AI The third deadbolt turned with a heavy, metallic clank. Aurora pulled the door open, her shoulder already braced to receive a lukewarm takeout order or a stray envelope for the flat upstairs.
Instead, the hallway light caught the gleam of slicked-back platinum blond hair.
Lucien Moreau stood on the threshold of the Brick Lane flat. The scent of rain and expensive French cologne cut through the lingering aroma of turmeric and cardamom rising from the curry house below. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, pristine despite the London drizzle, and his fingers curled around the ivory handle of his cane.
"You changed the locks, Rory."
His voice, a low drag of velvet and gravel, bypassed her ears and settled straight under her ribs. One amber eye and one black eye swept over her face, cataloging the flour smudge on her cheek, the oversized knitted jumper, and the way her breath hitched.
"Three locks, actually." Aurora blocked the doorway, her hand gripping the brass knob until her knuckles turned white . The crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist throbbed with a phantom pulse . "The city got dangerous. Or maybe I just wanted to keep out the garbage."
Lucien tilted his head. A faint, razor-thin smile touched his lips, though it failed to reach his mismatched eyes. "And here I thought we parted on terms of mutual, if silent, understanding."
"We didn't part, Lucien. You walked out of a burning warehouse in Southwark and forgot to check if I was still breathing."
"I knew you were breathing." He took a single step forward, the tip of his cane tapping against the wooden floorboards of the entryway. He didn't push past her, but his height, a commanding five-foot-eleven, crowded her into the narrow hallway. "Your heart rate was ninety-four beats per minute. I could hear it from the curb."
"Charming." Aurora didn't budge . "What do you want? I'm in the middle of... not dealing with you."
From the living room, Ptolemy the tabby cat let out a loud, demanding meow, as if sensing the sudden spike of adrenaline in the flat .
"I need a place to sit, some of that dreadful instant coffee you keep in the pantry, and five minutes of your quick mind," Lucien said. He lifted his left arm slightly . The charcoal fabric of his sleeve was soaked through, sticking to his forearm in a way that suggested something sticky and dark beneath the rain.
Aurora’s eyes darted to the sleeve. Her anger flared, hot and familiar , spark-bright against the cold wall she had spent the last three months building. "You're bleeding."
"The streets are lively tonight."
"Idiot." She stepped back, leaving the door open. "Wipe your boots. If you get blood on Eva's rugs, she'll use your skull as a planter."
Lucien slipped inside, closing the door behind him and turning all three deadbolts with the practiced ease of a man who memorised security patterns for a living. He moved with a slight favor to his left side, though he kept his spine perfectly straight, maintaining the illusion of absolute control.
The flat on Brick Lane was a labyrinth of paper. Books climbed the walls in precarious towers; ancient scrolls shared counter space with half-empty mugs of tea and scattered printouts. Lucien navigated the chaos like a ghost through a graveyard, eventually sinking onto the worn velvet sofa. He laid his ivory-handled cane across his knees.
Aurora marched into the kitchen alcove. She yanked the kettle under the tap, the roar of rushing water filling the silence between them. Her hands shook, just a little, and she hated herself for it. Three months of silence . Three months of convincing herself that the half-demon fixer was just another bad habit she had successfully kicked, like her Cardiff days or the shadow of Evan.
"You didn't write," she said over the rising hum of the kettle. She didn't look at him, focusing instead on scooping cheap coffee granules into two mismatched mugs.
"We agreed that silence was the safest currency," Lucien replied from the dark of the living room.
"You agreed. I was too busy coughing up smoke to argue." She walked back in, carrying the mugs. She set his down on a stack of medieval history journals near his knee, then stood over him, her arms crossed. "Why are you here, Lucien? Truly. You have five safe houses in Mayfair and a clinic on payroll in Soho. You don't need my instant coffee, and you certainly don't need my sympathy."
Lucien looked up. The amber eye seemed to glow in the dim light of the flat, reflecting the streetlamps from the window. "The Mayfair properties are compromised. The Soho doctor is currently stuffed inside a freezer in his own basement." He reached up, his leather-gloved fingers slowly working the buttons of his suit jacket. "And I wanted to see if you still looked at me with that particular brand of disgust."
"It's not disgust," Aurora whispered, the truth slipping out before her defenses could catch it .
He paused, his hand hovering over his waistcoat. "No?"
"It's exhaustion." She sat down on the edge of the coffee table opposite him, her knees almost touching his. The proximity was a physical weight . She could smell the iron of his blood now, mixing with the rain. "Show me."
Lucien peeled back the charcoal jacket, then the vest. Beneath, a white linen shirt was ruined , stained a deep, blooming crimson along his ribs. A jagged tear in the fabric revealed three deep, parallel lacerations. The skin around the wounds was blackened , veins spider-webbing outward in bruised purple lines.
"Avaros poison," Aurora diagnosed, her voice dropping . Her pre-law degree hadn't taught her this, but three years in London's shadow cabinet had. "Your father's kin?"
"They lack creativity," Lucien muttered, his breathing shallower now that he had stopped pretending to be unbroken. "A simple ambush. They wanted the ledger."
"Did they get it?"
"I am insulted you even ask." He reached into his inner pocket and produced a thin, leather-bound notebook, completely dry, and tossed it onto the pile of scrolls. "But they did manage to clip me. The venom slows my blood. It makes... transition difficult."
Aurora leaned forward, her straight black hair falling over her shoulders, shielding her face. She reached out, her fingers hovering just above the blackened skin of his ribs. She could feel the unnatural heat radiating from the wound, the demonic energy fighting his human half.
"You need to draw it out," she said.
"I need a distraction," Lucien corrected. His hand reached out, catching her left wrist. His touch was burning hot, his leather glove rough against her skin. He didn't pull her closer, but he didn't let go either. His thumb brushed over the crescent-shaped scar on her wrist. "You always were my best distraction, Rory."
"Don't do that," she said, though she didn't pull away. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm. "Don't act like we're some tragic romance. You left."
"I protected you."
"By making me think you were dead?" Her blue eyes snapped up, locking onto his mismatched pair. The hurt, raw and unedited, spilled over. "I spent a week checking the morgues, Lucien. I called every contact in the low-market. I thought they had dragged you back to the pit. And then I see you two weeks later, buying oysters in Chelsea with some high-court changeling."
Lucien’s grip on her wrist tightened, just enough to register the heat of his palm through the leather. "She had the keys to the safehouse. It was business."
"Everything is business with you."
"Because pleasure gets people killed in our line of work," he hissed, a rare slip of his composure. A low, demonic rasp undertoned his French accent, his black eye shifting entirely dark, the pupil swallowing the iris. "If they knew you were my weakness, they wouldn't have aimed for my ribs. They would have come here. To this flat. To you."
The silence returned, but it was no longer cold. It was thick, charged with the sudden, heavy admission hanging between them.
Aurora looked down at his hand on her wrist, then up at his mouth, tight with pain and something older, deeper.
"You're a fool," she whispered.
"Undoubtedly."
She leaned in, her cool hands coming up to cup his face, her fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. Lucien let out a ragged breath, leaning into her touch as if he had been starving for it in the dark. She leaned down, her lips brushing against his, soft at first, a testing of boundaries, before the heat of him pulled her under.