. The air thickened, suddenly humid around them.
She felt the old familiar heat bloom beneath her skin, a dangerous spark she’d worked hard to smother. His scent reached her then – fine tobacco, something musky and exotic, utterly Lucien. It was a scent that had once wrapped around her in the dark, whispered promises of danger and exhilaration. Now it felt like a trap.
“I think not,” she said, her bright blue eyes narrowed , scanning his face for any hint of vulnerability, any weakness. There was none. Only that cool, unreadable intensity . “You don’t do pleasantries. And your duties usually involve blood and secrets, not social calls.”
He chuckled, a low, melodic sound that seemed to snake its way through the crack in the door and settle in her chest . “Perceptive as ever, ma petite Irlandaise.” The old endearment, whispered in French, was a deliberate barb, a casual flick of a switch she’d thought irrevocably turned off. She felt the tell-tale rush of blood to her cheeks and hated him for it.
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, her knuckles white . She caught herself, forced her hand away from the doorframe, shoving it into the pocket of her worn jeans. Her left wrist, where the small crescent-shaped scar lay hidden, felt a phantom itch.
He finally moved, a slow, deliberate step forward that brought him closer to the threshold. He didn’t cross it, but the implied threat was clear. “You left rather abruptly, last time. I thought it only proper to return the favour.”
“I left because I had no choice,” she countered, her voice dropping . The memory of that desperate night, of shattered glass and a frantic dash through rain-slicked streets, flashed behind her eyes. He’d helped her , in his own, terrifying way, but the price had been too high. Or perhaps, she’d convinced herself it was.
“A choice is always present, Rory. Merely the options may be distasteful.” His eyes, amber and black, seemed to pin her in place. For a long moment, the only sound was the distant murmur of traffic and the faint clinking of glasses from Silas’s bar below.
She didn’t invite him in. She wouldn’t. But the flat behind her was a mess of half-eaten takeaway, research notes scattered like autumn leaves, and a worn armchair covered in laundry. And if he was here, it meant something had gone wrong. Something big.
“Why are you here, Lucien? Really.” She braced herself. Her cool-headed exterior was a fragile shield right now.
He gestured with the minimalist movement of his cane, indicating the narrow space inside her door. “May I come in? This conversation, I suspect, will be lengthy. And public thoroughfares, even quiet ones such as this, are ill-suited for… certain disclosures.”
The thought of letting him into her space, into this small haven she’d carved out for herself, was deeply unsettling. He was a predator , a wolf in the finest of wools, and she knew the bite of his teeth, the intoxicating warmth of his presence. Yet, he had a point. Whatever he wanted, it wasn’t for public consumption. And a part of her , the part that craved answers, that still remembered the way his lips felt on her skin, wanted to know. Against her better judgment, she swung the door wide.
He stepped inside, filling the small entryway. The scent of him followed, suddenly much stronger, more potent in the confined space. He paused, his gaze sweeping over the cluttered table where a half-finished crossword lay next to a stack of deliveries-to-be, then to the overflowing bookshelf crammed with legal thrillers and fantasy novels. No books on demonic lore, not like Eva’s flat. This was *her * space, messy and imperfect and stubbornly human.
“Charming,” he murmured, though his tone was devoid of judgment, merely an observation . He ran a gloved finger along the spine of a battered copy of *The Lord of the Rings *.
“It’s a flat, not a museum,” she retorted, already bristling. She shut the door, securing the three deadbolts with more force than necessary. The click-clack was loud in the sudden silence . “Now, out with it. Why are you here? Something’s happened, hasn’t it?”
He turned, facing her fully. The amber eye seemed to glow in the dim light, catching hers. “Always so direct, Rory. One of your more… compelling qualities.” He walked past her , his movements fluid and soundless despite the cane, and headed straight for her tiny living room. He didn’t take the armchair; instead, he settled on the edge of her small, two-seater sofa, a pristine island of expensive fabric in a sea of her everyday chaos. He looked utterly out of place, a dark king on a worn throne.
She remained standing in the doorway, arms crossed. “Don’t try to charm me, Lucien. It won’t work anymore.”
He tilted his head, a gesture of almost innocent curiosity. “Did it ever work?”
“For a little while,” she admitted, the words a bitter confession. “Before I realized what you were.” *What you truly were.* A creature of shadows and power, capable of inspiring both fear and a dangerous, undeniable desire . Her cheeks burned again.
He let out a soft sigh, almost theatrical. “And what precisely do you believe I am, Rory?”
“A demon,” she snarled, the word heavy with contempt and a lingering hurt. “Half-demon. Whatever you call yourself. A fixer with a taste for manipulation and a disregard for human feelings.”
His expression remained impassive, but the amber eye seemed to darken, a flash of something ancient and primal in its depths . “I am many things. But ‘disregard for human feelings’— I believe I demonstrated quite clearly that on at least one occasion, your feelings, specifically, were of significant import to me.”
Her heart gave another painful lurch . He was referring to her escape from Evan, the way he’d orchestrated it, the calculated brutality he’d employed to ensure she was safe. He hadn’t touched her , hadn’t so much as hinted at expectation, but he had removed an obstacle with terrifying efficiency. And in doing so, he had become another kind of threat entirely.
“Import is not the same as care,” she shot back, fighting to keep her voice level . “It was a transaction. You helped me, and I owed you . My debt is paid.”
He finally allowed a genuine smile to grace his lips, a slow, predatory curving that showed just a hint of teeth. It didn't reach his eyes. “Ah, yes, the debt. A fascinating concept, particularly in our line of business.” He leaned back carefully against the sofa cushion, the movement barely disturbing the worn fabric. “But there are… complications. A ripple effect, one might say.”
She felt a cold dread begin to prickle at her skin. “What kind of complications?”
“The kind that involve rather powerful individuals seeking to consolidate their influence. The kind that involve a certain artifact going missing. The kind that involves *you *.” He paused, allowing the gravity of his words to settle between them. “The entity you encountered during your… escape. It was not merely the brute henchman of a jilted lover.”
Rory’s mind raced , pulling back to that night. The creature Evan had sicced on her . She’d always assumed it was a particularly ugly, brutal gang member, another of Evan’s hired thugs. But Lucien’s men had dealt with it with an unusual grimness.
“What was it?” she whispered, a sudden, sickening realization dawning.
“An infernal familiar . And it leads to a rather influential circle, one not pleased by its… untimely retirement.” He laced his fingers together, his gaze unwavering . “They have connected you to its demise. And by extension, to mine.”
A wave of disbelief , then anger, washed over her . “Me? I just ran from the bloody thing! Who are these people?”
“They are not people, Rory. Not in the way you understand the term.” His voice dropped, losing its playful edge, becoming grave . “They are potent. Powerful. And they believe you are responsible for disrupting their plans. They are looking for you .”
The air in the room seemed to go frigid. Her carefully constructed life, her new anonymous existence in London, felt suddenly fragile, exposed. It was all a lie, a thin veneer over the terrifying truth of the supernatural world she found herself unwillingly caught in.
“And you ’re here to… warn me?” she asked, suspicion warring with a nascent fear .
“Partially. I am also here to ensure that their pursuit of you does not, shall we say, inconvenience my own operations. A mutual protection, if you will. You are a loose end, Rory. An unpredictable element in a very delicate equation.”
“So, you ’re not here because you care,” she stated, her voice flat, the hurt a dull ache beneath her ribs.
He met her gaze, his expression unreadable . “Define ‘care,’ Rory. Do I wish to see you harmed? No. Do I find your independent spirit… intriguing ? Undeniably. Do I require your continued, albeit unwitting, involvement in this unfolding drama? Emphatically, yes.”
He stood then, rising from the sofa with a fluid grace that was almost inhuman. He took a step towards her , then another, until he was close enough that she could feel the faint warmth radiating from him. Close enough that her breath hitched, that the world narrowed to the scent of him, the unsettling beauty of his mismatched eyes.
“The game has changed, *ma belle *,” he murmured, his voice a silken thread, dangerous and captivating . “And you , my reluctant protagonist, are very much still in play.” His hand, gloved and warm, reached out. For a moment, she thought he would touch her face, or perhaps her arm. The memory of his touch, light and possessive, flared. But he merely brushed a stray strand of her black hair away from her cheek, his fingers feather-light, before letting his hand drop. The contact was brief, almost imperceptible, yet it left a jolt, a current of awareness sparking through her .
Her breath caught in her throat. She wanted to push him away, to demand he leave, to scream at him for bringing this world to her doorstep again. But beneath the anger, beneath the fear, was the undeniable pull, the treacherous attraction to the very danger he embodied. She looked into his eyes, one amber, one black, and saw not just the fixer, not just the demon, but the man who, for one terrifying, exhilarating moment, had felt like a kindred spirit . And she knew, with a certainty that chillingly settled in her bones, that her debt to Lucien was far from paid. It had only just begun.