AI The third deadbolt snicked open under Rory’s fumbling thumb, the chain slipped loose, and she wrenched the door open with a sharp, teasing retort on her tongue about Eva taking so long to fetch samosas she’d have time to write a thesis on the curse of bad takeout before she got back. The words died in her throat. It wasn’t Eva on the step, rain sheeting off the brickwork of the curry house below, his shoulders hunched against the November cold, the collar of a charcoal overcoat turned up to his ears. It was Lucien.
His platinum blond hair, usually slicked back so sharp it could cut glass, was matted at the temples, a strand falling into one of his eyes—one amber, one black, the heterochromia that had first drawn her to him six months prior, when he’d wandered into Silas’ bar after closing, looking for a quiet place to wait out a supernatural turf war. He leaned hard on that ivory-handled cane of his, the one she’d teased him was just for show, until he’d flipped it open in front of her to reveal the thin silver blade that ran its length, proving it was anything but. He stood half a head taller than her 5’6” frame, even hunched into the cane, and for a second Rory just stared, her bright blue eyes wide, strands of her straight, shoulder-length black hair falling in her face as she blinked, like if she squeezed her eyes tight enough he’d vanish, just like he had six weeks ago.
She recovered fast, slamming her weight against the door to shut it in his face, but Lucien was faster, shoving the toe of his scuffed leather dress shoe into the gap, his cane clicking against the oak frame before she could seal him out. “Don’t,” he said, his voice rough, the faint Marseille lilt that only surfaced when he was tired or upset thickening his words. “Rory, please. I’m not here to cause trouble.”
“What, you’re here to leave another fifty quid on my nightstand? Thought you’d already gotten that cowardly bit out of your system.” She jerked against the door, but he held it firm, his gaze steady even as her voice cracked. That night, six weeks prior, they’d stumbled up the stairs to her flat above Silas’ bar, drunk on cheap whiskey and three months of pent-up tension , and she’d told him things she’d never told anyone—about the crescent scar on her left wrist, carved by her barrister father’s clumsy stitches when she’d fallen off her bike at seven, about hating pre-law, about fleeing Cardiff to escape Evan, about how for the first time since she’d moved to London, she felt safe with someone. She’d woken up at dawn to an empty bed and a crumpled fifty on her nightstand, like she was a one-night stand he’d paid off to disappear.
A soft, rumbling purr cut through the tension , and Ptolemy, Eva’s notoriously feral tabby, wound around Rory’s ankles before trotting straight past her to rub his flank against Lucien’s boots, purring so loud it cut through the rain drumming on the fire escape. Rory stared, stunned—Ptolemy had swatted Eva’s own cousin for trying to pet him last Christmas, but he was leaning into Lucien like they were old friends. She stepped back from the door, jaw tight, and Lucien slipped inside, shaking rain off his coat before she could change her mind. She slammed the door shut, sliding all three deadbolts back into place one by one, the familiar click of each lock the only thing anchoring her as Lucien shed his overcoat to hang over the clanking radiator, his tailored charcoal suit still damp at the cuffs.
The flat was cramped, every surface stacked high with Eva’s books—19th century occult grimoires next to dog-eared paperback romances, scrolls tied with twine, research notes scrawled in Eva’s messy handwriting covering every table, every windowsill, even the floor. They picked their way around a teetering stack of grimoires to reach the lumpy two-seater couch by the window, and Lucien propped his cane against the doorframe, the silver blade peeking a quarter of an inch out of its cracked ivory handle.
“Who gave you this address?” Rory crossed her arms, leaning against the kitchen counter to put space between them, her voice sharp enough to cut. “Eva would never sell me out. She knows what I’m running from.”
“I didn’t have to ask her,” Lucien said, and the quiet honesty in his voice deflated her anger a little. He was an information broker, the best in London’s supernatural underworld, fluent in four languages, capable of digging up anything on anyone. Of course he could track her to Eva’s flat. “I tracked Evan to your old flat above Silas’ three days ago. He smashed the kitchen window, left a hunting knife with your name carved into the handle. And he’s not just some angry human ex. He made a deal. With a demon from Avaros. My father’s realm.”
Rory’s knees buckled, and she grabbed the counter to steady herself. She’d fled Cardiff, left her parents’ steady life, left the pre-law degree her father had pressured her into, because Evan had gotten so violent she’d woken up one night to him standing over her bed, holding a broken bottle, and she’d known if she stayed she’d die in that flat. She’d run to London, thought she’d escaped him, that the worst thing she had to worry about was dropping dumplings on a customer’s foot during her shifts at Golden Empress. She’d never guessed he’d reach into the supernatural world she’d only caught glimpses of through Eva and Lucien to hunt her down.
“Why are you telling me this?” She whispered, sliding down the counter to sit on the floor, her hands shaking. “Why come all the way here to warn me? You made it pretty clear six weeks ago you wanted nothing to do with me.”
Lucien sat down on the edge of the couch, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on the scuffed linoleum between them. “I left because I had to. I’ve spent my whole life running from the fact that anyone that gets close to me gets hurt. I had a girlfriend in Marseille, Elodie. We were together for two years. A rival demon that wanted to steal my territory grabbed her, killed her, to send me a message. I couldn’t let that happen to you. I thought if I left, if you hated me, you’d stay far away from all of this. That Evan would be the least of your worries if you stayed tangled up with a half-demon fixer with a target on his back. I’d rather you hate me and be alive than… than anything else happen to you.” He pulled up the sleeve of his suit jacket, revealing a black brand twisted around his forearm, the sigil of his father’s house, the mark every member of his bloodline carried, and Rory’s breath caught. She’d never seen it before, never known he carried that weight .
She pushed herself off the floor to sit next to him, her shoulder brushing his, and lifted her left wrist to hold the small crescent scar between them, the mark she’d carried since she was seven. “I was in love with you,” she said, and the words came out easy, like they’d been waiting to leave her tongue for months . “I’ve been in love with you since I showed up at Silas’ bar soaked through, after I dropped a whole tray of pork dumplings on a banker’s foot during a Golden Empress delivery, and you bought me a whiskey and laughed so hard you spilled your own. I thought you left because I wasn’t enough. That I was just some ordinary girl from Cardiff, not worth the trouble. That hurt worse than anything Evan ever did to me. Worse than the time he broke my wrist, worse than every time I had to hide from him in a friend’s spare room. I thought I’d never be enough for anyone that had seen the parts of me I hide.”
Lucien turned to face her, lacing his fingers through hers, his thumb brushing over the scar on her wrist, and there was a tear tracking down his cheek, a sight so rare Rory almost forgot how to breathe. He never cried, never let anyone see him soft, not even the underworld leaders that paid him six-figure sums to fix their messes. “You’re the only person that ever saw me,” he said, his voice cracking . “Not the fixer, not the half-demon, just Lucien. The first person that didn’t flinch when I told you what my father was, that didn’t ask me for favors, that just wanted to hear about the stupid trips I took to the French seaside when I was a kid. I could never think you weren’t enough. You’re the only thing that’s ever felt like enough . I was just too scared to say it.”
He kissed her then, soft at first, like he was scared she’d pull away, and then it was all the pent-up tension , all the hurt and fear and longing of the last six weeks melting into one, his hand cupping her jaw, her fingers tangling in his messy blond hair. Ptolemy jumped up onto the couch between them, curling into a ball like he’d been waiting for this exact moment, and the smell of curry from the flat below drifted up, mixing with the jasmine tea Rory had been steeping earlier, the rain tapping soft against the window. When they pulled apart, Lucien rested his forehead against hers, his breath warm against her skin. “We’ll deal with Evan together,” he said. “I won’t leave you again. I promise.”
Rory laughed, wiping the tears off her cheeks, as they heard the jingle of Eva’s keys in the lock, the first deadbolt snicking open. They had a lot of explaining to do, a lot of loose ends to tie up, a lot of threats to face. But for the first time since she’d fled Cardiff, she didn’t have to face any of it alone.