AI The sharp rap on the door ripped Rory from her concentration. Pages of Eva’s scrawled notes on lesser demons seemed to shimmer for a moment before her bright blue eyes refocused. She pushed a stray strand of black hair behind her ear, her brow furrowed . Eva wasn’t due back for hours, and no one else knew she was even here, holed up in the cramped Brick Lane flat, surrounded by the intoxicating scent of curry from the restaurant below and the faint must of forgotten paper.
Another knock, louder this time, more insistent. She rose from the floor, careful not to disturb the precarious stack of occult texts beside her . Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, uncurled from a nest of parchment and stretched, giving Rory a baleful stare as if she ’d personally interrupted his nap. Rory moved toward the door, her hand instinctively going to one of the three deadbolts, not to slide it, but to feel its reassuring weight . A shiver, not of fear, but of an odd premonition, prickled her skin .
She peered through the peephole. All she saw was tailored charcoal fabric and a gleam of platinum blond. Her breath hitched.
No . It couldn't be.
Her fingers fumbled with the locks, sliding each one back with a soft thud. When the final bolt yielded, she pulled the door inward, inch by reluctant inch.
Lucien Moreau stood on the threshold.
He looked exactly as she remembered, and utterly unlike anyone else on Earth. His slicked-back platinum blond hair caught the dim light of the landing, a stark contrast to the tailored charcoal suit that fit him with impossible precision. His heterochromatic eyes, one amber, one an abyss of black, fixed on her , assessing. A faint smile, that dangerous, charming curve of his lips, played at the corner of his mouth. He leaned gently on an ivory-handled cane, its polish glinting .
A sharp, electric shock jolted through Rory. Her cool-headed exterior threatened to shatter. *Lucien.* Here. Now. After everything.
"Rory," he said, his voice a low, resonant rumble, the faint lilt of his French accent as familiar and unsettling as a half-remembered dream. "Good evening."
"Lucien," she managed, her voice steadier than she felt. A lie. Her heart hammered against her ribs, echoing the rhythm of a distant memory: the way his fingers had brushed hers, the shared glance over a crowded room. "What are you doing here?"
He gestured vaguely with his cane, the ivory handle catching the light. "I was in the neighborhood. And it occurred to me that we hadn't spoken in some time." His eyes, those mismatched windows to whatever world he truly inhabited, held hers. An unspoken question, a challenge.
The scent of him, expensive cologne mixed with something subtle and smoky, invaded her senses, overwhelming the curry. It brought back a flood of half-repressed feelings: annoyance, hurt, a burning curiosity, and, worst of all, a visceral, undeniable attraction.
Rory felt the familiar tightening in her stomach , an old wound flaring. She’d fled one kind of entanglement to London, only to find herself drawn into another, more exotic kind. And Lucien was at the heart of it.
"The neighborhood?" she scoffed, a brittle edge to her voice. "This is Brick Lane, Lucien. Your 'neighborhood' typically involves discreet cafes off Whitehall or private auction houses in Mayfair, not the smell of bhuna chicken and cheap lager."
He chuckled softly, a sound that grated and thrilled her simultaneously. "One must expand one's horizons, no? May I… step inside?" His gaze flickered past her shoulder, taking in the chaotic tapestry of Eva’s life: the leaning towers of books, the maps tacked haphazardly to the wall, the faint glow of a salt lamp casting long shadows.
Rory hesitated, her mind racing . Every intelligent, rational part of her screamed *No *. He was trouble, a complication she didn't need, didn't want. But a deeper, more primal part, the part that remembered his whispered confidences and the fleeting warmth of his presence, nudged her to yield. Besides, she was standing in the doorway like a bouncer, and that felt… childish.
She stepped back, allowing him enough space to enter. The cramped hallway, already cluttered with Eva's ever-present research, felt impossibly smaller with Lucien's imposing presence. He moved with an economical grace that bordered on unnerving, his cane tapping softly on the worn floorboards. Ptolemy, sensing a new, interesting creature, rubbed against Lucien’s immaculate trouser-leg. Lucien glanced down, a hint of something soft entering his usually guarded gaze before it vanished.
"Ptolemy," he murmured, actually bending slightly to offer a gloved finger for the cat to sniff. Ptolemy, ever the opportunist, immediately began purring, head-butting Lucien's hand.
Rory watched, a strange ache in her chest. He was good with animals. He was good at playing the part. She’d forgotten that. Or perhaps, she ’d tried to .
"So," Rory began, folding her arms across her chest, feeling a sudden need for armor. Her own clothes, a worn denim jacket over a comfortable t-shirt, felt utterly inadequate next to his flawless tailoring. "To what do I owe the… unexpected pleasure?" The sarcasm was thick enough to cut with a spoon.
He straightened, his amber eye meeting her bright blue. "Always so direct, Aurora." He used her full name, a subtle reminder of their past, of the intimacy they’d shared, however brief, however fraught. It was a jab, subtle but effective. Rory felt a familiar heat rise in her cheeks.
"It’s Rory to my friends," she retorted, her voice sharp. "And I don't recall us parting on particularly friendly terms."
He inclined his head, a gesture of faux contrition that only fueled her anger. "A regrettable misunderstanding, perhaps."
"Misunderstanding?" Rory laughed, a short, sharp sound devoid of humor. "You vanished, Lucien. Poof. Like smoke. Said you had 'pressing business' and then I didn't hear from you for weeks, not even a text message, until I almost got myself killed in a sewer filled with rogue sprites." Her explanation was truncated , a mere whisper of the actual catastrophe, but the hurt was real, raw. The crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a childhood mishap, suddenly felt too prominent, too exposed.
His expression remained unreadable , but the subtle tightening of his jaw was visible. "My business is often… sensitive, Rory. Dangerous. I did not wish to involve you further."
"Oh, so it was for my own good?" She clenched her fists , her quick-thinking mind already running through a dozen scenarios, none of which involved him actually caring about her well-being. "That's convenient. And extremely patronizing."
He took another step into the room, past the threshold, and the air around her seemed to thicken, charged with unspoken words. He moved towards a haphazard stack of books, his hand reaching out, then pulling back. "I received word from mutual acquaintances that you were… here. And I had information."
"Information?" Rory scoffed. "You came all this way, to Eva's cramped flat above a curry house, to deliver information? You couldn't have sent a raven? An encrypted message? Considering your usual methods."
Lucien simply watched her , those piercing, mismatched eyes seeing too much, dissecting every reaction. "I felt a personal visit was warranted."
His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered, then rose to her eyes again. The air crackled. She remembered the heat of his lips, the unexpected tenderness of his touch. He was half-demon, dangerous, but there had been a softness in him, just for her , that had disarmed her completely . And then he’d ripped it away.
"Warranted for what, exactly?" she challenged, desperate to break the spell, to push him away. "To explain why you suddenly reappeared now? Or to see if I'd moved on?"
A faint flicker of something undefinable crossed his features – surprise? Hurt? – before he smoothed it away. “Perhaps a little of both.” His voice was softer now, devoid of the earlier easy charm . “I… regret our abrupt parting. I truly did not mean to cause you distress.”
Distress? That was an understatement. She’d been furious, confused, and then devastatingly lonely. All intertwined with the very real dangers of her new life.
"Distress is a polite word for it, Lucien," she said, her voice now dangerously quiet. "You left a mess, not just between us, but in the situation I was dealing with . I had to clean it up myself, while wondering if you were even alive."
He took another step, closer now. Too close. She could feel the faint warmth radiating from him, smell the trace of expensive tobacco on his clothes, mingling with his cologne. Her gaze fell to his hand resting on the ivory handle of his cane, remembering the thin blade concealed within it. A weapon, hidden in plain sight, just like him.
"I acted as I believed was best," he said, his voice low, almost a whisper . "To protect you from my world."
"And you decided for me?" Rory snapped, her anger finally breaking free of its carefully constructed cage . "You decided what I could and couldn't handle? What I wanted to know? I'm not some damsel in distress, Lucien. I'm capable. I have a brain, and I use it. And you, of all people, should know that."
She knew his methods were often about control, about information being power, about keeping things close to the chest. But with *her *? It had felt like a betrayal .
He said nothing, just studied her face, his gaze intense, unwavering . It was infuriating. She wanted him to argue, to deny, to explain. But he simply stood there, absorbing her words, letting them hang in the air between them like fragile glass.
"I may have miscalculated," he finally admitted, his tone surprisingly soft, almost contrite . "I forgot… how resilient you are. How stubborn." A ghost of a smile touched his lips then, a real one, and it sent a rogue shiver down her spine . The old attraction was a live wire, humming in the sudden stillness.
"Stubbornness got me through Cardiff, Lucien," she shot back, fighting the unexpected pull. "And it got me through Evan. I don't need protecting. Not from you, and certainly not *by * you in some misguided, secretive way."
He took another step, closing the distance between them until he was almost within touching distance. She could see the flecks of gold in his amber eye, the impossible depth of the black. Her breath hitched.
"Perhaps," he murmured, his voice dropping to a seductive register that bypassed her rational brain entirely and went straight for her pulse . "Perhaps what I truly sought to protect was myself. From… this." His gaze drifted over her face, her hair, then settled on her lips.
Rory felt her own lips part, a silent gasp. The meaning was clear. He had walked away, not just to protect her, but because *she* affected him . Because she was a vulnerability. The thought, while ego-boosting, did little to soothe the sting of abandonment.
"That's a coward's excuse," she whispered, though her voice lacked its earlier bite. A strange heat bloomed in her stomach , spreading outward.
"Perhaps," he agreed, to her surprise. He reached out, slowly , his gloved hand hovering inches from her cheek. "I am not always as brave as I appear, Rory. Especially when it comes to you." His eyes, normally so unreadable , were filled with a raw, undeniable longing.
Her heart hammered, a frantic drum against her ribs. She wanted to slap his hand away, to push him back, to maintain her anger, her hurt. But she couldn't. She was frozen in place, mesmerized by his gaze, by the sheer audacity of his confession. The attraction, the history, the things left unsaid – they all converged in this moment, an almost unbearable pressure.
"What do you want, Lucien?" she finally managed, her voice barely a whisper , a plea more than a demand.
His hand closed around her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheekbone, incredibly gentle. Her eyes fluttered closed for a brief second, savoring the unexpected touch. When she opened them, his face was impossibly close.
"To finish what we started," he breathed, his voice a low, dangerous growl . "And to make amends."
His head dipped, slowly , asking, not demanding. Rory’s cool head screamed caution, screamed *run *. But her body, starved of his presence for so long, leaned in. She closed the distance, her lips meeting his in a desperate, complicated dance of forgiveness and longing. It was a kiss that tasted of regret, of unspoken promises, and of a dangerous, undeniable future.