AI The insistent rapping on the door startled Rory, making her drop the worn leather-bound tome she’d been attempting to decipher. It landed with a soft thump on a precarious stack of scrolls, sending Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, scattering from his perch atop a precarious tower of occult texts. The cat hissed, a low, guttural protest, before vanishing under the sofa.
“Bloody hell,” Rory grumbled, running a hand through her shoulder-length black hair. Eva was out. It had to be a delivery mix-up, or one of Eva’s more persistent (and less sane) contacts. She pushed off the armrest of the threadbare armchair, navigating the labyrinth of books, research notes, and half-empty mugs that littered Eva’s cramped Brick Lane flat. The air hung thick with the scent of old paper and the lingering spice of the curry house below.
She reached the door, fumbling with the three deadbolts. The locks clicked, one, two, three, a series of metallic snicks that usually preceded an innocuous face or a frantic whisper . What greeted her instead was anything but.
Lucien Moreau stood on the landing, framed by the pale light of the corridor. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, sharp as a winter’s night, the fabric falling perfectly over his lean frame. His platinum blond hair was slicked back, catching the light like spun moonlight. Rory’s bright blue eyes, usually quick to assess, widened imperceptibly. One of his eyes, she recalled, was pure amber, the other a startling, unyielding black – a demon’s mark. They narrowed slightly as they met hers, an unreadable depth in their depths .
He held his ivory-handled cane loosely in one hand, its silver wolf's head gleaming . He didn’t lean on it, not yet, but his posture held the coiled readiness of a predator . He looked utterly out of place on such a humble landing, like a diamond accidentally dropped into a puddle.
Silence stretched between them, thick and fraught, punctuated only by the distant thrum of traffic and the faint aroma of garam masala wafting up from downstairs. Rory felt a familiar jolt, a current of awareness that bypassed her logical brain and went straight for her gut. It had been months. Too many.
“Rory,” he said, his voice a low, smooth cadence, like expensive whiskey poured over ice. It held the faintest trace of a French accent, a memory of soft nights and dangerous whispers.
She just stared, her mouth a fraction open. Her mind raced, cataloguing the unexpected arrival, the memories it dredged up. The last time she’d seen him, they'd parted on… complicated terms. A silent agreement to let sleeping dogs lie, or perhaps, to let wounded hearts mend in solitude. Clearly, those dogs were awake now, barking at her door.
“Lucien,” she finally managed, her voice rougher than she intended, a little breathless. She hadn’t prepared for this. Not for the sight of him, not for the way her stomach tightened, or the unwelcome warmth that spread through her veins. He smelled of something expensive and masculine – sandalwood, perhaps, and a hint of something metallic, elemental.
“May I come in?” he asked, his gaze unwavering . It was less a question, more a polite demand, a courtesy extended before an inevitable action.
She hesitated, her cool-headed intelligence warring with a sudden, confusing rush of feeling. Every instinct screamed caution. Every other, more visceral part, found itself simply wanting him closer. “What… what do you want?”
He offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “To speak with you, *ma chérie *.” He used the endearment, a relic from their past, and Rory felt a flush creep up her neck. It was a calculated move, she knew, designed to disarm, to pierce through her carefully constructed defenses. It worked.
“It’s late,” she said, even though the clock on the wall inside read only just past eight.
“For some,” he conceded, the corner of his mouth twitching . “But you, I suspect, have only just begun your evening’s duties.” His eyes flickered to the stacks of books in the flat behind her, a knowing glint in their depths . He knew her, or at least, the version of her that existed in this new life, tethered to Eva’s frantic research.
She sighed, a frustrated puff of air. The cold air from the landing was seeping in. She couldn’t just leave him standing there, not Lucien Moreau, not with the history between them , however thorny. “Fine,” she clipped, stepping back and pulling the door open wider. “But make it quick.”
He moved with a fluid grace that belied the cane he carried. One step, and he was across the threshold, filling the small space with his presence. He took in the chaos of Eva’s flat, his gaze sweeping over the books, the scrolls, the arcane symbols daubed on a whiteboard near the window. He didn’t sneer, didn’t comment, an admirable feat considering the contrast to his own ordered, immaculate existence.
Ptolemy, emboldened by the relative quiet, peered out from under the sofa, his green eyes fixated on the newcomer. Lucien’s gaze softened almost imperceptibly as he spotted the cat. “*Chat noir *,” he murmured, a hint of genuine affection in his tone . Rory knew he had a soft spot for animals, another incongruous detail in the portrait of the ruthless fixer.
She closed the door, bolting it instinctively. Three clicks. The sound felt absurdly loud in the sudden intimacy of the flat. She turned, facing him, feeling suddenly dwarfed by his height, by the sheer force of his presence. He stood a good five inches taller than her 5’6”, and every inch of him exuded a quiet power.
“To what do I owe the… unexpected pleasure?” she asked, crossing her arms, trying to inject some of her usual cool-headedness into her tone. It was a struggle. His eyes, the amber and the black, seemed to bore into her, stripping away her composure layer by layer. She remembered the warmth of their touch, the taste of his lips, the sudden, fierce despair when he’d vanished without a word.
“Pleasure is a strong word, Rory,” he said, his voice dropping an octave . He took a subtle step closer, and her breath hitched. The air between them crackled. “I need your help.”
Her help. That was it. She should have known. Lucien never did anything without a purpose. A thread of something akin to hurt twisted in her gut, a familiar ache. “My help?” she repeated, feigning indifference. “I’m a delivery driver, Lucien. And a reluctant research assistant. I don’t think I’m in your usual purview of… 'fixer' services.”
His eyes held hers, unwavering . “There are certain situations where your unique perspective, your… out-of-the-box thinking, might prove invaluable. And Eva, of course, has a certain… expertise.” He glanced around the flat, encompassing the organised chaos.
“Eva’s not here,” Rory stated, too quickly . “She’s at a… an academic conference. In Birmingham.” It was a lie. Eva was simply out, chasing down some obscure ritual ingredient.
Lucien’s gaze sharpened. A flicker of amusement , or perhaps something darker, played around his mouth. “Indeed. Which leaves you. Alone.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement that carried a weight , an unstated suggestion that made her skin tingle.
She bristled. “I’m hardly alone. Ptolemy is excellent company.” The cat, as if on cue, let out a tiny, inquisitive meow from under the sofa.
He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that reverberated through her. “As I’m sure he is. Nevertheless, I find myself in need of a mind unburdened by… expectations.” He paused, then added, “And unburdened by association with certain less savoury individuals within this city’s subculture.”
Her own experience with ‘less savoury individuals’ was expanding by the day, thanks to Eva’s work and her own reluctant entry into London’s supernatural underworld. She thought of the creatures she’d dodged, the ancient curses she’d helped unravel . But Lucien was right; she was still an outsider, a relative newcomer. That gave her an edge.
“And what’s in it for me?” she challenged, regaining some composure. She wasn’t going to roll over for him. Not after everything. “Aside from the… pleasure of your charming company, of course.” The sarcasm was heavy in her voice.
He tilted his head slightly , a movement that was both elegant and unnervingly predatory. “What would you ask for, Rory? Information? Protection? A favour, perhaps, in return for your assistance?” His voice was gentle now, persuasive, laced with a familiar intimacy that made her stomach clench. He knew her weakness, her capacity for empathy, but also her shrewdness.
Her gaze fell to his left wrist, and she unconsciously touched her own, tracing the small crescent-shaped scar there. A childhood accident, a reminder of a life far removed from this. Lucien had a scar, too, she recalled, though she couldn’t remember where. He was a man made of scars, visible and invisible.
“Does it involve bloodshed?” she asked, looking back up at him. She was no stranger to it, but she preferred to avoid it if possible.
“Not directly, no. It involves… negotiation. Leverage. A very old debt.” His mouth flattened into a grim line, hinting at the true stakes. “And if it is not resolved , the consequences will be… far-reaching.”
She studied him, searching for the tell-tale signs of manipulation. Lucien was a master of it. But there was a genuine urgency in his amber and black eyes now, a flicker of something she recognised as concern, perhaps even fear. Or maybe it was just a trick of the light, playing on her own rekindled feelings.
“You haven’t even told me what it is,” she pointed out, still resisting. She needed details. She needed control.
“A prominent artefact has gone missing. One that holds immense power. It was stolen from a mutual acquaintance. An acquaintance who is now… most displeased.” He didn’t elaborate, but the implication was clear: powerful entity, dangerous wrath.
“Who?”
He hesitated, a rare moment of uncertainty from him. “A man named Kael. An Elder from the Coven of the Obsidian Mirror.”
Rory’s eyes widened again. Kael. The name alone sent shivers down her spine. He was one of the true ancients, feared even by the most powerful figures in London’s magical underbelly. If Kael was involved , this was serious. This was beyond ‘fixer’ territory; this was a war that needed to be averted.
“Bloody hell, Lucien. Kael? You’re in deep.”
He gave a wry, almost self-deprecating shrug. “Deeper than I might prefer, perhaps.” He shifted his weight , and the ivory-handled cane clicked softly on the floorboards. “But you, with your knack for seeing patterns where others see only chaos, and your… unique ability to blend into the shadows where others would be seen. I believe you could be invaluable.”
He was appealing to her strengths, her ego. He knew precisely how to talk to her. The manipulator’s touch. And yet, she felt a pull to his words, a recognition of her own capabilities.
“What if I say no?” she asked, testing the waters.
He took another step closer, closing the distance between them until he was almost within touching range. She could feel the faint warmth radiating from him, the subtle shift in the air. His scent, that heady mix of sandalwood and something sharper, filled her senses.
“Then I leave,” he said, his voice losing its persuasive edge, becoming softer, more intimate . His gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth, lingering there for a fraction of a second. “And you continue your life, free of this complication.” He paused, then added, “But I suspect you would regret that.”
His meaning was clear, layered. He wasn’t just talking about the missing artefact. He was talking about *them *. About the unfinished business hanging between them like a fragile spiderweb.
Rory swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. The air in the cramped flat felt heavy, charged . She could hear her own pulse beating a frantic rhythm against her ribs. He was so close. Close enough for her to see the intricate flecks of gold in his amber eye, the deep, fathomless abyss of the black. Close enough to remember the pressure of his hand against the small of her back, the way his lips tasted of mint and danger.
“Why me?” she whispered, the question escaping before she could filter it . “Why now, after all this time?”
His hand, surprisingly gentle, reached out and brushed a stray strand of black hair from her cheek. His touch sent a shiver through her, both unwelcome and intensely pleasurable. “Because,” he said, his voice barely a murmur, his thumb stroking softly against her skin, “I discovered that I missed your particular brand of chaos, Rory Carter. And because some debts, they are not only to Kael.”
He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to. The unsaid words hung in the air : *I missed you. I regret leaving.* The unspoken confessions were a silent testament to the tangled knot of emotion between them . Her breath hitched. The hurt was still there, a dull ache, but it was now interlaced with something else, something potent and undeniable.
She closed her eyes for a fleeting second, grappling with the sudden rush of attraction, the old wounds, and the terrifying prospect of wading back into Lucien’s dangerous, intoxicating world. When she opened them , his face was impossibly close. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her lips.
“Give me one good reason,” she said, her voice barely audible, trying one last time to regain some footing.
His eyes, those impossibly contrasting eyes, held hers. He didn’t provide a logical argument. Instead, without a word, he leaned down, and his lips met hers. It was a soft, hesitant kiss at first, a question more than a demand. A tentative exploration of a path long abandoned. Rory’s arms, almost without conscious thought, went around his neck, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, a hungry, desperate reunion. All the hurt, all the anger, all the desperate longing that had festered in the silence , poured into that single, electric moment. The past few months, the complicated terms, the unresolved questions – they all coalesced into this one undeniable, dangerous truth.
When they finally broke apart, breathless, Lucien’s amber and black eyes were shining with an emotion she hadn’t seen there before. Raw. Vulnerable.
“That,” he murmured against her temple, his voice thick, “is one reason.”
She rested her forehead against his chest, her heart hammering. The scent of him, the feel of him, was overwhelming. She had tried to deny it, to bury it, but it had always been there, beneath the surface. And now, he had resurrected it with a single kiss.
“Fine,” she breathed, finally pulling away slightly , though her hands remained on his shoulders. Her mind, usually so clear, felt like a fog. “Tell me everything.” She met his gaze, a dangerous resolve setting in. “And then, we’ll talk about Kael.”