AI The third deadbolt always stuck, catching on the warped wood of the frame just before the final turn. Rory threw her weight against the scarred oak of the door, her shoulder smarting, and finally wrenched it open. She had a cardboard box of lukewarm vegetable chow mein tucked under one arm, the grease already soaking through the thin brown paper, and a helmet dangling from her wrist by its strap.
She expected Eva, breathless and smelling of old parchment, or perhaps the landlord complaining about the water pressure again.
Instead, framed by the harsh fluorescent glare of the Brick Lane landing, stood Lucien.
He looked entirely out of place, a sleek drop of ink in a stairwell coated in decades of curry grease and dust. His tailored charcoal suit clung to his frame with effortless precision, the fabric catching the dull light. His slicked-back platinum blond hair didn't have a single strand out of place, and he leaned slightly on his ivory-handled cane, the carved handle catching the gleam of the overhead bulb. When he looked up, his heterochromatic gaze locked onto hers—the right eye a striking, liquid amber, the left a fathomless, absolute black.
Rory stopped breathing. Her fingers tightened around the box of chow mein until the cardboard buckled.
"Rory," he said. His voice was a low, smooth baritone, carrying that faint, rich cadence from Marseille that she had spent the better part of a year trying to scrub from her memory.
"Lucien," she managed. Her pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs, entirely at odds with the cool, level stare she forced onto her face. She shifted her weight, sliding her left hand down to grip the strap of her helmet, her thumb instinctively brushing over the small crescent-shaped scar on her wrist. "What are you doing here?"
"May I come in?" he asked, not waiting for an answer before taking a slow step forward. The faint scent of rain and expensive sandalwood drifted ahead of him, cutting through the heavy smell of fried onions and damp carpet that permeated the building.
"The door has three deadbolts for a reason, Lucien. None of them spell 'welcome.'" Still, she stepped back, her shoulders rigid as he brushed past her into the cramped confines of Eva’s flat.
He moved with a quiet, predatory grace, his cane tapping rhythmically against the cluttered floorboards. The flat was a disaster zone of esoteric research—books stacked in teetering columns, parchment scrolls spilling off side tables, and Ptolemy the tabby cat sitting regally atop a pile of translated grimoires, blinking amber eyes at the intruder. Lucien surveyed the chaos with an expression of mild amusement, though his eyes never truly settled. They kept drifting back to her.
"Charming," he murmured, stopping by the kitchenette to drop his gaze to the takeout box in her hands. "The Golden Empress. A staple of culinary distinction, I am sure."
"It pays the rent while Eva bankrupts us buying sixteenth-century demonology texts," Rory snapped, slamming the door shut. She threw her helmet onto the small entryway table, where it clattered against a pile of unpaid utility bills. She turned on him, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "Why are you here, Lucien? You made it abundantly clear the last time we spoke in Soho that our professional and—otherwise—arrangements were concluded."
Lucien turned slowly to face her. The amusement vanished from his expression, leaving behind a sharp, quiet intensity . He leaned slightly on his cane, closing the distance between them just enough to make the small room feel suddenly airless.
"That was four months ago," he said softly .
"And my math hasn't improved, so it's still four months. Time hasn't changed the math, Lucien."
"Time hasn't changed why I left, either."
Rory let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, though there was no humor in it. Her bright blue eyes flashed. "Oh, is that what we're calling it now? You 'left'? You vanished into thin air without a word after the warehouse job went sideways, leaving me to answer to a pack of angry ghouls with nothing but a crowbar and my wits."
"You handled the ghouls brilliantly, as I recall," Lucien said, a ghost of a smile touching the corner of his mouth.
"That is not the point!" Rory uncrossed her arms, stepping toward him, her height—five-foot-six—making her look fierce despite the height difference. "You shut me out. You treat every single person in your life like a chess piece, moving them around until the board gets too complicated, and then you just sweep the pieces into a box. I am not one of your pawns, Lucien."
"No," he said, and the sudden drop in his tone sent a shiver straight down her spine . The playful detachment was entirely gone now. He took another step closer, close enough that she could see the tiny silver specks caught in his black iris. "You never were. If you were a pawn , Rory, I wouldn't have walked away."
The words hung in the cramped space, thick and suffocating. Rory’s breath hitched. She hated how easily he could disarm her, how a single look from those mismatched eyes could dissolve weeks of rehearsed anger into ash. She remembered the warmth of his hands against her back in the rainy alley behind his office; she remembered the terrible, beautiful way he had looked at her when they thought they wouldn't survive the night in Avaros. She had fled to London to get away from men who dictated her life—first Evan, with his heavy hands and constant demands, and then Lucien, with his impossible secrets and lethal distance. Even if Lucien’s distance was born of survival rather than cruelty, it hurt just the same.
"You walked away because it was easier," she whispered, her voice losing its edge, cracking slightly at the corners .
"It was the hardest thing I have ever done," Lucien replied, his voice barely above a murmur . He reached out, his movements agonizingly slow, giving her every opportunity to pull away. When his gloved fingers brushed against her forearm, right over the crescent scar on her wrist, a jolt of heat raced through her veins. "I came here tonight because you're in danger, Rory. Avaros isn't finished with the loose ends from the Cardiff artifact recovery. They know you have the ledger."
Rory stiffened, pulling her arm back, though she didn't step away. "Eva and I hid the ledger. No one knows—"
"They know," Lucien interrupted gently . "And they're coming. I didn't come here to play games, and I certainly didn't come here to argue about Soho. I came because I couldn't sit in Marseille and watch you walk into a slaughterhouse alone."
Ptolemy let out a soft meow from his pile of books, breaking the heavy silence that settled over them.
Rory stared up at him, searching his face for the lies, the manipulation, the cold calculation she always expected to find. But there was only a quiet, resolute exhaustion, and something else—something raw and unguarded that he reserve strictly for her.
Her chest ached, a sharp, familiar pain that was inextricably tangled with the undeniable pull she still felt toward him. She closed her eyes for a brief second, inhaling the scent of sandalwood and rain, before opening them again.
"You're infuriating," she muttered, though the fight had entirely drained from her voice.
"I have been told that by experts," Lucien replied, a faint, genuine smile touching his lips. He shifted his cane to his left hand, his right hand lingering just inches from hers, waiting.
Rory looked down at his hand, then back up to his eyes—one amber, one black, both entirely focused on her. She let out a long, defeated breath, the tension finally breaking.
"Well," she said, her voice dry as she turned toward the tiny kitchen counter. "The chow mein is cold, and Eva’s tea tastes like dirt. But if we're going to survive an incursion from Avaros, I suppose you can stay. On one condition."
"Name it," Lucien said, following her steps, the sound of his cane a steady beat against the floor.
"You make the tea."