AI The wood of the front door was thin enough that Rory could hear the dull rumble of the late-night traffic on Brick Lane, punctuated by the sharp hiss of a bus dropping its air brakes outside the curry house below. She unlatched the top deadbolt, then the second, her thumb slipping slightly on the cold brass of the third before it gave way with a dry *clack *.
She opened the door expecting the takeaway delivery boy or perhaps Eva, who had a habit of losing her keys between the bottom of her tote bag and the rain-slicked pavement.
Instead, Lucien Moreau stood beneath the flickering yellow bulb of the landing.
He looked infuriatingly intact. Tailored charcoal wool, the sharp lapels uncreased despite the November drizzle, platinum blond hair slicked back without a stray strand out of place. He leaned lightly on his ivory-handled cane, his long fingers wrapped around the smooth bone curve, his posture carrying that infuriating, effortless grace that made him look like he owned whatever patch of floor he happened to be standing on.
For three long seconds, neither of them spoke.
A fat tabby cat squeezed past Rory’s shins, tail flicking against the doorframe. Ptolemy sniffed at the hem of Lucien’s trousers, gave a low, dismissive chuff, and trotted back toward the kitchen, where stacks of parchment and unbound spellbooks formed dusty towers on the linoleum.
"You’re dripping on the rug," Rory said. Her voice was steady, a feat she was quietly proud of given the sudden, violent thudding against her ribs.
"It’s rain, Aurora. It vanishes when it dries." Lucien’s voice was a low, smooth rasp, tinted with the cool, rolling cadence of Marseille. He didn't move to enter, but he didn't step back either. His strange, mismatched eyes—one the warm hue of aged amber, the other an abyss of solid black—swept over her face, lingering on the small crescent-shaped scar tucked into the crease of her left wrist where she held the edge of the door. "You haven't changed your locks."
"Eva installed three deadbolts after you left," she said, leaning against the frame to block the entry. "Clearly, we were missing a fourth."
"I see." Lucien’s mouth twitched, the ghost of a smirk threatening the corner of his lips before vanishing into something harder, more guarded. "May I come in? Or would you prefer the neighbors learn the details of our last parting? The family on the third floor has a remarkably keen ear for human tragedy."
Rory crossed her arms. Her hands were still slightly raw from her shift at Golden Empress, her knuckles red from the biting wind she’d braved on the mopeds delivering Mrs. Cheung's spicy beef broth. She felt small, frayed at the edges, and intensely conscious of her washed-out jumper while he stood there looking like an oil painting of a bad decision.
"Two minutes," she said, turning her back on him and walking into the flat.
He followed, the silver ferrule of his cane clicking softly against the worn floorboards. He shut the door behind him, the three deadbolts engaging one by one under his quick, practiced hand. The sound was too familiar . It sent a sudden, unwanted bloom of heat straight to her throat.
"Eva isn't here," she said, pulling a stack of research notes off the solitary wooden armchair so he wouldn't sit down. She dumped the papers onto the crowded dining table alongside three empty teacups and an open ledger. "If you ’re looking for information on the lower-ring trade routes, she took her notebooks to the British Library."
"I know where Eva is," Lucien said softly . He didn't take the armchair. He remained standing near the entryway, his eyes tracking her as she moved around the tiny room. "I didn't come to see the scholar."
Rory paused, a heavy leather-bound tome held awkwardly against her chest. "Then you 've wasted a walk from Mayfair."
"It’s hard to waste a walk when one doesn't expect a warm reception."
He set his cane against the side of the sofa and slowly began unbuttoning his coat. Rory hated how well she remembered the gesture—the slight flex of his knuckles, the flash of silk lining, the faint, maddening scent of cedar, damp wool, and the subtle, metallic tang that always clung to him, a bitter reminder of the blood that ran through his father's side of the family.
"Don't get comfortable ," she said, dropping the book onto the table with a heavy slam that rattled the teacups. "You don't get to disappear for six weeks after what happened at the docks and then stride in here like you 're dropping by for tea. You didn't answer my calls, Lucien."
"No," he agreed quietly. He folded his coat over the back of the sofa, revealing the dark waistcoat beneath. "I didn't."
"You let me think you were dead. Or worse." She glared at him, her bright blue eyes sharp with a heat she had spent weeks trying to douse. "Do you have any idea what it was like waiting for a message? Wondering if some lower-tier demon had finally decided your head was worth more than your broker fees?"
"Aurora—"
"Don't 'Aurora' me." She took a step toward him, her cool-headed reserve cracking straight down the middle. "You stood in that alleyway with blood soaking through your shirt, told me to leave, and then vanished into the dark like a ghost. I spent three days scouring every underground parlor from Soho to Whitechapel looking for a half-blood fixer who might have had his throat cut."
Lucien didn't flinch. He let her words strike him, his amber eye narrowing slightly while the black one remained an unreadable void.
"I was compromised," he said, his tone infuriatingly level, though his chest rose and fell a fraction faster than before. "The pact with the Avaros court fell through the moment the blood-seal was broken. If I had stayed, if I had let you stay, they would have used you to pull me out of the shadows. You know how they work."
"I know how *you * work," she spat, taking another step. She was close enough now that she could see the faint faint purple shadows beneath his eyes, the slight pale tension in his jaw that meant he hadn't slept, or hadn't fed, or both. "You pull back the second anyone gets close enough to touch the collar of your precious suit. You pretend it’s protection, but it’s just cowardice, Luc."
That hit home. She saw it in the sudden tightening of his mouth, the way his hand twitched toward his cane before he forced his arm to stay at his side.
"Cowardice?" His voice dropped an octave, smooth silk giving way to rough gravel. "I spent forty-eight hours in a salt-circle in an iron basement while my skin burned out the poison from an Avaros blade. I stayed away to keep your heart beating, Rory. Do not speak to me of cowardice."
"I didn't ask you to protect me!"
"You didn't have to!" He took a swift, sweeping step forward, closing the distance between them until there was barely a breath of air left in the cramped room. The heat coming off him was immense—a half-demon's furnace, suppressed under layers of fine tailoring, now bleeding through the space between them. "You think you ’re so remarkably clever, sitting up here with your law books and your deliveries, pretending you ’re just a girl from Cardiff who ran away from a bad man. But you walk into the middle of my world without a shadow of fear, and you look at me—*look at me*—as if I am something worth saving."
Rory’s breath hitched. She looked up at him, caught in the dual pull of his terrifying, beautiful gaze. Her wrist throbbed where her crescent scar lay beneath her sleeve—an old, human wound, so insignificant compared to the jagged, invisible scars they had spent the last year carving into each other.
"Maybe I thought you were," she whispered. The fire in her voice had died down, leaving behind a raw, aching hollow. "Maybe I was stupid enough to think that after everything, we were past the point of you running away."
Lucien stared down at her. His hands hovered near her waist, fingers trembling slightly , suspended in the agonizing inch of space between touching her and holding back. The mask of the refined London broker, the unflappable half-blood who bought and sold secrets for sovereign gold, shattered completely .
"I didn't run," he said, the words barely audible over the dull hum of the street outside. "I tried to save the only clean thing left in my life."
"I'm not clean, Luc," she said, her voice tight . She reached out, her hand hesitant before her palm pressed flat against his chest, right over his heart. It was beating fast, a hard, frantic rhythm against her skin. "I'm right here in the mud with you . I chose to be."
He closed his eyes at her touch, a long, ragged exhale escaping his lips. When he opened them again, the amber eye seemed to glow in the dim light of the flat.
"You are infuriating," he murmured.
"You're late," she countered, though her fingers curled into the fabric of his waistcoat, tugging him just a fraction closer . "And you still owe me an apology."
"I don't apologize, Aurora. It’s bad for business."
"Then offer me something else."
Lucien didn't hesitate. He reached up, his long, cool fingers cupping her jaw, his thumb resting right over the pulse fluttering in her neck. He pulled her up, leaning down until his lips brushed hers—not with the polished ease of a bargainer, but with a desperate, starved intensity that made her knees buckle.
Rory wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down, dropping all her carefully rehearsed speeches, all her anger, into the sudden, intoxicating heat of his mouth. He groaned, a sound low in his throat, his arms coming around her waist to lift her slightly , pinning her against the edge of the heavy oak table. Books tumbled to the floor, a parchment scroll unrolled with a dry rustle, but neither of them moved to catch them.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, his breath hot against her mouth. His dark eye looked darker still, but the coldness was gone , replaced by something fierce and unraveled.
"I am not going to leave again," he breathed against her skin. "Even if you ask me to."
Rory let out a shaky breath, her hands sliding down his neck to rest on his shoulders, feeling the solid, heavy reality of him finally back in her space.
"Good," she said, her voice steadying as she looked right into the dark center of his gaze. "Because if you try, I'm locking all four bolts."