AI The door rattled under the third knock, each strike sharp as a judge’s gavel. Rory froze mid-step, the delivery bag slung over her shoulder suddenly feeling like a lead weight . No one ever knocked on Eva’s door. Not with three deadbolts between the world and her research.
The knock came again, insistent.
She set the bag down, the scent of Golden Empress’ black bean sauce still clinging to her sleeves. The peephole offered a distorted view: a charcoal suit, slicked-back platinum hair, and the unmistakable glint of an ivory cane handle.
Her pulse spiked.
The deadbolts turned with a series of metallic clicks, each one louder than the last. The door swung open before she could second-guess herself.
Lucien Moreau stood in the dim hallway, his heterochromatic gaze—amber and black—locking onto hers with the precision of a blade finding its sheath. The air between them thickened, charged with the kind of silence that hummed.
“Rory.”
Her name in his voice was a chasm. She gripped the doorframe. “You’re supposed to call first.”
“And you’re supposed to answer my letters.”
She didn’t flinch. “I don’t recall agreeing to that.”
A faint smirk tugged at his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Still playing the ice queen, I see.”
Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, chose that moment to slink between her legs, tail flicking against her calf. The cat eyed Lucien with the same suspicion she felt.
“Eva’s not here,” Rory said, blocking the doorway .
“Good.” He adjusted his cane, the movement deliberate. “I didn’t come for Eva.”
The words hung, sharp and unyielding. She should’ve slammed the door. Should’ve called Silas downstairs to throw him out. But her body refused to obey, rooted in place by the weight of his presence, the way his cologne—bergamot and something darker, like gunpowder—wrapped around her senses.
“Then why are you here?” she demanded.
Lucien’s gaze dropped to her wrist, where the crescent scar peeked out from under her sleeve. “You know why.”
She crossed her arms. “Enlighten me.”
He exhaled, a sound that might’ve been frustration or amusement. “The last time we spoke, you walked away mid-conversation. Left a few things unresolved.”
“And now you’re here to resolve them?”
“Now,” he said, stepping closer , “I’m here because you owe me.”
The words were a spark to tinder. “I owe you nothing.”
“Don’t you?” His cane tapped once against the floor. “Three years ago, Marseille. You asked for my help. I gave it. No questions, no strings. And then you vanished.”
Her fingers tightened around the doorframe. “I paid you.”
“Money isn’t everything, Rory.”
“It was the deal.”
“Deals change.” His voice dropped, the French lilt more pronounced. “People change.”
She wanted to argue, to slam the door in his face and pretend this conversation never happened. But the past clawed at her, a ghost she’d tried to outrun. Marseille. The safe house. The way he’d looked at her when she’d told him she was leaving , his jaw tight, his silence louder than any accusation.
Ptolemy wound around her ankles, purring. Traitor.
“Fine.” She stepped back, gesturing him inside with a sweep of her arm. “But if you’re here to guilt me, save your breath. I don’t do regrets.”
Lucien crossed the threshold, his presence swallowing the small flat whole. The space felt smaller, the air thicker. His gaze swept over the clutter—books stacked like Jenga towers, scrolls pinned under mugs of cold tea, Eva’s notes scrawled in the margins of every surface.
“She’s been busy,” he observed.
“She’s always busy.” Rory shut the door, the click of the deadbolts a punctuation mark. “What do you want, Luc?”
He turned, the movement fluid, predatory. “Information.”
“Not my department.”
“It is when it concerns you.”
She arched a brow. “Concerning me how?”
He reached into his coat, withdrawing a folded slip of paper. The parchment was yellowed , the edges singed. “This was left at my office. Addressed to you.”
She took it, unfolding it carefully . The handwriting was jagged , the ink smudged as if written in haste.
*For Aurora Carter. The past isn’t done with you. Neither is he.*
Her stomach twisted. “Who sent it?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be here.” His voice was steel. “But I know the handwriting. It’s Avaros script.”
The words hit like a physical blow. Avaros. The demon realm. His father’s realm.
Her fingers trembled . “You think this is about your father?”
“My father doesn’t send warnings.” Lucien’s jaw tightened. “But his enemies do.”
She looked up, meeting his gaze. “And you think I’m involved.”
“I think,” he said, stepping closer , “that someone is using you as bait. And I think you’re stupid enough to walk right into it.”
The insult stung, but she didn’t let it show. “I can handle myself.”
“Can you?” His cane lifted, the tip tracing the air between them . “Last time you ‘handled yourself,’ you ended up with a knife in your ribs and a demon’s mark on your wrist.”
Her hand instinctively covered the scar. “That was different.”
“Was it?” His voice softened, the edge of it razor-thin . “You’re still running, Rory. From him. From me. From the truth.”
She wanted to deny it. To tell him he was wrong, that she’d moved on, that London was her fresh start. But the words stuck in her throat. The truth was a living thing between them, coiled and ready to strike.
“Why now?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper . “Why come back after all this time?”
Lucien’s gaze didn’t waver. “Because you’re in danger. And because, despite your best efforts, I still give a damn.”
The admission hung in the air , raw and unguarded. She wanted to laugh, to scoff, to tell him he was mistaken . But the look in his eyes—amber and black, burning with something she refused to name—held her silent.
Ptolemy chose that moment to leap onto the table, knocking over a stack of books. The crash shattered the tension .
Rory exhaled, rubbing her temples. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re stubborn.” He reached out, his fingers brushing hers as he took the note back . The contact was electric , a spark that traveled up her arm. “Let me help you.”
She pulled her hand away, but the warmth lingered. “I don’t need your help.”
“Liar.”
She glared at him. “Get out.”
He didn’t move. “Make me.”
The challenge was a gauntlet thrown. She should’ve called his bluff. Should’ve marched to the door and thrown it open. But her body betrayed her, her feet rooted to the floor, her heart pounding in her chest like a drum.
“You’re infuriating,” she said, her voice shaking with something she refused to identify as fear.
“And you’re beautiful when you’re angry.” His smirk was back, but his eyes were serious. “But this isn’t about us, Rory. This is about survival.”
She wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, that she didn’t need him. But the note in her hand was a reminder —someone was watching . Someone was waiting .
And Lucien was the only one who could help her face it.
“Fine,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm inside her . “But we do this my way.”
His smirk deepened. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
She turned away, her fingers curling into fists. “First rule: No secrets.”
“Agreed.”
“Second rule: You don’t get to touch me.”
His laughter was low, dark. “We’ll see.”
She spun back, her eyes flashing. “This isn’t a game, Luc.”
“No,” he said, his voice suddenly serious . “It’s not. But if we’re going to survive this, we play by my rules too.”
“And what are those?”
He stepped closer, his voice a whisper . “You don’t run. Not from this. Not from me.”
The air between them crackled, charged with something older than the note, older than the scars. She should’ve pushed him away. Should’ve told him to leave.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she met his gaze, her chin lifted in defiance. “Try and stop me.”
His hand shot out, gripping her wrist, his thumb brushing the crescent scar. “I will.”
The touch was a brand, searing through her skin, her resolve . She yanked her hand back, but the heat remained, a ghost of his touch.
“This changes nothing,” she said, her voice breathless .
“It changes everything,” he replied, his eyes dark with promise.
A crash from the hallway—footsteps , heavy and hurried. Both of them froze, their heads snapping toward the door.
Lucien’s grip on his cane tightened. “We’re not alone.”
Rory’s pulse spiked. “Eva’s not due back for hours.”
“Then it’s not Eva.”
The footsteps stopped outside the door. A shadow stretched across the gap beneath it, long and distorted.
Lucien moved in front of her, his body a shield. “Stay behind me.”
She didn’t argue. For the first time in years, she didn’t argue.
The doorknob rattled. Then, a voice, low and guttural, seeped through the wood.
“Little bird,” it hissed. “We’ve been looking for you.”