AI The door swings open an inch, jams on a stack of Chinese takeout menus Eva had dumped by the frame that morning. Rory heaves it wider, ready to bark at her friend about cluttering the doorway—then stops.
Standing on the scuffed concrete landing, rain dripping off the brim of his tailored charcoal suit jacket, is Lucien Moreau. Platinum blond hair slicked back tight from his forehead, ivory-handled cane tucked against his hip, one eye amber and one black, glowing faintly in the dim hallway light that filters down from the Brick Lane streetlamp above. His sandalmwood and citrus cologne cuts through the curry scent drifting up from the shop below, sharp and familiar , the same scent that had lingered on her clothes the night they last spoke.
Her throat goes dry. She’d deleted his number six months prior, had avoided every spot he frequented, had begged Eva never to mention her to any supernatural fixers—especially not him. “Lucien,” she says, and the word comes out thin, shaky, nothing like the cool, sharp tone she uses with delivery customers or her prickly ex.
She reaches for the deadbolt, ready to slam the door shut, but he slides the ivory tip of his cane between the door and the frame, stopping it cold. The polished wood catches the light, and she can see the thin seam running along its length, the hidden blade she’d once pressed her palm to, curious, before he’d pulled his hand away, his touch sending a shiver down her spine that she’d felt for days after.
“You didn’t answer your phone,” he says, his voice low, accented, exactly the way she remembers—rougher than she’d pictured a Frenchman’s voice would be, warm like aged brandy. He shifts his weight, and the cane taps once against the step, the sound loud in the quiet flat.
Rory yanks harder on the door, but the cane doesn’t move. “You shouldn’t be here. I told you never to come near me again.” That’s a lie, sort of—she’d never said those exact words, but she’d implied it, when she’d thrown his business card across the table and told him to get lost.
His mouth twitches, that dry, lopsided smile she’d both hated and wanted the first time they met. “I kept away for six months. Until I heard Evan was out of prison.”
The name hits her like a fist to the chest. Evan, her abusive ex, the man who’d chased her from Cardiff to London, who’d thrown a wine glass at her wrist six months prior, leaving a thin, jagged cut next to the old crescent scar she’d had since she was seven. She’d thought he was locked up, thought she’d finally escaped him. “How?”
“He paid a guard to look the other way. Got paroled early.” Lucien’s gaze flickers past her, to the stack of illuminated manuscripts piled on the couch, to the tabby cat named Ptolemy curled up on a stack of Tolkien paperbacks by the window, and nods once. “Nice place. Cramped, just like Eva said.”
Rory’s jaw tightens. She’d begged Eva not to mention her to anyone, especially not supernatural fixers. “You followed me here.”
“Tracking isn’t following,” he says, and his voice loses that dry playfulness, grows sharp, earnest. “I’ve been watching Evan since he got out two weeks ago. He’s been asking around about fixers, looking for someone to make sure you can’t leave London, can’t hide from him.”
Rory’s hands start to shake. She steps back, knocking over a stack of poetry collections by the door, and the books clatter to the floor. Ptolemy yowls, bolts from his perch, and hides under the dining table. The scent of old paper and jasmine tea, the smell that has always made her feel safe, mixes with Lucien’s cologne, and suddenly she’s back to that first night she came to him, crying in his office, begging him to make Evan stop.
She’d been desperate, then. She’d left Cardiff after Evan hit her, had fled to London with nothing but a duffel bag and Eva’s phone number, had taken the delivery job at Golden Empress to pay rent, and then Evan had found her, had shown up at her flat above Silas’ bar, had screamed at her until she’d promised to come back to him. She’d run to Lucien that night, covered in wine glass shards, her wrist bleeding, and he’d sat across from her, listened to her story, and then said he’d fix Evan—for a price.
The price was Eva’s research on Avaros, the realm Lucien’s father ruled over, decades of scrolls and notes Eva had spent ten years compiling. Rory had refused, had told him to get lost, had thrown his business card across the table and left his office, and that had been the last time she’d spoken to him until now.
“I don’t need your help,” she says, even though her voice wavers, even though she can feel the ghost of Evan’s fists on her shoulders, can feel the sharp edge of the knife he’d borrowed from the pub owner down the road. “I can handle him.”
Lucien pushes off the wall, and suddenly he’s closer, the gap between them shrinking, and she can see the faint lines around his eyes, the way his heterochromatic eyes soften when he looks at her. “Evan has a knife. He’s not going to let you handle him alone.” He pauses, and for a second, she can see the vulnerability under his tailored suit, the half-demon boy who’d grown up alone in Marseille, looking for a way to belong. “I’m not here to ask for the research this time. I’m here to protect you. That’s all.”
Rory stares at him, at the way his hand curls around the cane, at the way his suit fits his shoulders perfectly , at the way he’s not lying—she can tell. She’d always been good at reading people, at picking up on lies, but with Lucien, she’d never been able to tell when he was being honest, or when he was just playing his fixer game. Until now.
She steps closer, and her bare ankle brushes the leg of his tailored trousers, and she doesn’t pull away. “Why?” she asks, this time quiet, vulnerable, nothing like the cool delivery driver she pretends to be. “You said you only cared about the research before.”
He reaches out, and his hand brushes her wrist, the one with the crescent scar, and she doesn’t pull away. The touch is gentle, careful, like he’s handling something fragile. “That wasn’t the only reason I wanted the research. I wanted you to let me in. I wanted to stop seeing you as a client, and start seeing you as… more.” His voice drops, so quiet she almost misses it, and his amber eye glints in the dim light from the hallway. “I’ve been thinking about you every day since you told me to get lost. About the way you yelled at a customer for stealing his noodles outside Silas’ bar, about the way you laughed when Ptolemy knocked over your tea, about the way your eyes lit up when you were talking about Eva’s research on medieval demons.”
Rory’s throat tightens. She’d never told him about that last part, about how she’d spent her nights off reading Eva’s scrolls, about how she’d always been fascinated by the supernatural, even after Evan had told her it was all nonsense. “You noticed that?”
“Of course I noticed.” He shifts closer, and his other hand comes up, touches her cheek, and the touch is warm, even through the cool air of the flat. His fingers brush the loose strands of her shoulder-length black hair, which has fallen out of the messy bun she’d tied it in that morning, and she shivers, not from the cold, but from the touch . “I noticed everything about you, Rory. From the first day I saw you sitting outside Silas’ bar, covered in delivery grease, yelling at a tourist who’d refused to pay for his lo mein. I knew then that I was done for.”
She remembers that day , now. She’d just finished a double shift, her feet sore, eating a cold spring roll she’d grabbed from the restaurant’s leftover bin, and he’d sat down next to her, offered her a cigarette, asked her if she needed a fixer. She’d told him to go away, that she didn’t need help from someone who made his living messing with the supernatural, but he’d stayed, and they’d talked for an hour, and she’d felt safe for the first time since she left Evan.
She tilts her head up to meet his gaze, the five-inch difference in their heights making it easy, and smiles, for the first time in six months. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you before,” she says, her voice quiet, and it’s the first time she’s ever admitted that she’d been wrong, that she’d been scared of letting someone get close to her.
He pulls her closer, and she wraps her arms around his shoulders, and he presses a kiss to the top of her head, gentle, careful. The rain slows outside, and the curry scent drifts up again, soft and warm, and for the first time in half a year, Rory feels like she’s home.