AI The sharp rap against the oak door wasn't Eva's usual tentative tap. It was a solid, deliberate sound, jarring Rory from the intricate star chart spread across the cluttered dining table. She looked up, her brow furrowed . Eva was in Scotland, chasing down a lead on ley lines, and the only other person with a key had been lost for days somewhere in the city’s labyrinthine bowels. No one else was supposed to have reason to call.
Three deadbolts secured Eva’s flat, a fortress against the chaos of Brick Lane and whatever else Eva’s esoteric research sometimes attracted. Rory rose, her worn jeans brushing against the table laden with papers brittle with age and maps inked in colours that seemed to shift in the dim light . She padded across the floorboards, the scent of old paper, dust, and something faintly spicy from the curry house below clinging to the air. Ptolemy, Eva’s sleek tabby, uncoiled from a sprawl of obscure texts on the armchair, stretched languidly , and followed her, his tail a question mark in the shafts of light piercing the grimy windows.
Hesitation prickled her skin. Should she answer? Eva had warned her about strangers, especially anyone connected to certain obscure *guilds * she was researching . But the knock came again, insistent, undeniably expectant. Without further thought, a habit born of years of answering doors in cramped service flats, Rory’s fingers began their work. The first bolt slid back with a metallic wink, the second with a more resonant grind. Ptolemy weaved between her ankles, a silent observer, as the third unlatched. Rory gripped the cool brass knob, took a shallow breath, and pulled the door inward.
He stood there, framed by the dingy hallway light, a stark silhouette against the fading afternoon.
Lucien.
The name was a shock, a physical jolt that stole the air from her lungs. It had been longer than she could precisely recall, but never had a moment of her past erupted so vividly into her present. He looked exactly as she remembered, disturbingly refined, impossibly tailored. A charcoal suit sculpted his frame, his platinum hair slicked back from his forehead with unnerving precision. But it was his eyes that held her captive, a disconcerting symmetry: one the warm, molten amber of spilled honey, the other a profound , unsettling black, like a shard of obsidian. Even standing in the drab corridor of a Brick Lane tenement, he radiated an aura of potent, dangerous sophistication.
Rory swallowed, searching for her voice, for a response that wasn't pure ambush. "Lucien?" Her own name, spoken by him , had always held a different weight , a hushed intimacy. Now, it felt fragile on her tongue.
His lips curved in a slow, almost imperceptible smile. It didn't quite reach his eyes, which assessed her with an unnerving calm. "Aurora," he replied, his voice a low, cultured murmur that vibrated in the air between them. It carried the lingering lilt of his native Marseille, a sound she’d once found intoxicating. He shifted his weight, one immaculate hand resting lightly on the ivory head of his cane. "You're looking… well. Busy."
Her gaze flickered to the cane, a familiar weight in his grip. The thin, almost invisible seam along its length was a reminder of his precarious duality, the careful balance he maintained between predator and broker. "Busy helping a friend," she managed, her voice tighter than she intended. "You, on the other hand, look precisely the same. Is that even possible?" She gestured vaguely, a sweep of her hand encompassing his flawless presentation, a world away from her own practical, no-nonsense arrival in London. She wore her work uniform, a crimson jacket emblazoned with a gold dragon, slightly rumpled from a long shift delivering dumplings for Yu-Fei Cheung.
He inclined his head, a subtle acknowledgment. "Some things resist the erosion of time. Or perhaps," his gaze swept over the doorway behind her, taking in the overflowing bookshelves, the stacks of parchment threatening to spill onto the floor, the arcane symbols scrawled on stray notepads, "you simply choose to surround yourself with things that do."
Rory’s cheeks flushed. "Eva's research. It's important."
"I am sure it is." He stepped forward, his movement fluid, almost predatory. He didn't wait for an invitation, a silent assertion of his intent. He crossed the threshold into Eva’s flat, and the air seemed to crackle. Rory felt a familiar , unwelcome pull, a magnetic force that warred with the bitter residue of their parting. She quickly closed the door behind him , her hand lingering on the cool brass. The deadbolts remained undone, a silent testament to her stunned acquiescence.
Ptolemy, unperturbed by the uncanny visitor, stalked with regal indifference towards Lucien, circled his polished brogues, and then, with a dismissive flick of his tail, settled onto a precarious pile of rolled maps near the fireplace.
"So," Rory said, turning to face him , her arms crossing instinctively over her chest. "To what do I owe this… unexpected pleasure, Luc? I thought you ’d retired from this particular corner of the world. Or at least, from me." The last words were a quiet jab, a reminder of the distance he had imposed between them, sharp and deliberate.
Lucien’s sharp profile was etched against the growing dimness of the room. He ran a thumb along the curve of his cane's ivory handle. "Retirement is a concept for those with less demanding… obligations. Or perhaps, for those who have found a satisfactory end to their pursuits." His amber eye met her bright blue, a silent challenge. "I hear things, Aurora. Even in the quiet corners I've supposedly retreated to. Whispers about someone fitting your description poking around where they shouldn't. Not just in this realm, either."
Rory’s heart gave a heavy thud against her ribs. She’d been so careful. Eva’s research was her escape, a way to feel connected to something ancient and significant, but she hadn't anticipated it drawing attention from *his * world. Or worse, drawing *him *. "I'm not 'poking around.' I'm helping Eva. And I don't know what you mean about 'this realm'." She held his gaze, trying to project an innocence she certainly didn't possess. She’d seen enough of London’s underbelly since fleeing Cardiff, enough of Evan’s cruelty, to know how to deflect. But Lucien… Lucien saw through most pretenses.
"Don't you ?" His voice dropped, a silken caress that did little to soothe her apprehension . "This flat, Aurora. So much knowledge. So many doors. Some are meant to remain sealed. You father, for instance. Brendan Carter. A good man, a staunch defender. But perhaps he knew to keep his daughter away from… certain genealogies. Certain temptations."
Aurora flinched, a visceral reaction to her father’s name. How did he know about her father? Or about the whispers of her own complex lineage, the part of her that had always felt latent, waiting, a secret even she barely understood? Her mind, so quick to process and deconstruct, felt sluggish under his scrutiny. "My father is irrelevant. And my life now is simple. Deliveries, rent, trying not to get murdered by my ex. There’s no magic here, Luc."
He took another slow step into the room, his eyes scanning the piles of books, his gaze lingering on a particularly dense, leather-bound tome. "Is there not? You have the scent of the liminal clinging to you , Aurora. It always has. A certain… resonance . And proximity to Eva’s work, dealing with pathways and forgotten histories… it stirs that resonance . Things you ’ve deliberately buried might be rising to the surface. Or worse, they might be attracted to *you *." He finally lowered his gaze from the shelves to her face, his expression unreadable . "I came to warn you . To ensure you understood the gravity of what you might be inadvertently inviting."
"You came to warn me?" Her laugh was short, sharp, devoid of mirth. It was laced with the bitterness of their last encounter . "You, who walked away without a word? Who left me to pick up the pieces of *your * intervention? I remember the chaos you brought, Luc. I remember the sharp edge of danger, the fire in your eyes when you claimed you had to go, that I had to forget. You don't get to waltz back into my life and play rescuer."
He was closer now, the fine fabric of his suit seeming to absorb the ambient light. She could smell a faint, exotic spice mixed with something clean and cool, an elusive, intoxicating scent that was uniquely his . "Forgetting was never the intention. Disentanglement was paramount. For both our sakes." His voice was quieter, but the intensity behind it remained. "My world is not designed for someone with your particular… vulnerabilities.”
"Vulnerabilities?" The word grated. She thought of Evan, the knot of fear he’d left permanently twisted in her gut, the feeling of being small and helpless. Then she thought of Lucien, the terrifying thrill he’d ignited, the way he made her feel seen, understood, and utterly exposed. "Is that what you call it? I call it surviving. You, with your suits and your secrets and your cane that hides a blade, you understand danger. You court it. I just try to avoid getting crushed by it."
"And yet," he said, his gaze dropping to the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a mark she usually kept hidden beneath her sleeve, "you ’ve always found ways to invite it closer. A child’s accident, you called it? Or was it a moment of profound curiosity that pushed you too far?"
Her hand instinctively flew to her wrist, covering the scar. A childhood fall, a broken branch, a moment of childish defiance. It was a mundane scar, a symbol of a past she’d mostly forgotten, unremarkable. But Lucien’s words twisted something deep inside her, suggesting it was more than it seemed. His knowledge was unsettling , his insinuation insidious. "You know nothing about that," she said, her voice trembling slightly despite her efforts to control it .
"Perhaps not everything," he conceded, his amber eye glinting with something that might have been regret, or perhaps merely calculation. "But enough. Enough to know that whatever it is Eva has pulled you into, it's about to become considerably more complicated. And dangerous. For you , Aurora, the stakes are always higher." He reached out, and for a heart-stopping moment, she thought he would touch her. His fingers, long and elegant, hovered inches from her cheek. "I didn't come here to chase you away this time. I came because the whispers are growing louder, and my own quiet corners are no longer enough to shield you from what's coming. You are involved, whether you know it or not. And I cannot, in good conscience, leave you to face it alone when you have no idea what you 're truly up against."
His gaze held hers, the heterochromatic depths promising worlds of peril and forbidden knowledge, a silent testament to the dangerous dance they had once shared. The air between them thrummed, thick with attraction and a shared, undeniable history. The spark that had ignited between them before, fierce and consuming, flickered back to life, fanned by the embers of hurt and unresolved longing. It was a dangerous game, one she had sworn off. But in Lucien Moreau’s compelling gaze, Aurora Carter saw not just a threat, but a promise —a terrifying, irresistible invitation. She didn't know if she could trust him , but standing on the precipice of whatever lay ahead, with him here, offering a hand she'd once yearned for, the thought of facing it alone suddenly felt like the greater peril . Ptolemy, the indifferent cat, stretched again on his nest of maps, a silent witness to the resurfacing storm.