AI The cheap whiskey burned a familiar path down Rory’s throat, a small, controlled wildfire against the damp chill that had settled in her bones. She’d chosen the corner booth at The Raven’s Nest, the one that offered a decent view of the door without demanding she make eye contact with Silas’s ever-shifting clientele. He was probably in his back room, poring over whatever arcane intelligence had crossed his desk since dawn. But Rory wasn’t meeting Silas tonight. She was merely sheltering, a brief respite between the last delivery for Golden Empress and the cold, hard pavement that awaited her battered scooter.
A man standing by the bar, his back to her, shifted. The expensive cut of his charcoal grey suit, the glint of a solid gold watch on his wrist – elements that screamed ‘not a regular’ in Silas’s eclectic haunt – caught Rory's eye. He turned, a laugh rumbling low in his chest, and the sound snagged on something in her memory, a rough-hewn familiar cord.
Her breath hitched.
Liam.
Liam Thorne. He hadn't aged like fine wine; he'd aged like polished obsidian, all sharp angles and a dangerous sheen. The hopeful, slightly awkward boy she’d known in secondary school, the one who’d dreamed of escaping Cardiff’s grey skies as much as she had, was gone . In his place stood a man chiseled by purpose, his hazel eyes, once warm and easily amused, now held a cool, assessing glint . He was taller, his frame broader, but the shock wasn't the physical change. It was the sheer, startling presence he exuded, a quiet authority that belied his proximity to Silas's hushed dens.
He saw her then. His smile faltered, only slightly , before reforming into something that looked less like genuine surprise and more like an actor hitting their mark. He navigated his way through the sparse tables, each step deliberate, his gaze fixed on her with unnerving intensity .
"Rory?" His voice was deeper, smoother . The faint Welsh lilt was still there, a ghost beneath layers of London polish. "Is that really you?"
She managed a tight smile, her heart doing a clumsy jig against her ribs. "Liam. What are you doing here?"
"Enjoying a drink. Apparently, I've stumbled into a reunion." He paused, his eyes sweeping over her – the worn jeans, the practical jumper, the subtle weariness around her bright blue eyes that she tried so hard to mask. His gaze lingered for a fraction too long on the small crescent scar on her left wrist, a detail he should have long forgotten. "And you? Still living above dreams, or have they finally landed you somewhere interesting?"
The jab, however subtle, landed. "Something like that," she deflected, gesturing vaguely to the empty seat opposite her. "Care to sit? Unless you're meeting someone."
"Not at all," he said, sliding into the booth. He was careful, almost too careful, not to jostle the table. His signet ring, a heavy silver affair, glinted under the dim lights, a stark contrast to the weathered state of his hands. It looked ancient, powerful, utterly alien on him. "It's been a while. Eight? Nine years since Cardiff?"
"Eight," Rory corrected, her voice firm . "Since I left. Since *everything *."
He winced almost imperceptibly at the implication . "Eight years . London air must agree with you. You look… well." The compliment felt hollow, a perfunctory nod to politeness. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. His eyes said volumes about the gulf between them – the world he’d built versus the one she’d merely survived.
"And you?" Rory countered, leaning back. "You look like you've conquered the world, or at least a significant portion of it."
Liam chuckled, a dry, brittle sound. "Just business. London's been good to me. Opportunity knocks, you know? You just have to be brave enough to answer, and ruthless enough to keep it from leaving." He picked up a coaster from his side of the table, turning it over and over like a worn worry stone. "I thought you were off to conquer the legal world. Cardiff U, wasn't it? Pre-Law? Brendan Carter's daughter, always destined for tribunals and bar associations."
"Circumstances," she said, the word tasting like ash. "They change. People change." She watched him carefully . This new Liam was all sharp edges and self-possession. "What about you? Still running from your father’s reputation? Or did you decide to wear the crown yourself?"
His hand stilled on the coaster. The glint in his eyes intensified, hardening into something sharp and dangerous. He leaned back, the movement fluid, predatory. "My father's legacy was… a foundation. One I've built upon. Not merely inherited, but shaped . Molded into something far more… significant."
Significant. The word hung in the air , heavy with unspoken implications. What did that mean? Silas worked with shadows and whispers, but Liam’s success, his ‘significance’, felt carved from something harder, less forgiving.
"Significant how?" Rory asked, her curiosity piqued, a dangerous thread in her own nature.
"Let’s just say I understand the mechanisms of power far better than you ever will, Rory. I don't just deliver the fuel for the furnace; I influence the heat. I shape the markets. I grease the wheels of industries that would make your old law professors weep." He paused, his smile returning, wider this time, more chilling . "Funny, isn't it? You ran from trouble, from a bad ex, from Cardiff's grey to London's maze. I ran towards the real games. The ones played for keeps, where the stakes aren't just about innocence, but empires."
A chill unrelated to the bar’s temperature traced its way down Rory’s spine. Evan, her abusive ex. That was the escape hatch that had propelled her to London. Liam’s escape was something else entirely. Something that had involved ‘empires’.
"Empires of what, Liam?" she pressed, her voice barely a whisper .
"Yours might have been law, Rory. Mine… mine is built on understanding how people *truly * operate. Their desires, their fears, their weaknesses." He leaned closer, his gaze unwavering . "And I’ve found mine. The same ones that drove you away from Cardiff, the ones you thought you buried under delivery uniforms and anonymous flats. The need for security, for control, for… protection."
He was talking about Evan. He’d found out somehow. Or worse, he’d observed enough in their brief, suffocating reunion tonight to piece it together. The ease with which he spoke of ‘desires’ and ‘fears’ was deeply unsettling. It was the language of a manipulator, not an architect.
"You always were good at observing the wrong things," Rory said, forcing a lightness into her tone that she didn't feel.
Liam’s smile didn't reach his eyes. "Oh, I observe everything , Rory. It’s my business. And I’ve observed that you’re still running. Still afraid." He reached into his inner jacket pocket, his movements smooth and unhurried. When his hand emerged, it held not a wallet or a phone, but a small, intricately carved wooden bird . Its wings were outstretched , as if in mid-flight, its eyes dark glass beads.
"Your mother collected these, didn't she?" he murmured, turning the bird over in his palm. "Said they looked like little angels, watching over us. A silly sentiment from a simpler time."
Rory’s breath hitched again. Her mother. Jennifer Carter, her Welsh teacher mother. The collection of small wooden birds, carved by local artisans, was one of her mother's few small joys. How could Liam possibly know that? Unless… unless he’d known more than just her. The memory of her mother’s gentle voice, describing the artisan who’d carved each bird with such care, flooded back. It was a memory she guarded fiercely, a scrap of warmth against the encroaching cold.
"Where did you get that?" Her voice was tight, strained. Her hand instinctively went to her left wrist, to the crescent scar, a childish reminder of a time before fear ruled her.
Liam merely smiled, a slow, unnerving smile that revealed a glimpse of something cold and sharp beneath the surface of his charm . He placed the wooden bird on the table between them, between the cheap whiskey glass and his expensive, polished shoes.
"Found," he said, his voice low and resonant . "Just like so many other things that get lost when people aren't careful." He met her eyes, and the intensity there was not of recognition, but of… ownership. "You still have that scar, I see. From when you fell off the garden shed trying to rescue Mrs. Higgins’ cat. Such a brave little thing."
Rory’s blood ran cold . That was *years * ago. Before Evan. Before leaving home. Stories her mother had told him, perhaps, or things he’d observed during their fragile, childhood friendship. He dredged them up now, like weapons. The man across from her wasn't just successful; he was a predator who collected vulnerabilities. The casualness with which he revealed these details felt like a violation .
"This is… unsettling, Liam," Rory said, her voice shaking slightly despite her efforts . "We're strangers now."
Liam's gaze flickered down to the wooden bird, then back to her. "Are we?" He pushed the bird closer to her side of the booth. "Because I have a proposition. Something that could give you back the security you're clearly still chasing. Something that requires intelligence, discretion, and a willingness to adapt. Not flight."
He let the words hang in the air, thick with promise and menace. Rory stared at the small wooden bird, then at Liam's piercing, calculating gaze. She felt a primal urge to bolt, to run from the bar, from this man, from the chilling recognition that the darkness she’d fled in Cardiff had merely found a new, more polished, and infinitely more dangerous manifestation in Liam Thorne. The ice in her drink clinked as the bar saw a sudden, unexpected commotion near the entrance. A familiar , stern voice, laced with authority, called out Silas's name.
And then, heavy footsteps echoed towards their booth.