AI The door swings open, cast iron pan gripped tight in Rory’s right hand, the three deadbolts of Eva’s front door clicking loose behind the latch as she lifts the pan to chest height. Rain soaks the threshold, and Lucien Moreau stands there, platinum blond hair half-mussed from the downpour, charcoal suit shoulders glistening , his ivory-handled cane planted firm between his boots. His amber and black eyes pin her, no trace of the cold, untouchable info broker she’d known three months prior, just something raw and tight around the edges.
Rory’s grip on the pan whitens. She slams the door halfway shut, but Lucien shoves the tip of his cane into the gap, stopping it before the latch can catch. The metal of the cane’s tip scuffs the oak frame, the same sound that echoes in her memory from the night she’d run from his flat, the night she’d seen the thick white envelope emblazoned with Evan’s return address on his kitchen counter, the unread text glinting on his phone screen: I know where she is.
You have some fucking nerve.
Lucien’s jaw tightens, the cut along its line bleeding a slow, dark trickle down his neck. He pulls his cane back just enough to keep the door from latching, but doesn’t push inside, gives her the space she’d spent three months screaming she needed.
Evan is three blocks west of here. Two goons with him, all carrying unlicensed pistols. He got the address of this flat an hour ago from a kid he paid fifty quid to follow you from the Golden Empress last Tuesday. I took down one of his scouts outside Shoreditch station, followed the rest here. You can slam the door in my face if you want, but you can’t survive three men alone, not in this cramped flat with only a cast iron pan to defend yourself.
Rory’s blood runs cold. She lowers the pan, her arm throbbing from the grip, and yanks the door open the rest of the way, stepping back to let him cross the threshold. She slams it shut behind him, spinning the three deadbolts home one by one, the metal clacking loud enough to wake the curry house owners below. The flat smells like old parchment, cumin that seeps through the floorboards every night, and the lavender candle she’d lit that afternoon to chase the damp out. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, lifts his head from the stack of medieval scrolls he’s been napping on, hisses once, and flattens his ears at the half-demon that just crossed his territory.
Lucien shakes rain off his suit jacket, hangs it over the arm of Eva’s lumpy pullout couch, and leans his cane against the coffee table, which is stacked three deep with Eva’s research notes on rogue demon lords. He doesn’t move further into the flat, keeps ten feet of space between them, like he’s scared she’ll bolt if he gets too close. Rory sets the pan on the edge of the coffee table, her left wrist brushing a stack of notebooks, the crescent scar peeking out from the cuff of her faded hoodie. She’d shown that scar to Lucien once, six months into their whatever-it-was, the night they’d stayed up drinking cheap whiskey on his fire escape, and he’d kissed it, slow and soft, like it was something precious, not a stupid childhood mistake from falling off her dad’s bike in Cardiff.
You came all this way just to warn me? Could have sent a text. Could have sent one of your runners.
I tried that. Tried everything. You blocked every number I own. You moved out of the flat above Silas’ bar before I could even explain the mess you walked in on that night. You changed your delivery shifts at the restaurant so I could never catch you dropping off orders. You erased every way I could reach you, so the only option I had was to show up here unannounced, to keep you from getting killed.
Rory’s throat burns. She crosses her arms over her chest, stares at the scuff on her Converse, the same pair she’d worn the night she ran from Lucien’s flat. She’d thought she was doing the right thing, thought she’d caught him working for Evan, the same ex that had broken her rib, that had tracked her across three postcodes, that had made her flee Cardiff and leave her family behind just to get away from him. She’d thought the only person she’d ever let herself trust after Evan had turned on her, that the soft man who made her coffee with one sugar every morning, who told her about growing up in Marseille with his human mum, who’d sat quiet while she cried through the details of her abuse, was just another man that would hurt her for money.
I saw the envelope. The one with Evan’s stamp on your kitchen counter. The text that said I knew where I was. What the fuck was I supposed to think, Lucien? That you were doing me a favour? That you were just popping round for tea to tell me he was coming ?
Lucien steps forward, closes the gap between them, and Rory doesn’t back away. He reaches into the inner pocket of his waistcoat, pulls out a thick stack of papers, and tosses them onto the coffee table. The top page is a police report, Evan’s name printed bold at the top, charges of domestic assault, unlawful possession of a firearm, conspiracy to murder. Next to it is a copy of the restraining order she’d filed against Evan, extended to the whole of Greater London, signed by a judge three weeks prior.
That envelope wasn’t his cash. It was the evidence I spent six months building to put him away for life. I texted him that I knew where you were to lure him to a meet in Southwark, so I could hand the cops all the evidence and lock him up before he ever got close to you. I didn’t tell you because if he’d suspected I was building a case against him, he would have used you to get back at me. He would have hurt you to make me stop. I couldn’t risk that. I couldn’t lose you before I even got the chance to tell you I love you.
The words hang in the air, thick as the lavender smoke curling from the candle. Rory lifts her head, meets his eyes, the amber one glinting in the low lamplight, the black one dark and soft, no trace of the cold broker that negotiates with demon lords and crime bosses alike. This is the first time he’s said it, the first time either of them has put the thing between them into words, after three months of running, of misunderstanding, of being too scared to say what they really felt.
A car door slams three floors below. Rory freezes, crosses to the window, and peeks through the crack in the curtains, Evan’s buzzcut visible under the streetlamp, his broad frame leaning against the hood of a black SUV, yelling her name loud enough for the whole block to hear. Lucien grabs his cane, twists the ivory handle, and the thin silver blade hidden inside slides out with a soft shick, the same blade he’d used to kill a demon that had tried to kidnap her the year before, the blade he’d kept sharp just to keep her safe. He steps in front of her, shielding her from the window, his shoulders tense, ready to fight.
Sirens wail in the distance, growing closer by the second. Lucien had called the cops before he entered the flat, tipped them off that Evan had a warrant out for his arrest, that he was armed and on Brick Lane. Evan hears the sirens too, yells a string of curses, and shoves his goons back into the SUV, the tires peeling away from the curb before the first cop car even turns onto the street. The sirens pass, the block goes quiet again, only the sound of rain lashing against the window.
Lucien sheathes the blade, leans the cane against the wall, and turns back to Rory. She crosses the room in two steps, reaches up, and brushes the blood off the cut on his jaw with her thumb, her hand lingering on his skin. She’d spent three months missing him, three months waking up cold in the empty flat above the bar, three months scrolling through his old contact in her phone, deleting it, then adding it back, too scared to reach out, too scared she’d been wrong.
I was scared . I’d just left Evan, I’d let myself trust you, and when I saw that envelope , I thought it was all a lie. I thought I’d never get to tell you I love you too. I spent every day after I left your flat wishing I’d waited, wishing I’d let you explain. I thought I’d lost you.
Lucien wraps his arms around her, pulls her tight against his chest, and Rory rests her head on his shoulder, listening to the fast, steady thud of his half-demon heart under her ear. Ptolemy stops hissing, jumps up onto the couch, and curls up on a stack of books, his purr loud enough to cut through the rain. Rory’s fingers tangle in the mess of his platinum blond hair, the crescent scar on her wrist pressing against his back, and for the first time since she left Cardiff, she feels safe.
You didn’t lose me. I’m right here.