AI The solid oak door swung inward, revealing Lucien. Rory froze, her hand still resting on the cool metal knob. He stood framed against the dim landing, a figure carved from shadow and sharp angles. His tailored charcoal suit, always immaculate, seemed to absorb the meagre light, making his platinum blond hair gleam almost impossibly bright. One amber eye, then the black, tracked her with an unnerving precision. He held his ivory-handled cane, its ornate handle a smooth curve against his palm, barely leaning on it.
A hollow space opened in her chest. Not just surprise, but a sudden, sharp ache that had long since become a dull throb . Months had passed since their last encounter , since he had simply… vanished.
“Lucien.” Her voice left her throat a dry whisper , a sound she hardly recognized as her own. She recovered, hardening her tone. “What d’you want?”
A faint, almost imperceptible tilt of his head. A ghost of a smile touched the corner of his mouth, a gesture that always felt more like a challenge than amusement. “Is that how you greet old associates, Rory?”
“We’re not ‘associates’.” She pushed the door wider, a silent invitation, more a challenge than hospitality. She hated that he saw her like this, dressed in comfortable sweats and an old Cardiff University hoodie, her shoulder-length black hair pulled into a messy knot. She closed the door behind him, the heavy thud echoing in the small hallway of her flat. “Not anymore.”
He stepped across the threshold, bringing with him the faint scent of expensive cologne and something else—something sharp, electric , a whiff of the supernatural world he inhabited. His gaze swept over the cramped space, taking in the overflowing bookshelf, the discarded takeaway cartons on the coffee table, the general disarray of a life lived, unbothered by appearances. His eyes, those mismatched windows to whatever dark magic pulsed inside him, lingered on her for a fraction too long.
“My apologies. I should have called.” He moved deeper into the room, his movements fluid, silent. His cane tapped softly on the wooden floorboards. “Though I doubt you would have answered.”
“You think?” She crossed her arms, a shield against the sudden chill his presence brought. “After you ghosted me for three months? Left me hanging after everything that happened? You really think I’d just pick up a call from ‘Lucien Moreau’?”
His gaze found the smallrescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a faint line almost hidden by the sleeve of her hoodie. He looked away just as quickly , his expression unreadable . “I had… matters to attend to.”
“Matters ?” A bitter laugh escaped her. “_Matters_? That’s what you call it? One minute we ’re facing down a vengeful spirit, the next you’re gone. Poof. Like you never existed. Like _we_ never existed.”
He finally stopped, turning to face her fully, his back to the window overlooking the street below. He looked impossibly tall, his tailored suit a stark contrast to her casual attire. The light from the window cast strange shadows over his face, making his features sharper, more angular. He remained silent, allowing her words to hang in the air, weighted with frustration and lingering pain.
“I spent weeks wondering if you were dead,” Rory continued, her voice rising now, losing its careful control . “Or worse. If I’d done something. Called you too much. Expected too much. And then I just stopped.” She swallowed, her throat tight . “I just stopped caring eventually.”
His head tilted again, a dangerous glint in his black eye. “Did you, now?” The words were soft, yet they carried a surprising edge, a challenge to her claim.
“What else was I supposed to do?” She gestured helplessly around her small flat. “Sit around forever, waiting for a text that never comes? You made your choice, Lucien. You walked away.”
“Sometimes, walking away is a necessity. For the safety of all involved.”
“That’s an excuse,” she snapped, taking a step closer, irritation getting the better of her. “That’s what you say when you don’t want to explain yourself. When you don’t want to deal with the consequences.”
He shifted his weight , his eyes darkening. “And what precisely are the consequences you believe I should be dealing with?”
“The consequence of making me worry. Of leaving me in the lurch . Of making me feel like an idiot for trusting you.” She met his gaze squarely, refusing to back down. The attraction, a potent, volatile force, still simmered beneath the surface, a dangerous current pulling at them both despite the wall of hurt she had carefully constructed . “The consequence of making me… care.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper on the last word, the admission an accidental crack in her armour.
Lucien took a slow breath, his chest expanding under the charcoal fabric of his jacket. His hand tightened imperceptibly on the cane’s handle. “Rory.” His voice, usually so smooth and controlled, carried a tremor she had never heard before. “I never intended to cause you distress.”
“Distress hardly covers it,” she scoffed, though the tremor in his voice had unsettled her. “You don’t just vanish after the kind of… intensity we shared. Not without a word. Not without a damn good reason.” She paused, the anger momentarily overshadowed by a sudden, aching curiosity . “So, tell me. What was it? What was so important that you couldn’t spare a single text? A ‘sorry, gotta go, be back in three months’?”
He lowered his gaze, studying the polished tip of his shoe for a moment, an unusual display of hesitation. When he looked up, his expression was veiled , almost regretful. “It was not a situation that permitted communication. And you… you were in enough danger as it was.”
“Danger?” She laughed, a short, sharp sound. “I’m always in danger around you, Lucien. That’s just part of the package, isn’t it? The fixer, the half-demon, the man who deals with things from places I can barely imagine. I signed up for that. Not for the radio silence .” She pushed her hands through her hair, frustration coiling in her gut. “You could have trusted me.”
“Trust,” he repeated, the word a soft murmur. He took a step towards her, and she instinctively held her ground, a part of her wanting him closer, another screaming for him to stay away. “Sometimes, trust dictates distance, Rory. It dictates a temporary separation to ensure a permanent well-being.”
“That sounds like something you’d read in a self-help book for emotionally stunted demons,” she retorted, a flicker of her usual sharp wit returning . “If you cared about my well-being, you’d have told me what was going on. You’d have given me an option. Not just pulled the plug.”
His eyes, those fascinating pools of amber and black, seemed to bore into hers, searching, assessing. “There was no option. Not one I could afford to give you at the time.”
“Afford to give me?” Her voice rose again. “What, was it too expensive? Did it cost too much of your precious time away from your shadowy business dealings?”
“It cost too much risk,” he stated, his voice now firm, but a tension tightened his jaw. “Too much danger to you. To… to everything.” His gaze dropped to her lips for a fleeting second, then snapped back to her eyes.
The air between them thickened, charged with the unspoken words, the lingering questions, the undeniable pull that had always existed. Rory felt her cheeks flush, a warmth spreading through her veins despite her anger. She hated that he could still make her feel this way, even after everything.
“So you just decided for me?” she challenged, regaining some composure. “That’s your move? To protect me by shutting me out completely ?”
“It was the only viable move.” He offered no compromise, no further explanation, just that resolute declaration.
“And now?” She took another step, closing the remaining distance between them until she could almost feel the warmth radiating from him. The scent of his cologne, sharp and clean, filled her senses. “Why are you here, now, if all you know is moving away?” Her voice was softer now, tinged with a raw vulnerability she despised. “What changed?”
He reached out, his hand hovering, for a bare second, above her shoulder, then dropped it to his side. The small movement felt charged with a profound restraint. “A situation presented itself.”
“Right. Work, always work. Never anything else, is it?” Rory looked away, scanning her messily decorated flat, the indignation flaring anew. “Never anything that goes beyond your bloody contracts and ‘situations’.”
“Do you believe that?” His voice was a low murmur, closer now, directly behind her.
She spun back around, facing him. His eyes held hers, a silent challenge in their depths . The air hummed with an unspoken question, a history too complicated to be reduced to simple anger or simple hurt. It was all tangled up, a Gordian knot of attraction, resentment, and a potent longing she had tried to bury.
Lucien reached out again, this time his cool fingers brushing the crescent scar on her left wrist, a light, almost ethereal touch that sent a jolt up her arm. His thumb traced its faint line, a ghost of memory.
“Tell me you stopped caring, Rory,” he challenged, his voice raspy, his heterochromatic eyes locking onto hers . “Tell me it meant nothing.”