AI The first bolt gave a metallic protest, a screech that set Rory’s teeth on edge. The second and third followed in rapid succession, the heavy thuds echoing in the narrow hallway of Eva’s Brick Lane flat. Below, the curry house was in the lunch rush, the scent of turmeric and roasted cumin seeping through the floorboards like a heavy fog. Rory wiped a smudge of ink from her thumb and pulled the door open, her mouth already framing a sharp dismissive for whatever solicitor or lost tourist had found their way past the buzzing street-level door.
The words died in her throat.
Lucien Moreau stood on the cramped landing, looking entirely too large and far too polished for the surroundings. He was a study in monochromatic elegance, his charcoal suit tailored so precisely it appeared molded to his frame . His platinum blond hair was slicked back, catching the dim hallway light, and his ivory-handled cane rested between his feet, his gloved hands folded over the top.
“Aurora,” he said. The way he spoke her name—low, melodic, with the faintest trace of a Marseille lilt —always felt like a physical weight against her skin.
Rory’s fingers tightened on the edge of the door, her nails digging into the wood. The crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a relic of a childhood tumble, throbbed with a dull, phantom heat. “You’re supposed to be in Brussels.”
“Plans change,” Lucien replied. One of his eyes, an amber so pale it looked gold, tracked the movement of her hand. The other, as black as a well of ink, remained fixed on her face. “Are you going to keep me in the hallway, or has the Cardiff hospitality finally run dry?”
“The hospitality isn’t dry, Luc. It’s been evaporated for six months.” She didn’t move . Her heart was hammering against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that contradicted the cool, level expression she forced onto her features. “Why are you here? If you need a delivery made, call the Golden Empress. If you want information, buy a paper.”
Lucien leaned slightly onto his cane, the ivory handle clicking softly against the floor. “I am not here as a client. And I think we both know I don’t require a paper to find out what is happening in London.” He paused, his gaze softening just a fraction—a look that would have fooled anyone who didn’t know the demon blood coursing through his veins. “You left the bar. Silas told me I might find you here with Eva.”
“Silas talks too much.” Rory stepped back, not as an invitation, but because the proximity was becoming unbearable. The scent of him—expensive sandalwood and the sharp, metallic tang of the Avaros realm—swirled into the stagnant air of the flat.
Lucien took the movement as permission and crossed the threshold. He moved with a predatory grace, navigating the minefield of Eva’s research without looking down. The flat was a disaster of antiquity; every surface was buried under yellowing scrolls, leather-bound grimoires, and stacks of frantic notes.
A low meow announced the arrival of Ptolemy. The tabby cat drifted from a pile of laundry, his tail twitching. Usually, Ptolemy was a terror to guests, but he approached Lucien with a strange, feline reverence, winding himself around the man’s polished leather shoes.
“Traitor,” Rory muttered, closing the door and throwing the bolts back into place. It was a reflex now—three clicks for safety, though she knew three pieces of steel wouldn't stop Lucien if he truly wanted to stay.
Lucien looked around the room, his lip curling in a faint, amused line at the chaos. He reached out with his cane, using the ivory tip to gently nudge a stack of scrolls away from the edge of a chair. He didn’t sit; he simply stood there, a piece of high-priced art in a thrift-store frame.
“It has been some time,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.
“Don’t do that,” Rory said, crossing her arms. “Don’t act like this is a social call. The last time I saw you, you were walking out of that safehouse in Southwark while the building was turning into a furnace. You didn’t look back once, Luc. Not even when I shouted.”
Lucien’s expression didn’t flicker , but the black of his left eye seemed to expand, swallowing the iris. “The objective was secured. I knew you were clear of the blast radius. My presence would have only complicated your extraction by the Council.”
“Oh, is that what we’re calling it? An extraction?” She laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “I spent three hours in a damp basement being grilled by wardens because you vanished with the ledger. You left me to handle the fallout of a job you brokered.”
“I left you because you are intelligent enough to navigate a Council hearing in your sleep, Aurora. And because if I had stayed, they would have tied you to me. Permanently.” He took a step toward her, his cane muffled by a threadbare rug. “Being associated with an information broker of my… heritage… has consequences. I thought you would appreciate the distance.”
“I didn’t ask for distance. I asked for a partner.”
The air in the room grew heavy, the temperature dropping a few degrees—a telltale sign of Lucien’s demon half reacting to his internal state. He stopped a few feet from her, close enough that she could see the fine grain of his charcoal suit jacket. Rory refused to back up. She stood her ground, her blue eyes locked onto his heterochromatic stare.
She remembered the night before Southwark. They had been hiding in a cramped hotel room in Soho, the rain drumming against the glass. There had been a moment, over a shared bottle of cheap wine and a map of the docks, where the professional veneer had cracked. He had touched her jaw, his thumb tracing the line of her throat, and for a second, the world of demons and fixers and Cardiff barristers had ceased to exist. Then he had pulled away, the ice returning to his eyes, and by morning, the bridge had been burned .
“I cannot be what you want, Rory,” he whispered.
“Then why are you in my flat?” she snapped. “Why track me down? If you want to protect me from your ‘consequences,’ then stay in Marseille. Stay in Avaros. Stay anywhere but here.”
Lucien reached out, his hand hovering near her shoulder before he seemed to catch himself. He lowered it, his fingers tightening around the head of his cane. “Because Evan is back in London.”
The name hit her like a physical blow. Rory’s breath hitched, her lungs suddenly feeling two sizes too small. She felt the old, cold familiar dread creeping up the back of her neck, the shadow of the man she had fled Cardiff to escape.
“He’s… he’s in the North,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction. “He doesn't have the resources to find me here.”
“He has spent the last five months currying favor with the wrong people,” Lucien said, his tone turning clinical, professional . “He has made deals with the kind of men who trade in lives. He was seen at a club in Mayfair two nights ago asking after a girl with black hair and a Cardiff accent.”
Rory felt her knees go weak. She reached back, steadying herself against the edge of Eva’s desk, her hand knocking over a glass of pens. “He wouldn’t.”
“He would,” Lucien countered. “And he is. I am the best fixer in this city, Aurora. Nothing happens without my knowledge, especially not a threat to my…” He stopped, the word caught in his throat .
“To your what?” Rory challenged, her fear momentarily eclipsed by a flare of anger . “Your asset? Your delivery girl?”
Lucien moved then, faster than humanly possible. He was in her space, his cane discarded as it leaned against the desk, his hands coming up to cup her face. His palms were warm, a stark contrast to the cold calculation she usually associated with him.
“To the woman I cannot seem to leave to her own devices, no matter how hard I try,” he hissed.
Rory looked up at him, her heart thumping a frantic rhythm against her breastbone. Up close, the blackness of his left eye was terrifying , a void that promised no safety, yet she found herself leaning into his touch. She hated how much she wanted him to be there. She hated that even after he’d abandoned her, he was the first thing she wanted to see when the world turned dark.
“You’re a liar,” she whispered.
“In many things, yes,” Lucien admitted. His thumb stroked her cheek, his gaze dropping to her mouth. “But not in this. I didn't come here to give you a job, Rory. I came here to take you somewhere safe.”
“I’m staying with Eva. I have the deadbolts. I have my life.”
“You have a curry house downstairs and a cat,” Lucien said, his voice softening into something dangerously close to a caress . “Evan is coming with more than just a grudge. He’s coming with the blessing of the Avaros syndicates. Your deadbolts are tissue paper.”
Rory closed her eyes, her head spinning. The books, the scrolls, the part-time shifts at the Golden Empress—it had all been an attempt to build a wall between her and the chaos of the supernatural world, and more importantly, between her and her past. But the past was a persistent ghost.
“Why do you care?” she asked, her voice trembling . “If you wanted me safe, you would have stayed six months ago.”
“I thought if I stayed, I would eventually destroy everything you’re trying to build,” Lucien said, his forehead dropping to rest against hers . “I thought I was the danger. I was wrong. The danger was already following you, and I was simply blind enough to think I was the only shadow in the room.”
He smelled like rain and woodsmoke . Rory let out a shaky breath, her hands coming up to grasp his wrists, feeling the steady, powerful pulse beneath his skin. He wasn’t a good man. He was a creature of the underworld, a man who dealt in secrets and blood. But as he stood there in the middle of a cluttered flat in East London, holding her as if she were the only fixed point in a spinning universe, she knew she wasn’t going to send him away.
“I’m not going to Cardiff,” she said, though it sounded more like a surrender than a condition.
“No,” Lucien murmured, his lips a breath away from hers . “We are going to my estate in Highgate. It has more than three deadbolts, I assure you.”
“And Ptolemy?”
Lucien glanced down at the cat, who was currently batting at the silk tassel on the man's cane. “The cat may come. He has better taste in company than you do.”
Rory pulled back just enough to look into his eyes—the gold and the black, the demon and the man. The hurt was still there, a jagged line through her chest that wouldn’t heal overnight, but the attraction was a stronger force, pulling her toward him like a tide.
“If you leave me again, Lucien,” she said, her blue eyes flashing with the intelligence he so admired, “I won’t yell. I’ll just find a way to make sure the Council finds that ledger you took from Southwark.”
Lucien smiled, a genuine, razor-sharp expression that reached his eyes. “There she is. I’ve missed your threats, Aurora.”
He leaned in, and this time, there was no bridge to burn. When his mouth met hers, the scent of curry and old paper faded away, replaced by the heat of a man who was done running from his own shadows. Rory kissed him back with a desperate, angry hunger, her fingers tangling in his platinum hair. The world outside might be falling apart, and an old nightmare might be closing in, but for the first time in months, as she stood in the wreckage of Eva's flat, Rory Carter felt like she was finally standing on solid ground.