AI The chain rattled against the doorframe before the third knock landed. Aurora froze with her hand on the deadbolt, the metal cold under her fingers. Three locks. Eva had installed them after the last break-in, and now they felt like a countdown .
"Rory." The voice came through the wood, low and familiar . "I know you're there. I can hear you breathing."
She pressed her palm flat against the door. The wood vibrated with the weight of him on the other side. Ptolemy wound between her ankles, tail flicking.
"Go away, Lucien."
"I brought your mail." A pause. "And a bottle of something that will make this conversation less awful."
"I don't want the conversation."
"Then open the door and take the wine. We can stand in silence . I'm excellent at silence ."
She almost laughed. Almost. The sound caught in her throat and turned into something sharper. She flipped the first deadbolt.
"You've got thirty seconds."
The second deadbolt turned with a click that echoed in the cramped flat. The third stuck, as it always did, and she had to shove her shoulder against the door to free it. When she pulled it open, Lucien Moreau stood in the dim hallway light, one hand resting on his ivory-handled cane, the other holding a bottle of red wine by the neck.
He looked exactly the same. That was the worst part. The slicked-back platinum hair, the charcoal suit that probably cost more than her monthly rent, the heterochromatic eyes that had once made her feel like the only person in a crowded room. One amber, one black. Both fixed on her now.
"You look well," he said.
"I look like someone who just finished a twelve-hour shift delivering noodles." She crossed her arms . "What do you want?"
"May I come in? The hallway has a smell."
"It's Brick Lane. Everything has a smell."
"True. But your flat has wine." He lifted the bottle . "Château Margaux. 2015. I've been saving it."
"For what?"
He tilted his head. "For when I needed to apologise."
The word hung between them. Aurora felt Ptolemy press against her leg, as if the cat understood the weight of it. She stepped back, leaving the doorway open.
"Thirty seconds," she repeated. "Starting now."
Lucien moved past her with that fluid grace that had always made her think of smoke. He set the wine on the cluttered kitchen counter, pushing aside a stack of research notes Eva had left scattered across every surface. His fingers brushed the edge of a scroll, and he glanced at it, then at her.
"Still living in Eva's chaos?"
"Still avoiding the question."
He turned to face her, leaning on the cane. The flat was too small for him. It had always been too small for him. He filled the space between the kitchen and the sofa, his presence pressing against the walls.
"I was in Paris," he said. "For three months. Business."
"I know. You told me."
"I didn't tell you everything."
Aurora moved to the kitchen, keeping the counter between them. She pulled a corkscrew from the drawer and went to work on the wine. The motion gave her something to do with her hands.
"You never tell me everything, Lucien. That's rather the point."
"I told you enough."
"Enough to get me shot at." The cork came free with a pop. She didn't reach for glasses. "Enough to leave me standing in a warehouse in Croydon with a demon who wanted to peel my skin off. But not enough to tell me you were leaving the country."
Lucien's jaw tightened. The amber eye seemed to brighten, just for a moment, before he looked away.
"That was the point," he said quietly . "If you didn't know where I was, you couldn't follow."
"I wasn't going to follow you."
"You followed me to Croydon."
"You asked me to."
"I asked you to wait in the car."
Aurora poured wine into two mismatched glasses. One said 'World's Best Flatmate' in fading gold letters. The other was plain, chipped at the rim. She pushed the chipped one toward him.
"Your thirty seconds are up," she said. "Say what you came to say."
Lucien picked up the glass but didn't drink. He turned it in his fingers, watching the wine catch the light from the single bulb overhead.
"I came to tell you that the man who hired the demon in Croydon is dead."
The words landed like stones in still water. Aurora felt the ripple move through her chest.
"Dead how?"
"Dead by my hand." He said it without inflection, as if he were discussing the weather. "It took three months. He was careful. But not careful enough."
"You killed him."
"I did."
"For me?"
Lucien set the glass down untouched. He moved around the counter, and Aurora forced herself not to step back. He stopped close enough that she could smell his cologne, something dark and expensive, undercut by the faint metallic tang that always clung to him.
"I killed him because he hurt you," Lucien said. "Because he would have kept hurting you. Because the world is better without him in it." He paused. "And yes, Rory. For you."
She should have felt relief. Gratitude. Instead, she felt the old anger rise, hot and familiar .
"You left me here with no word. No warning. I spent weeks looking over my shoulder, waiting for someone else to come through that door." She gestured toward the three deadbolts. "Eva installed those because of what happened. Because of what you dragged me into."
"I know."
"Do you? Do you know what it's like to wake up every night at three a.m., certain you heard footsteps on the stairs? To flinch every time a car backfires on Brick Lane?"
Lucien's hand moved, and before she could react, his fingers closed around her left wrist. Gently. His thumb brushed the small crescent-shaped scar there.
"I know what it's like to be afraid," he said. "I know what it's like to lose someone because of what I am."
"You didn't lose me."
"Didn't I?"
The question hung in the air . Aurora looked at his hand on her wrist, at the contrast between his pale skin and hers. She could feel his pulse through his fingertips, steady and slow.
"You left," she said.
"I came back."
"For how long?"
Lucien released her wrist. He stepped back, and the distance between them felt like a physical thing, a wound that hadn't healed.
"That depends," he said, "on whether you want me to stay."
Aurora picked up her wine glass and drank. The wine was good, rich and dark, and it did nothing to steady her.
"I don't know what I want," she admitted. "I spent three months convincing myself I hated you. That I was glad you were gone. That I never wanted to see you again."
"And now?"
"Now you're standing in my kitchen with a bottle of Château Margaux, telling me you killed a man for me." She set the glass down. "It's a lot to process."
Lucien's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile . "I could come back tomorrow. Give you time."
"Time won't change anything."
"Then what will?"
She looked at him, at the sharp lines of his face, at the way the light caught the silver in his hair. She remembered the first time she'd seen him, in the back room of the Golden Empress, negotiating with Yu-Fei in rapid Cantonese. She remembered the way he'd looked at her then, like he'd already decided she was his.
"I need to know," she said slowly , "that the next time you leave, you'll tell me. That you won't just disappear."
"I can't promise that."
"Then we have nothing to talk about."
She moved toward the door, but Lucien's cane came up, blocking her path. The ivory handle pressed against the wall beside her head.
"I can't promise because the work I do is dangerous," he said. "Because there are people who would use you to get to me. Because every time I tell you where I'm going, I put you at risk."
"So you'd rather leave me in the dark?"
"I'd rather keep you alive."
Aurora met his gaze. The black eye seemed to swallow the light, and for a moment, she saw something move behind it, something old and hungry.
"I'm not a child, Lucien. I'm not some fragile thing you need to protect."
"I know exactly what you are." His voice dropped. "That's the problem."
The air between them crackled. Aurora could feel the heat of him, the tension coiled in his shoulders. She remembered what it felt like to be pressed against him, to feel his hands on her skin, his mouth on her throat.
"Then stop treating me like one," she said.
Lucien's free hand came up, and his fingers brushed her jaw. Light as a breath. She didn't pull away.
"I spent three months in Paris," he said, "thinking about you. About the way you looked at me that night in Croydon. Like I was a monster."
"You are a monster."
"Yes." His thumb traced the line of her cheekbone. "But I'm your monster."
The words should have repulsed her. Instead, they sent a shiver down her spine . She could feel the pull of him, the gravity that had drawn her in from the very first moment.
"Lucien..."
"Tell me to leave," he said. "Tell me you don't want this, and I'll walk out that door. I won't come back."
She opened her mouth to say it. The words were there, waiting on her tongue. But they wouldn't come.
Instead, she grabbed the lapel of his jacket and pulled him down to her.
The kiss was nothing like she remembered. It was harder, hungrier, three months of anger and fear and longing poured into a single moment. Lucien's cane clattered to the floor, and his hands found her waist, pulling her against him. She could feel the solid weight of him, the heat of his body through the expensive fabric of his suit.
He broke the kiss first, his forehead pressed against hers, his breath ragged.
"I should have told you," he said. "I should have found a way."
"Yes." She fisted her hands in his jacket. "You should have."
"I'm sorry."
"Show me."
His eyes darkened. The amber one flared, and for a moment, she saw the demon beneath the surface, the thing that lived behind his carefully constructed mask.
"Rory..."
"Show me," she repeated. "Show me why I should let you stay."
Lucien's hands tightened on her waist. He lifted her onto the edge of the counter, stepping between her legs, and the world narrowed to the two of them, to the heat and the hunger and the three months of silence that had stretched between them like a wound.
Ptolemy meowed from somewhere near the sofa, and Aurora heard the sound of papers sliding to the floor as the cat knocked over another stack of Eva's research. Neither of them moved to stop it.
"Eva's going to kill you," Lucien murmured against her throat.
"Eva's not here."
"Thank God for small mercies."
His mouth found hers again, and Aurora stopped thinking. She stopped remembering the fear, the sleepless nights, the anger that had kept her company for three long months. There was only this, only him, only the taste of wine and regret and something that felt dangerously like hope.
The knock on the door shattered the moment.
They both froze. Aurora's heart slammed against her ribs. Lucien's hand went to the cane on the floor, his fingers closing around the ivory handle.
"Rory?" Eva's voice came through the wood, muffled but unmistakable. "You home? I forgot my keys. Again."
Lucien looked at Aurora. His expression was unreadable , but she saw the question in his eyes.
"One second," Aurora called, her voice steadier than she felt . She slid off the counter, smoothing her rumpled shirt. "I'm coming."
Lucien rose, retrieving his cane. He straightened his jacket with practiced ease , and by the time Aurora reached the door, he looked as immaculate as he had when he'd arrived.
"Rory," he said quietly .
She paused with her hand on the deadbolt.
"We're not finished."
It wasn't a question. She turned the lock.
"No," she said. "We're not."
The door swung open, and Eva burst in, all apologies and grocery bags and a tabby cat winding between her feet. She stopped short when she saw Lucien standing in the kitchen.
"Oh," Eva said. "Oh, shit."
Lucien smiled, and it didn't reach his eyes. "Hello, Eva. Lovely to see you again."
Eva looked at Aurora, then back at Lucien, then at the open bottle of wine on the counter. Her expression shifted from surprise to something that looked a lot like dread.
"What did I just walk into?" she asked.
Aurora closed the door and slid the first deadbolt home.
"Nothing," she said. "Yet."