AI Rory twisted the third deadbolt on Eva’s front door, cold steel scraping the crescent scar on her left wrist. The barometer had dropped that morning, and the old injury ached like it always did when rain loomed . She’d been holed up in Eva’s Brick Lane flat for three days, Eva herself chasing leads north of the Thames on a coven that had been shaking down local shopkeepers, and the steady pounding on the wood had led her to assume Eva had forgotten her keys, too harried to dig them out of the overflowing tote slung over her shoulder. She wrenched the door open.
Lucien stood on the step, the smell of jasmine and burnt ozone clinging to his tailored charcoal suit, his platinum blond hair slipped loose from its usual slicked-back style to fall in a thin strand over his black eye. The amber one glinted, the way it always did when he’d expended energy, and a shallow cut sliced through his jaw, crusted with half-dried blood. His ivory-handled cane dug into the step’s lintel, the weight of his body leaning into it like his leg ached. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, lifted his head from the stack of grimoires piled by the door and hissed, his back arching like he’d spotted a feral dog straying too close to his food bowl.
What the fuck are you doing here?
Rory’s voice came out sharper than she intended, the edge of eight months of unspoken anger cutting through the shock of seeing him on her doorstep. She’d spent the first three months after he vanished checking her phone every ten minutes, checking the seats of her delivery scooter every time she stepped out of the Golden Empress, lingering at the bar of Silas’ every night for an hour after her shift ended, waiting for him to turn up like he always had, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, that half-smile tugging at his mouth when he spotted her. She’d cried once, drunk on cheap rosé in Eva’s bathtub, and called him every name she could think of, then cried harder because she’d still have let him in if he knocked. Now he was here, and all she could feel was the old hurt coiling in her chest, tight as a fist.
I need a place to lay low for 48 hours.
Lucien’s voice was lower than she remembered, rough around the edges, like he’d been yelling for hours. He lifted a hand to brush the hair out of his eyes, and she spotted the bruise blooming black across his knuckles. A rival crew out of Croydon came for my stash of intel. They know I have ties to this block. They won’t think to look for me here.
Eva’s flat isn’t a safe house for you to hide in when your little supernatural underworld games go wrong. She gripped the edge of the door, ready to slam it in his face, but her gaze snagged on the way his weight shifted, like he couldn’t hold himself up much longer. The cut on his jaw wasn’t the only injury; a dark stain bloomed across the left side of his suit, seeping through the fabric slow and dark, the same shade she recognized from the nights she’d patched up Eva after witch brawls. That was blood.
No one’s coming after you. They don’t know you exist to them. He paused, his throat bobbing like he was forcing the words out. I never told them about you. Never told anyone. I made sure of it. That’s why I left.
The words hung in the air , thick as the smell of garlic and fenugreek that seeped up through the flat’s floorboards, the curry house below wrapping them in its constant scent. Rory’s grip on the door loosened. She’d spent eight months wondering why he’d left, why he’d vanished with nothing but a crumpled note that read Don’t look for me, no explanation, no warning, just gone. She’d convinced herself he’d gotten bored, that she was just a fling, a human girl who delivered dumplings for a living that he’d toyed with for a few weeks before moving on to someone more interesting, someone who fit into his world of demons and spies and hidden blades.
You left because you didn’t want them to find me. She said it flat, not a question, because it all clicked into place: the way he’d never brought anyone around her, the way he’d always walked three steps behind her when they left his flat, scanning the street like he waited for someone to jump out. The night he vanished, she’d found a broken glass on his kitchen floor, a shard stuck in the window frame, like someone had thrown it through the glass. She’d thought he’d had a fight with a client, but it hadn’t been that. It had been someone coming for him, and he’d run to keep her safe.
I had a contract on my head. Anyone close to me was fair game. His cane slipped a little on the step, and he caught himself on the doorframe, his hand brushing hers for half a second. The contact sent a jolt up her arm, the same spark she’d felt the first time he’d kissed her outside Silas’ bar, rain falling on their shoulders, his hand cupping her jaw like she was something fragile. I couldn’t let them hurt you. I’d rather you hate me than be dead.
She stepped back from the door, leaving the gap wide enough for him to step through, and Ptolemy bolted from the grimoires, darting under the bed in the back bedroom, his tail puffed up. The flat was small, every surface stacked with Eva’s books and scrolls and research notes, stacks lining the walls, teetering precariously over the lumpy couch that served as Rory’s bed when she stayed over. A half-empty mug of tea sat on the coffee table, next to a stack of Rory’s delivery manifests from the Golden Empress, the ink smudged from where she’d spilled soy sauce on them the week before.
Get inside before someone sees you. She shut the door behind him, sliding the three deadbolts back into place one by one, the metal clicking loud in the quiet of the flat. When she turned around, he was leaning against the wall by the door, his eyes closed, like he was grateful to be off his feet. The bloodstain on his suit had spread, seeping through the fabric to drip a small dark drop onto the scuffed wooden floor.
You’re shot . She crossed the room in three steps, reaching for the button on his suit jacket to undo it, her fingers brushing the cool fabric. He flinched away from her touch for half a second, then let her push the jacket off his shoulders, it falling to the floor in a heap. The bullet grazed his side, the entry wound raw and bleeding, his shirt stuck to the skin around it. I have a first aid kit under the kitchen sink. Eva keeps it stocked for when she comes home brawling with witches.
I can patch myself up. He pushed off the wall, but his leg gave out under him, and she caught him, her shoulder under his arm to hold his weight up, the heat of his body seeping through his shirt into her skin. He ran warmer than any human, the half-demon blood in his veins burning hot, the same way it had the night they’d spent together in his flat, his hands roaming over her skin, his breath hot against her neck. She led him to the couch, lowering him down onto the lumpy cushions, and he winced as his side hit the fabric.
Shut up. You can barely stand. She turned to walk to the kitchen, yanking the cabinet under the sink open to grab the red first aid kit, the plastic clattering as she hauled it out. When she came back, he was staring at the stack of her delivery manifests on the coffee table, his finger brushing the edge of the top one, the Golden Empress’s logo printed in gold ink at the top.
You still work at the restaurant. It wasn’t a question, just a statement, like he’d been checking in on her even from far away. She knelt down in front of the couch, setting the first aid kit on the floor, and unscrewed the cap of the antiseptic, the sharp smell cutting through the curry scent lingering in the air.
I never had anywhere else to go. She ripped the hem of his shirt up, exposing the raw wound on his side, the bullet grazing just deep enough to bleed, not deep enough to kill, but enough to leave a scar . She poured the antiseptic over the wound, and he hissed, his hand fisting in the couch’s cushion, his knuckles white. Eva let me crash here after I left Evan. Said it was safer than my flat above Silas’ for a while. Evan found me once, showed up at the bar, screaming, broke a window. Silas kicked him out, but Eva insisted I lay low here for a bit.
I know . He said it quiet, so quiet she almost missed it. She froze, the gauze in her hand hovering over the wound. What do you mean, you know ?
I had Silas send me a report every week. Made sure you were okay. Paid him to keep an eye on Evan, make sure he never got within a block of you. He lifted his head, his amber and black eyes meeting hers, no lies in them, just the raw truth of everything he’d done for her, everything he’d never told her. I paid for the new window at the bar, too. Evan didn’t pay for the damage. I did. Didn’t want you to have to pick up the bill.
She stared at him, the gauze slipping from her hand to fall to the floor. All the anger she’d carried for eight months, all the hurt, all the what-ifs, melted away in that second, because he’d never left her. He’d never stopped looking out for her. He’d just been too scared to put her in danger, to let anyone know she was his, because that would have made her a target. She’d thought he’d abandoned her, but he’d been protecting her this whole time.
Why didn’t you just tell me? Her voice cracked, the tears she’d held back for months pricking at her bright blue eyes, a tear slipping down her cheek. I hated you for eight months. I thought you got bored of me. I thought you just left because I wasn’t good enough for your world.
You’re too good for my world. He lifted a hand to cup her jaw, his thumb brushing the tear off her skin, his skin warm against hers. All the people in it are liars and killers and thieves. I didn’t want you to have to be part of that. I wanted you to just be Rory, the girl who delivered dumplings, who laughed too loud at bad rom-coms, who drew constellations on the fogged-up windows of her scooter when it rained. I wanted you to be safe.
I don’t want to be safe if it means you’re not in my life. She leaned into his touch, her hand covering his where it rested on her jaw, her fingers lacing through his. The crescent scar on her wrist pressed against his knuckles, the old ache fading, like it knew he was there, that he was home. Rain started to fall outside, hitting the flat’s window, the sound of cars splashing through Brick Lane’s puddles distant, just the two of them in the small space, the smell of curry and antiseptic wrapping around them.
I’m here now. He pulled her up onto the couch with him, her head resting on his uninjured shoulder, his arm wrapping around her waist to hold her close, like he was scared she’d vanish if he let go. I can make it right. I can stay. If you want me to.
I want you to. She tilted her head up to kiss him, his lips soft against hers, the taste of mint and cigarette smoke clinging to them, the same taste she’d remembered for eight months, the kiss she’d dreamed of a hundred times since he left. He kissed her back, his hand tangling in her straight, shoulder-length black hair, holding her tight, like he was making up for all the time they lost, all the days they spent apart, all the things they never got to say. Ptolemy peeked out from the bedroom, hissing soft, but neither of them noticed, too wrapped up in each other, the complicated past melting away, the future finally within reach.