AI The top deadbolt scraped against its brass housing, a grueling, three-part metallic screech that always signaled Eva's sticky lock.
Aurora Carter froze, her fingers hovering over her cracked laptop screen. Ptolemy, curled into a dense orange spiral on a stack of seventeenth-century demonology texts, twitched one ear but didn't open his eyes.
The middle lock clicked. The bottom one, the heavy iron latch, yielded with a heavy thud.
"Eva, if you forgot your keys again, I'm charging you rent in manual labor," Rory muttered, sliding off the mismatched corduroy sofa.
She swung the door inward.
The scent hit her first—expensive sandalwood, ozone, and the faint, bitter metallic tang that clung to anyone who spent too much time in the deeper channels of the London Underground.
Lucien Moreau stood in the dim, curry-scented hallway of the Brick Lane tenement. Rain ran down the gutters of his tailored charcoal overcoat, pooling around his leather oxfords. The ivory handle of his cane caught the weak bulb light of the landing, the carved dragon head gleaming like polished bone.
Rory gripped the edge of the door, her knuckles turning the color of skimmed milk.
"You're dead," she said.
"An exaggeration propagated by those who owe me money." His voice rolled out, smooth as oiled silk , the Marseilles lilt dragging over the vowels. He tilted his head, his heterochromatic eyes locking onto hers—one a warm, predatory amber, the other a fathomless, light-swallowing black. "You changed your hair."
"You died in Brussels, Lucien."
"And yet, here I am, dripping on your linoleum." He stepped forward, not waiting for an invitation, his cane tapping once against the threshold.
Rory didn't budge. She braced her shoulder against the frame, blocking the narrow entryway. The heat radiating off him defied the November chill , a reminder of the half-blood lineage he usually kept tucked beneath his Savile Row exterior. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, erratic rhythm that pissed her off.
"Three months," she said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register. "No calls. No messages through Silas. Just a bloody crime scene in a canal-side warehouse and a silver cufflink left in a pool of dried blood."
Lucien’s gaze flicked down to her left wrist, where the small, crescent-shaped childhood scar stood out white against her pale skin. He reached out, a gloved finger hovering just millimeters above the mark before he caught himself and dropped his hand.
"The cufflink was a plant," he said, his amber eye narrowing slightly . "A clumsy one at that. I expected better from you, Rory. You always had an eye for detail."
"I had an eye for a funeral shroud. I almost bought one." She stepped back, more out of a sudden, suffocating need for air than any gesture of welcome.
Lucien slipped past her, the scent of him immediately invading the cramped flat. He scanned the room, taking in the chaotic towers of grimoires, the discarded takeout containers from the Golden Empress, and Ptolemy, who finally opened one eye, hissed softly at the demonic signature in the air, and went back to sleep.
"Charming," Lucien murmured, resting both hands on the ivory crook of his cane. "Still living out of cardboard boxes and old paper."
"It's Eva's place." Rory slammed the door, throwing all three deadbolts with deliberate, violent jerks. "And don't change the subject. Why are you here?"
"I needed a place where the local syndicates wouldn't think to look." He shed his damp overcoat, draping it over a stack of leather-bound folios with a negligence that made Rory’s jaw clench. Beneath it, his charcoal suit sat immaculate, conforming to the broad line of his shoulders. "The Avaros clan has placed a rather hefty bounty on my head. Apparently, my father's relatives possess a very poor sense of humor regarding missing relics."
"So you drag the target straight to my doorstep."
"To the one person in London who doesn't have a price." Lucien took a slow step toward her, the space between them shrinking until she had to tilt her chin up to maintain eye contact. "Or did you sell my secrets while I was gone, *ma petite *?"
The French epithet stung, a sharp needle of familiarity that pierced through her anger. The last time he had called her that, they had been pressed against the brickwork of an alleyway in Soho, breath mingling in the winter air, his hands hot against her waist before everything went sideways. Before the lies, the disappearing acts, and the sudden, violent rupture that sent him back across the Channel.
"I should have," Rory whispered, her blue eyes flashing . "I could have bought my own restaurant with the bounty money. I could have gone back to Cardiff."
"You hate Cardiff."
"I hate you more right now."
Lucien’s mouth twitched, a faint, fleeting ghost of a smirk that vanished as quickly as it appeared. He reached out, his bare hand—uncovered now, pale and elegant—stopping just short of her jaw. The heat radiating from his palm made her skin prickle.
"You don't," he said softly .
"Don't tell me what I feel, Lucien. You don't get that right anymore." Rory grabbed his wrist, intending to fling his hand away, but the moment her fingers wrapped around his skin, the sheer warmth of him anchored her.
He didn't pull back. Instead, his thumb swept over the inside of her wrist, brushing the crescent scar. The contact was electric , a sudden, heavy current that settled deep in her chest.
"I had to go dark, Rory," he said, his voice losing its playful edge, dropping into a low, gravelly register. "If they knew you were associated with me, if they had even a suspicion of what you mean to me, they wouldn't have just planted a cufflink. They would have sent your head to Silas in a cardboard box."
"I can take care of myself."
"Against humans, yes. Against third-tier demons from the ash plains? No." Lucien leaned in, his breath warm against her temple . "You are clever, Malphora, but you are still terrifyingly fragile."
"Don't call me that," she breathed, though she didn't let go of his wrist. Her grip tightened, her nails digging slightly into his skin. "You left me to think you were dead. For twelve weeks. Do you have any idea what that does to a person?"
"I have a very good idea." Lucien’s other hand came up, his fingers gently threading through her straight, shoulder-length black hair, tilting her face up. His heterochromatic eyes searched hers, looking for the cracks in her resolve . "It kept me awake in every damp basement from Paris to Brussels. The thought of you sitting in this miserable, drafty flat, cursing my name."
"I was cursing your tailoring, actually," she lied, her voice cracking slightly .
"Liar."
He leaned down, closing the remaining distance between them.
The kiss was hungry, a desperate alignment of teeth and lips that had been deferred for far too long. Rory let out a sharp, ragged breath against his mouth, her hands shifting from his wrist to clamp onto the lapels of his suit, pulling him closer until the hard line of his cane pressed between their thighs.
Lucien groaned, a low, vibration in his chest, his hands anchoring her hips against his. The half-demon heat in his blood flared, transferring to her, turning the drafty flat stiflingly hot. He tasted of rain and those expensive, clove-scented cigarettes he only smoked when he was anxious .
She dragged him deeper into the room, blindly navigating the maze of books. Her heel caught on a stack of encyclopedias, sent them cascading to the floor with a heavy, sliding crash, but neither of them broke the contact.
Lucien backed her up until the edge of the kitchen counter bit into her lower back. He parted her lips with his tongue, demanding, possessive, marking his territory in a way that should have angered her, but only fueled the long-buried ache in her stomach .
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, both of them breathing in short, shallow gasps. His amber eye looked almost gold in the shadows, glowing with an unholy intensity .
"You're still a bastard," Rory whispered, her fingers clinging to his shoulders .
"And you are still far too forgiving," Lucien replied, his lips brushing her cheek, tracing a path down to the sensitive skin of her neck.