AI The bass from Silas’ bar vibrated through the floorboards, a low, persistent thrumming beneath Aurora’s feet. She’d been scrubbing at a stubborn ring on the laminate counter, the smell of stale beer from the pub below mixing with the lingering scent of yesterday’s stir-fry. A sharp, percussive *knock-knock-knock* echoed from her front door, louder than any neighbourly rap. Three determined raps, precise and insistent. Aurora paused, dishcloth clutched tight, her brow knitting. Few people knocked like that. Fewer still turned up unannounced these days.
She moved to the door, her tread heavy on the creaking wood. The peephole came into view. A sharp intake of breath, a sudden, tight ache in her chest. She drew the deadbolt back, its tumblers clicking with a sound that seemed deafeningly loud, too slow. The second bolt slid free with a metallic scrape. Finally, the main lock turned. She edged the door open a fraction, just enough to see.
He stood on the landing, a dark figure against the grime-streaked light of the stairwell. Lucien Moreau. Impeccable, as always, clad in a charcoal suit that felt alien in this part of London, on this doorstep, at this hour. His platinum hair was slicked back, catching the dim light like spun silver. One eye glowed amber, the other recessed into shadow, holding an unnerving depth. His gloved hand rested on the ivory handle of his cane, the one that concealed secrets she knew all too well. He didn't smile. He simply waited, his gaze sweeping over her, cataloguing the tiredness etched around her bright blue eyes, the way her black hair escaped its hasty ponytail, the faint aroma of frying oil that clung to her clothes.
"Lucien." The name escaped her lips as a ragged whisper , nearly lost to the distant thrum of Silas' music. She tightened her grip on the doorframe.
He gave a slight, formal inclination of his head, more acknowledgment than greeting. "Aurora." His voice was a low murmur, smooth as polished stone, laced with a subtle charm that had once unravelled her completely . Years had passed since she’d last heard it, years filled with unspoken words and the sharp edges of damage dealt and received.
"What are you doing here?" Her voice found a steely edge, a familiar defence mechanism. She kept her body a solid barrier against the opening. Her left wrist, adorned with the thin, crescent-shaped scar from a childhood tumble, pulsed with a phantom chill .
"One might ask the same of you," Lucien replied, his gaze unwavering . "Still dwelling above the stale beer and questionable life choices of Silas’ patrons? Still delivering mystery meals for meagre recompense?" His words were a subtle barb, aimed to wound, she knew. Yet, they landed with the dull thud of something long past its prime.
"Some of us don't have the luxury of daddies who fund existential crises or arcane inheritances," she countered, the words slipping out before she could rein them in. She’d vowed she wouldn’t engage, wouldn’t let him drag her back into their old battles. Yet, here they were.
A flicker of something that wasn't quite a smile touched Lucien’s lips . "Contentment, Aurora, isn't always measured by the size of one's coffers. Sometimes, it’s simply about finding peace with the path one walks." His amber eye seemed to bore into her. "Yours looks… rather constrained from this vantage point."
"And yours looks like you're about to make an offer I can't refuse, or more likely, one I shouldn't accept," she retorted, bracing herself for his inevitable proposition. That was his usual currency: information, favours, gilded entanglements.
He took a small step closer, shrinking the already narrow distance between the door and himself. The faint, expensive scent of his cologne, dark and leathery, cut through the familiar aromas of the building – grease, cheap lager, damp brick. It was a scent that dredged up memories she’d meticulously buried. Nights spent in hushed rooms, his hands tracing the line of her jaw, his whispered words promising oblivion.
"Perhaps," he conceded, his voice dropping lower still . "But my intentions tonight are simpler. I came to see you."
"You see me," she stated, her voice tight . "Now leave." Her hand moved towards the deadbolt.
His hand shot out, not to stop her, but to rest on the doorframe, mere inches from her face . The sudden proximity sent a jolt through her system. His fingers, long and elegant, seemed out of place against the chipped, peeling paint. "Aurora, one cannot simply bolt one's door against the past. Or against potential futures."
"I can, and I will. That's a lesson I learned from you, isn't it? About choices. About salvaging what’s left of oneself." The scar on her wrist throbbed, a phantom ache echoing old hurts, old betrayals, old manipulations . Lucien had been a complicated part of that escape, a shadow who both aided and obstructed her flight.
His gaze softened, a fleeting unguance that made her breath hitch. Regret? Or was it a more calculated flicker ? "That was never my aim."
"Oh, it felt like it at the time," she said, a sharp edge of old bitterness threading her tone. "You saw a woman in distress and decided I was another project to manage, another secret to keep. Until I became inconvenient."
"That’s an unfair assessment. You know the story runs deeper than that." His amber eye seemed to gather the scant light, glowing softly . The black eye held an unnerving, dark gravity.
"Whose story is it, then, Lucien? Yours? The one where you appear, vanish, and leave a trail of carefully managed chaos?" She finally retracted the deadbolt. The click sounded unnaturally loud in the sudden, fragile silence that settled between them, momentarily eclipsing the bar’s music.
He didn't step inside, not yet. His eyes searched hers with a subtle, unnerving intensity that made her stomach clench. "It's our story, Aurora. And therein lie chapters that remain unread." He paused, letting the implication settle in the air. "May I come in? This is hardly a conversation for a damp landing."
Home. Her flat. Cramped, cluttered chaos, a testament to her existence here, a world away from the gilded cages she’d fled. The contrast between his manicured presence and her lived-in reality was stark . She hesitated, her mind a frantic whirl of calculations, weighing the undeniable risks. Their history was a Gordian knot of potent attraction, words weaponized, feelings blunted, and a shared intensity that had once both thrilled and terrified her. He was a dangerous complication, a vivid reminder of the world she was actively trying to outrun. But ‘potential futures’? That phrase lingered. And the way he looked at her, with a quiet, complex assessment rather than predatory intent, chipped away at her defenses. She couldn't leave him on the landing, not with his words still hanging between them like an unanswered question.
"Fine," she conceded, stepping back and widening the gap of the door. "But don't expect any fanfare." She gestured vaguely with the dishcloth. "The place isn't exactly company-ready. And Silas's bass is usually a permanent fixture. You might need to recalibrate your expectations."
He stepped across her threshold, his presence immediately seeming to overwhelm the small space. He moved with a fluid grace that felt incongruous amidst her teetering stacks of books and half-unpacked delivery boxes. His gaze swept across the room, lingering for a fraction of a second on a half-finished sketch tacked to the wall, a pile of invoices on the small table, the battered armchair angled towards the window. His tailored suit seemed to absorb the dim light, an island of sombre elegance adrift in her disarray. He took in the worn Oriental rug, faded by years of footfall , the flickering neon sign of the Golden Empress restaurant visible through the grimy windowpane.
"Your reality has always possessed a certain… vibrancy," Lucien commented, turning back to her. His heterochromatic eyes scanned her again, a gesture of careful appraisal. "And it is considerably warmer than the air outside."
Aurora dropped the dishcloth onto the cluttered counter, her hands finding the sink, the automatic need to wash them. The water was lukewarm. "It's home. Or the closest I've managed to build." She avoided his direct gaze, focusing instead on the mundane, grounding actions. "Why, Lucien? The truth. You don't just appear on someone's doorstep after years of silence out of sheer politeness. What do you need?"
He moved further into the small living area, stopping near the window. He trailed a finger along the dusty sill, creating a clean streak against the grime. "Need is a finite term. I find myself… curious. About the choices you’ve made. About the woman you’ve become." He looked at her, the tip of his cane tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against the floorboards. "You were always destined for something more than delivering lukewarm Pad Thai, Aurora."
"And you were always destined to subtly manipulate those destined for more," she countered, wiping her damp hands on a tea towel. The scar on her wrist felt as though it were burning . "Or perhaps you were simply looking for someone to tidy up a mess you’d left behind."
Lucien finally met her eyes, his expression carefully schooled into a mask of neutrality. "There have been messes, it's true. My involvement in your affairs was never purely altruistic, I concede that." He paused, his gaze now settling on her with focused intensity . "But the hurt, Aurora. The stark finality of our parting. That was not, on my part, a calculation."
Her breath hitched. He’d touched upon the thread she kept so tightly bound. The finality. It had felt like a door slammed shut, a promise shattered , a sharp, clean severing. Even now, years later, the raw edge of that memory could still make her flinch. She turned away from the sink, leaning her hips against the counter, crossing her arms—a physical assertion of her boundary. She wouldn't stand, wouldn't offer him accommodation, not yet. She would hold her ground, though her knees felt distinctly unsteady. "It certainly felt calculated from where I was standing."
He took another step toward her. She could feel the subtle shift in the room’s atmosphere, the air thinning, charged with an unspoken energy. The weight of their shared history pressed down on them, a tangible , palpable force. "And perhaps your vantage point didn't afford you the full scope of the situation. Perhaps you didn't see all the pieces of the board." He looked down at her, his striking heterochromatic eyes locking onto hers. The amber held a warmth that seemed too disingenuous, considering. The black, however, was pure, unsettling depth. "I made choices, yes. Choices I believed protected you. Choices I deemed necessary. But they were never intended to sever us completely ."
"But they did," she stated, her voice flat, pragmatic . That was the essence of Rory. "You walked away. You chose your world of shadows and secrets over… whatever it was we were building. Whatever it was I foolishly believed we both wanted." She looked away, towards the grimy windowpane, the distant city lights blurred by dirt and the sting of unshed tears. Years of accumulated hurt resurfaced with a vengeance.
Lucien’s cane tapped the floor again, a sharper, more urgent sound this time. "And you truly believe that was my only option? That I didn't… struggle with that decision?" His voice held a low, resonant strain, a hint of something raw beneath the polished surface. He moved closer, until he stood only a few feet away. She could feel the subtle heat radiating from him, the sheer force of his presence filling the confined space. "Rory, look at me."
She forced herself to turn back, her bright blue eyes meeting his unusual, captivating gaze. The potent attraction, so dangerous and long-dormant, flared to life under his scrutiny. His platinum hair gleamed, stark against his dark attire. A faint tremor ran through her.
"I see you," she whispered, the words catching in her throat . "And I see trouble. The kind I laboured rigorously to escape." Her left wrist felt clammy now, slick with a nervous sweat.
He raised a hand, his fingers not quite reaching her, suspended in the charged space between them . "What if the price of remaining distant is higher?" His question hung in the air , heavy and loaded with implication . What if the cost of keeping him at arm's length was the loss of something vital, something she hadn't realised she'd missed until he reappeared on her doorstep, solid and real? The years of silence , the burning anger, the deep hurt – all of it began to feel like a cage she had painstakingly constructed for herself. "Aurora," he said, his voice dropping, becoming more intimate, as if he were confessing a secret. "I didn't come here to pick up precisely where we left off. Not like that." He paused, his gaze dropping for a fleeting second to her lips before returning to her eyes. "I came to understand. Then, perhaps, to ask for something."
She waited, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Ask for something. That was Lucien. Always needing, always wanting, always weaving himself into the tapestry of someone else’s problems. "And what possible thing could you need from me, Lucien? What fragment of this life could possibly interest the great fixer of London's supernatural underworld?"
He took a slow breath, the air in the small room seeming to hum with an unseen energy. "Understanding," he repeated, his voice a low murmur, now softer, more resonant . "And perhaps… absolution. For the actions I took, and for the ones I failed to take." He held her gaze steady, his heterochromatic eyes searching hers with an intensity that simultaneously unnerved and captivated her. “And then, Aurora, there is what I truly came for. But that requires… progress.” He let the single word hang there, a fragile bridge to an unknown future, a direct challenge to the unyielding walls of the past.