AI Three deadbolts retracted with three distinct metal clicks, but the solid oak door stopped three inches short of the frame. An ivory cane head lodged neatly in the gap.
Lucien Moreau leaned his weight against the polished cane. His eyes locked onto mine through the narrow dark space, one warm amber, one deep abyssal black.
"You changed the locks," he said. His French accent smooth as silk stretched over iron.
"Not enough of them." I shoved my shoulder against the heavy wood. The door did not budge an inch. Lucien held it firm with a single hand, his platinum blond hair gleaming under the bare landing light.
"A proper greeting usually involves fewer bruised ribs, *chérie *."
"We do not do proper greetings." I gave up on pushing the door and stepped back into the narrow hallway, my hand slipping into my cardigan pocket to wrap around a heavy brass letter opener. "Get out of my flat, Lucien."
He stepped over the threshold without an invitation, closing the door behind him with a soft snap of the latch. The cramped hallway immediately shrank. He wore a tailored charcoal suit that smelled of rain, expensive cedarwood cologne, and the faint, unmistakable tang of scorched copper.
Under the sofa, Ptolemy hissed. The tabby cat bolted into the kitchen, his tail puffed like a bottle brush.
"Charming decor," Lucien said. He swept a critical glance over the stacks of legal textbooks, parchment scrolls, and half-empty mugs crowding the laminate floor. "Though the smell of turmeric and stale tea rather ruins the atmosphere."
"Eva likes curry. I like privacy. Leave."
"I cannot do that."
"You managed it six months ago in Cardiff." My wrist throbbed beneath my sleeve, the old crescent-shaped scar tightening against my skin. "You ghosted through my flat, stole my father's ledger, and left me to deal with Evan's enforcement crew."
Lucien set his cane against the wall. The action appeared casual, but I knew the thin steel blade concealed inside that ivory handle. He took off his charcoal leather gloves, pulling each finger free with slow, deliberate precision.
"Evan was a brutal idiot who would have killed you before the month ended," Lucien said softly . "I drew his attention away from Wales."
"By setting my living room on fire!"
"The upholstery was atrocious."
I lunged forward, raising the brass letter opener toward his chest. Fast. Direct. I aimed for the space between his third and fourth ribs, right where his half-demon heart beat beneath silk and fine wool.
Lucien did not flinch. He caught my wrist mid-air. His grip felt like a heated iron cuff, firm enough to pin me, gentle enough not to bruise. Heat radiated from his palm, soaking through my skin, waking up every nerve ending I had spent months trying to numb.
Bright blue eyes met heterochromatic ones. Neither of us blinked.
"Your form improved," he murmured. His amber eye caught the dim light, glowing with an inner, predatory ember. "Cardiff made you sharp."
"London made me dangerous." I yanked against his grip, but he held fast, pulling me an inch closer instead.
"Good. You will need to be."
"I do not need anything from you, Moreau."
"You need protection."
"From whom? Evan?" I spat the name like poison. "Or from you?"
Lucien leaned down. His lips brushed the shell of my ear, his breath warm and dry. My breath hitched despite my brain screaming at me to drive my knee into his groin. The scent of him flooded my senses, heavy and intoxicating, pulling up memories of dark alleys, whispered bargains, and his mouth pressed hard against mine while rain poured over the Cardiff docks.
"Evan is dead," Lucien whispered.
The hallway fell dead silent. Downstairs, the curry house kitchen clattered with pots and muted laughter, but inside the flat, the air froze.
"What did you say?"
"He died three days ago." Lucien released my wrist, though he stayed impossibly close. His hand lingered on my forearm, his thumb trailing over the cotton of my sleeve, right above my scar. "His debts passed to his brothers. They know you came to East London, Rory. They know you work for Yu-Fei."
"How?" My mind raced, sifting through the evidence, weighing options like a barrister preparing a brief. "I left no trail. I paid cash for the train. Eva's name is on the lease."
"You exist in a world where blood leaves a scent, my dear." Lucien unbuttoned his charcoal suit jacket. He pulled back the left lapel.
A deep, jagged tear ruined the silk lining. Crimson blood, thick and unnaturally dark, soaked the white linen shirt underneath. The copper smell in the room doubled, thick enough to taste on the back of my tongue.
I stared at the wound. "You were hit."
"A minor disagreement with a bloodhound in Whitechapel," he said smoothly, though a micro-expression of pain twitched at the corner of his mouth. "He did not survive it. But three more are currently following the trail."
"To my door?" My voice dropped, deadly quiet. "You brought them to my flat?"
"I brought myself to you because you are the only person in this wretched city smart enough to stitch demon-iron wounds without calling the authorities." Lucien slumped back against the small hall table, his usual impeccable posture slipping for a fraction of a second. "And because I missed your pleasant demeanor."
"You are an arrogant, selfish bastard."
"A description verified by many." He reached into his inner pocket, pulled out a heavy black iron key, and dropped it into my hand. It burned cold against my palm. "That unlocks Silas' safe beneath the bar. Everything I took from your father's desk in Cardiff is inside."
I looked down at the key, then up at his pale face. His dark eye looked entirely black now, swallowing his pupil, a sure sign his demonic half struggled against the blood loss.
"Why give it back now?"
"Consider it an advance payment for your medical services." He unbuttoned the top three buttons of his ruined shirt, exposing pale skin, hard muscle, and a blackened, smoking gash stretching across his collarbone. "Or a bribe. I am not picky."
I dropped the letter opener onto the side table with a loud clatter. I grabbed his shirt collar, yanking him down toward the bathroom door.
"If you bleed on Eva's carpet, I will kill you myself before the bloodhounds get here."
"A romantic as always, Rory."
I pulled him into the tiny bathroom, kicking the door half-shut. I dragged a box of clean rags and a bottle of surgical spirits from beneath the sink. My hands worked on instinct, law-school precision mixed with emergency first aid learned in dark corners. I grabbed a silver needle from the cabinet, threading it with thick nylon string.
"This will burn," I said.
"Do your worst, *ma petite *."
I poured the alcohol directly onto the wound. Lucien hissed through his teeth, his fingers digging into the edge of the porcelain sink until the white basin cracked under his grip. His eyes locked onto mine , burning with that terrifying, beautiful amber light. He did not pull away. He leaned into the pain, his eyes tracking every movement of my hands as I wiped away the black blood and began pushing the needle through skin.
"Why London?" he asked, his voice strained, dropping low.
"Eva had space."
"You could have gone to Dublin. To your father."
"My father is part of the reason Evan found me in the first place." I pulled the first knot tight. Lucien grunted, his chest expanding against my ribs as I leaned over him. "I trust no one."
"Not even me?"
I paused, needle hovering over his skin. "Especially not you."
His hand came up, wet with cold sweat, and caught the chin of my jaw. His thumb pressed against my lower lip, tilting my head back. The dangerous heat from his skin flared, sending a shudder straight down my spine .
"LIar," he whispered.
He pulled me down, his mouth catching mine in a hard, bruising kiss that smelled of copper and salt. The needle slid from my fingers, clattering into the sink. I did not pull away. I gripped his ruined shirt, pulling him closer, letting six months of fury, fear, and wretched, aching want spill over into the kiss. He tasted like smoke and dark magic, his tongue sliding against mine, claiming space I had sworn never to give him again.
A heavy wooden panel exploded into splinters behind us.
The front door of the flat shattered inward with the force of a battering ram. The roar of a iron-shod boot hitting laminate wood echoed through the small hallway, followed instantly by the wet, gurgling growl of something that did not belong on Earth.
Ptolemy shrieked from the kitchen.
Lucien broke the kiss instantly, his eyes fully black, his hand already snapping back to grab the ivory cane resting outside the bathroom door.
"They found us," he growled.