AI The door, heavy with three deadbolts, groaned open. Rory stood framed in the narrow space, the scent of stale curry from the flat below clinging to her clothes. Her bright blue eyes, usually calm, widened a fraction, a spark of something unreadable flickering within them .
Lucien leaned against the doorframe, a picture of effortless elegance even in the cramped hallway. His tailored charcoal suit, sharper than a freshly honed blade, seemed out of place against the worn floral wallpaper faded at the edges. Platinum blond hair caught the dim light, slicked back from his face. One eye, amber, held hers; the other, a startling black, remained shadowed. The ivory handle of his cane rested against his wrist, an idle weight .
"You're not Eva," he offered, his voice a low thrum that always seemed to find a resonance deep within her ribs. A faint smile touched his lips, a slow curve that never quite reached his eyes.
Rory braced a hand on the doorframe, a familiar prickle of annoyance mixing with something else she relentlessly ignored. "No kidding. What do you want, Moreau?"
He pushed off the frame, stepping into the small entryway without an invitation, the air suddenly thick with his presence. His scent, a mix of old leather and something subtly exotic, enveloped her. Ptolemy, Eva's tabby cat, a ginger blur, darted from behind Rory’s legs, rubbing against Lucien’s immaculately polished Oxfords. Lucien bent, a hand moving with surprising gentleness to scratch behind the cat's ears.
"Ptolemy remembers me," he murmured, his eyes, now both visible and piercing, flicking up to meet hers. The amber eye held a glint of amusement, the black one, a quiet intensity . "Unlike some others."
Rory’s jaw tightened. She moved past him, navigating the precarious stacks of books and scrolls that lined Eva's hall. The single-bedroom flat felt even smaller with him in it, every surface a testament to Eva’s chaotic research. "What's your business, Lucien? You always have business."
"And you always assume the worst." He followed her into the living room, his tailored suit jacket rustling softly . He surveyed the disarray, a wry expression playing on his features. "Eva. Still chasing ghosts."
"Literally, yes," Rory replied, her voice clipped . She picked up a stray scroll filled with runic script from the armrest of an overstuffed armchair. She rolled it neatly, depositing it on a precariously balanced stack. Her crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a pale line, caught the light as she moved.
"Where is she?" Lucien asked, his gaze momentarily fixed on her wrist, then lifting to her face. "Her phone goes straight to voicemail. I need some information."
"She’s at the British Library," Rory told him, her voice clipped. "Been there since dawn. She won't be back until late." She knew he didn't truly believe that was the *only * reason she was there. They both always felt more.
Lucien's gaze swept over her, a slow, evaluating sweep that made her skin hum. He paused at the small delivery logo on her t-shirt, then moved to the faint smudges of grease on her jeans. "Working hard, I see. Or is this a new fashion statement?"
"Just surviving," Rory retorted, a shard of bitterness entering her tone . She walked towards the window, pulling aside the heavy velvet curtain just enough to glimpse the bustling street below. The familiar rhythm of Brick Lane, the shouts of vendors and the distant rumble of the tube, felt like a world away from the silent tension inside the flat.
"Surviving. A familiar tune for us both, no?" His voice held a deceptive softness, a silk -wrapped knife. "I heard you'd settled in well. Eva speaks highly of you."
"Eva's a good friend," Rory said, turning from the window. Her shoulders squared. "Which is why I'm here, making sure her cat doesn't starve and her plants don't die. You can leave a message with me. I'll pass it on." She crossed her arms, a clear barrier.
Lucien took a step closer, then another, until the small space between the worn sofa and the overflowing bookshelf felt impossibly narrow. His black eye seemed to swallow the light, his amber one glinted. "I prefer to deliver my messages myself." He paused, a beat hanging heavy in the air . "Especially when the message involves something… sensitive."
Rory met his gaze, refusing to flinch. The heat radiating from him was a physical presence, a memory she had meticulously tried to erase. "Sensitive, or merely an excuse?"
He smiled then, a genuine flash of teeth that softened the angles of his face, making him look less the formidable broker and more the charming rogue. "Always so quick to dissect, Rory. Always cutting to the chase." His hand reached out, not quite touching her, but hovering near her arm for a breath, before dropping to stroke Ptolemy, who had reappeared and now twined between his legs . "It *is * sensitive. Something Eva would want to know. Something that might involve… your recent past."
The mention of her past, especially *her recent past *, shot a cold tremor through Rory. It was a card he played carefully , knowing its weight . Her past was a messy knot of fear and escape, tied up with a name she refused to speak. That he would even hint at it, here, in Eva's sanctuary , felt like a transgression .
"What are you talking about?" she demanded, her voice lower now, edged with suspicion .
"Information," Lucien said, straightening up, his charm receding, replaced by a calculating gleam. "About a certain individual. Let's just say a ghost from your previous life seems to be making a nuisance of himself."
Rory’s breath hitched. Her muscles tensed. She knew instantly who he meant. *Evan.* "How do you know that?" she asked, the words thin, barely a whisper .
"I keep my ears open," he replied, his gaze unwavering . "And I have a comprehensive network. Especially for those I… care about." The last phrase, spoken with a quiet intensity , managed to make her ears burn, despite her resolve .
A cold fear, overlaid with indignation, pushed through her. "You've been digging into my past? Into my life?"
"Eva mentioned you were having... difficulties. I merely followed a thread." He walked to the overflowing coffee table, moving a pile of leather-bound grimoires with a single, precise movement to clear a small space. He set his cane down, the ivory handle gleaming . "Curiosity. Concern. Perhaps a touch of professional interest in who might be disturbing my London."
"Your London?" Rory scoffed, regaining some of her footing. "And your concern rings a bit hollow, considering how we last parted." That was it, the opening. The hurt. The unspoken accusations.
He turned slowly , his eyes locking onto hers. The easy smile vanished. "Our parting was… complicated."
"Complicated?" Rory laughed, a short, sharp sound devoid of humor. "You vanished. Like smoke. After everything." She gestured vaguely between them , indicating a shared history that felt both distant and brutally present.
"I had my reasons," Lucien stated, his voice losing its usual smooth cadence, roughening slightly . "Reasons I didn't want to burden you with."
"Burden? You thought it was better to just disappear? No explanation? No goodbye? Just gone?" Her voice rose, unable to contain the frustration that had festered for months. Her hands clenched at her sides.
He took a step towards her, then stopped, a visible struggle playing across his features. His slicked-back platinum hair seemed almost too perfect , a facade . "I made a choice, Rory. A difficult one. Protecting you, in my own clumsy way."
"Protecting me?" She shook her head, a bitter taste in her mouth. "You left me to pick up the pieces, Lucien. You left me when I needed you."
"And you found Eva, and you rebuilt yourself with admirable tenacity." His gaze fell to a smudge of flour on her sleeve, then back to her eyes. "That scar you carry. It’s a testament to your resilience, a mark of your battles." He meant the one on her wrist, but she felt his meaning encompassed more than just that physical mark.
The reference to her scar, that small, almost forgotten childhood injury that sometimes throbbed with unspent emotion, felt too intimate, too close. She pulled her gaze away, staring at the spine of a massive tome on demonology. "Don't pretend you know my battles, Moreau. You were never around for them ."
"Perhaps not all of them ." He moved around the coffee table, slowly , deliberately . The air crackled around him. He paused, close enough now that she could feel the faint warmth of his body. "But I know enough to have concerns when I hear whispers of trouble. Especially when those whispers involve an old flame who refuses to stay burnt out."
The words "old flame" brought a flush to her cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and a strange, unwelcome warmth . It wasn't just Evan he meant. It was *them *.
"So, what is it?" she asked, forcing her voice to remain steady, despite the tremor in her hands. "What exactly have you 'heard'?"
Lucien's eyes, the amber and the black, held hers. He reached out, his fingers brushing against a loose strand of her black hair, tucking it behind her ear. The contact was brief, feather-light, but it sent a jolt down her spine. "He's back in London, Rory. Asking questions. Searching." His voice dropped, a dangerous rumble. "For you."
The quiet menace in his tone was unmistakable. It wasn’t a warning; it was a promise of protection, wrapped in layers of past hurt and unaddressed desire . The reality of Evan's proximity hit with a fresh wave of nausea, but beneath it, the unexpected rush of Lucien's proximity, his hand still lingering near her ear, created a confusing, visceral dissonance.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She wanted to pull away, to push him back, to scream at him for appearing now, for bringing *this * and *them * back into her life. But her feet remained rooted, her eyes locked with his. The weight of his presence, the unresolved history, the sudden, unwanted flicker of hope that he *cared *, all collided in the cramped, book-filled flat.
He lowered his hand, though his gaze did not waver. "Are you going to let me in, Rory? Truly in?" His eyes searched hers, a silent, desperate plea hidden beneath the casual words. "Or will you keep me at the door?"
The scent of old leather and exotic spices filled her lungs. She looked up at him, her bright blue eyes, now clouded with a storm of emotions, searching his. The flicker of hurt battled the undeniable spark of attraction, the fear of her past warring with the unexpected comfort of his presence.
The cat, Ptolemy, wound between their legs again, oblivious to the high-stakes dance . Rory swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. The silence stretched, thick and pregnant with their unsaid history.