AI The door rattled under the third knock, each strike sharp as a judge’s gavel. Aurora froze mid-step, the takeaway bag from Golden Empress suddenly heavy in her grip. No one visited Eva’s flat unannounced. Not even the postman, who’d given up after the second deadbolt.
“Open up, Carter. I know you ’re in there.”
That voice. Smooth as aged brandy, laced with the kind of patience that came from knowing he ’d already won. Her fingers tightened around the bag. The scent of chilli oil and star anise curled up, suddenly too rich, too present. She hadn’t heard that voice in three months. Not since the night she’d walked out of the Shadowed Hound with her pride in tatters and his cane left behind on the bar.
The third deadbolt clicked. The door swung inward before she could stop it, revealing Lucien Moreau in the dim hallway light. Tailored charcoal suit, not a crease in sight. Platinum hair slicked back, the single black eye glinting like a warning. The amber one, warm as honey, fixed on her.
“Took you long enough.”
Aurora exhaled through her nose. “I wasn’t aware we had an appointment.”
“If we waited for appointments, you ’d still be ignoring my calls.” He adjusted his cufflinks, the movement deliberate. “May I?”
She didn’t move. The hallway smelled of curry and old carpet, but beneath it, the faintest trace of him—bergamot and something darker, like gunpowder after the shot. His cologne. Or maybe just the man himself.
“Fine.” She stepped back, letting the door swing wide. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, chose that moment to slink between her legs, tail flicking in disapproval. The cat took one look at Lucien and bolted under the sofa.
Lucien’s lips quirked. “Still not a fan of me, I see.”
“He’s a good judge of character.”
That earned her a proper smile, sharp as the blade hidden in his cane. “And yet here you are, letting me in.”
Aurora shut the door harder than necessary. The flat was a mess—Eva’s research notes spilled across the coffee table, a half-empty cup of tea gone cold beside a stack of books on demonic pacts. She nudged a scroll aside with her foot, clearing a path. “What do you want, Luc ?”
“Can’t a man visit an old friend?”
“Cut the shit.”
He chuckled, low and knowing. “Straight to business. I’ve missed that.” His gaze flicked to her left wrist, where the crescent scar peeked out from under her sleeve. “Still not wearing the bracelet.”
She crossed her arms. “Still not your girlfriend.”
“Pity.” He didn’t sound pitying . He sounded like a man who’d just been handed a winning hand. “I brought wine.” From his coat, he produced a bottle of deep red, the label handwritten in elegant script.
“Poisoned?”
“Only if you consider truth a poison.”
She snatched it, examining the seal. “What truth?”
“That you ’ve been avoiding me.” He stepped further in, his polished shoes silent on the worn rug. “And that you ’re still angry.”
“Angry’s a mild word for it.”
“Then what’s the right one?” He tilted his head, the heterochromatic eyes studying her like she was a puzzle he ’d already solved. “Betrayed? Hurt?”
“Try *over it *.”
Lucien’s smile faded. “Liar.”
The word hung between them , heavy as the humidity before a storm. Aurora turned away, marching to the kitchenette. The counter was cluttered with Eva’s herbs and a mortar and pestle still dusted with something green. She set the wine down with a clink . “You don’t get to waltz in here after three months and call me a liar.”
“Three months, two weeks, and four days.” His voice followed her, smooth as the wine he ’d brought. “But who’s counting?”
She yanked a drawer open, searching for a corkscrew. “Not me.”
“No?” His footsteps were silent, but she felt him behind her, close enough that the heat of him seeped through her thin blouse. “Then why haven’t you changed the locks?”
Her fingers stilled. The corkscrew was in her hand, but she didn’t turn. “Because Eva would kill me if I locked her out again.”
“Convenient.”
She spun, the corkscrew held like a weapon. “What do you want, Luc ?”
For a moment, he just looked at her. The amber eye soft, the black one dark with something she couldn’t name. Then, slowly, he reached into his inner pocket. Not for a weapon. For a folded slip of paper. “A job.”
Aurora didn’t take it. “I’m not your fixer anymore.”
“This isn’t for me.” He held it out, steady. “It’s for you .”
She didn’t move. “Explain.”
“A client. High-profile. Needs a delivery made.” His thumb tapped the paper. “Discreetly.”
“And you thought of me because…?”
“Because you ’re the best.” He said it like it was fact. “And because the package is in Avaros .”
The name sent a chill down her spine. Avaros . The demon realm. His father’s realm. She’d heard the stories—whispers in the underworld about the place where the air tasted of ash and the shadows had teeth. “You’re joking.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
She didn’t answer. He didn’t. The air between them thickened, charged with the weight of what he wasn’t saying . And what she couldn’t ask.
Finally, she snatched the paper. Unfolded it. The details were sparse: a name, a location, a time. And a sum that made her breath catch. Enough to leave London. To start over. To never look back.
“Why me?” she asked again, quieter this time.
Lucien’s jaw tightened. “Because I trust you .”
The words hit like a punch. She crumpled the paper in her fist. “Bullshit.”
“Is it?” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Who else would I send into my father’s realm? Who else would I trust to come back?”
“You don’t trust anyone.”
“No.” His hand lifted, brushing a strand of her black hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered, calloused and warm. “But I trust you .”
She jerked back. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Touch you ?” His thumb traced the line of her jaw, slow, deliberate. “Or don’t lie to myself?”
Her pulse hammered. “Both.”
He didn’t move. “You’re still angry.”
“Damn right I am.”
“Good.” His mouth curved, but there was no humour in it. “Anger means you still care.”
She wanted to slap him. Wanted to kiss him. Wanted to scream. Instead, she turned away, busying herself with the wine. The cork popped with a sharp *thwack *. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you ’re avoiding the question.”
She poured two glasses, the deep red liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “There is no question. I’m not taking the job.”
“Because of me?”
“Because of *Avaros *.”
“Ah.” He took the glass she offered, his fingers brushing hers . A spark. A betrayal. “So it *is * about me.”
She downed half her wine in one go. The liquid burned, rich and dark as the secrets between them . “You know what happened last time I got involved in your family’s business.”
“Last time,” he said softly , “you walked away.”
“And I’ll do it again.”
“Will you ?” His glass clinked against the counter as he set it down. “Or will you keep running?”
She set her own glass down with a sharp *clink *. “I’m not running. I’m *choosing *.”
“Choosing to be safe.” He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear . “But you ’ve never been one for safe, Rory.”
Her name on his lips was a caress. A challenge. She turned, chest to chest, and glared up at him. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” His hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing the scar on her wrist. “It’s your name.”
“It’s *hers *.”
The words hung, bitter and raw. Lucien’s expression darkened. “You think I don’t know that?”
“Do you ?” She pulled away, putting the counter between them . “Do you have any idea what it’s like? To be the reason someone’s—” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “No. You don’t get to play this game. Not after what you did.”
“And what did I do, Aurora?” His voice was low, dangerous. “What *exactly * did I do that was so unforgivable?”
“You *lied *.”
Silence. The kind that crackled, charged with the weight of everything unsaid. Then, slowly, he reached into his coat again. This time, he pulled out a small, velvet pouch. He set it on the counter between them . “Open it.”
She didn’t. “I don’t want your gifts.”
“It’s not a gift.” His voice was steel. “It’s the truth.”
Her fingers trembled as she untied the drawstring. Inside, a silver locket, tarnished with age. She flipped it open. A miniature portrait stared back at her—her mother’s face, young and smiling. And beside it, a name inscribed in looping script: *Malphora *.
Her breath left her. “What the hell is this?”
“Your mother’s real name.” Lucien’s gaze didn’t waver. “And yours.”
The room tilted. She gripped the counter, the locket cold against her palm. “That’s impossible.”
“Is it?” He pulled a folded letter from his pocket, the paper yellowed with age. “Jennifer Ellis wasn’t just a teacher, Aurora. She was a scholar. A historian of the arcane. And she knew *exactly * what your father was when she married him.”
Aurora’s vision blurred. “You’re lying.”
“Read it.”
She didn’t want to. But her fingers unfolded the letter anyway, the ink faded but legible.
*My dearest Brendan,*
*If they come for her, if they ever find out what she is , you have to promise me you ’ll keep her safe. Not just from them . From the truth. She can never know about Malphora . About what she’s capable of. About what I did to keep her...*
The rest was smudged , as if by tears. Or rain. Or time.
Aurora’s hands shook. “This is a forgery.”
“It’s not.” Lucien’s voice was gentle now, the edge gone. “Your mother made a deal, Aurora. A long time ago. One that bound *you * to it, whether you liked it or not.”
She wanted to scream. To deny it. To burn the letter and pretend she’d never seen it. But the locket was heavy in her hand. The name *Malphora * echoed in her skull. “Why are you showing me this?”
“Because you deserve to know.” He reached out, hesitating before his fingers covered hers . “Because I couldn’t tell you before. Not without putting you in more danger.”
“And now?”
“Now,” he said, “the danger’s found you anyway.”
She looked up, the world sharp and too bright. “What does that mean?”
Lucien’s expression was grim. “It means someone’s been asking about you . In Avaros . And they’re not the kind to take no for an answer.”
Aurora’s stomach twisted. “Who?”
“Does it matter?” His thumb traced circles over her knuckles. “The point is , they know. And if they know, it’s only a matter of time before *he * knows.”
She didn’t need to ask who *he * was. The air in the flat turned to ice. “My father.”
Lucien nodded. “And if Brendan Carter finds out what his daughter really is …” He trailed off, but the implication hung between them , thick as the tension in her shoulders.
Aurora pulled her hand away, the locket clutched tight. “So what? You expect me to just waltz into Avaros and hand myself over?”
“No.” His voice was firm. “I expect you to take the job. To deliver the package. And to *survive *.”
“And if I say no?”
Lucien’s gaze darkened. “Then you ’ll spend the rest of your life running. And we both know how that ends.”
She wanted to hit him. To kiss him. To scream until her throat was raw. Instead, she downed the rest of her wine, the alcohol doing little to dull the edge of her thoughts. “You’re a bastard.”
“So I’ve been told.”
She glared at him, the locket burning in her palm. “And if I take this job, and something goes wrong?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Then I’ll be there to pull you out.”
“You’ll be there?” She laughed, sharp and humourless. “Forgive me if I don’t find that comforting .”
Lucien stepped closer, his cane tapping softly against the floor. “I won’t let anything happen to you .”
“You said that last time.”
“I meant it last time.”
She wanted to believe him. Wanted to lean into the warmth of his body, to let the weight of the last three months dissolve under his touch. But the letter was still in her hand. The locket still cold against her skin.
“Fine,” she said at last, tossing the locket onto the counter. It spun, catching the light. “I’ll take the damn job.”
Lucien’s smile was slow, triumphant. “I knew you ’d see reason.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” She grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair, shoving her arms into the sleeves. “I’m doing this for me. Not for you .”
“Of course.” But his eyes gleamed, knowing . “When do you want to leave?”
She checked the clock. Eva would be back soon, and the last thing she needed was her best friend walking in on this. “Now.”
Lucien nodded, already turning toward the door. “Good. We’ve got a train to catch.”
Aurora followed, but paused at the threshold, looking back at the flat. At the mess. At the life she was about to upend. Again.
Lucien’s hand settled on the small of her back, warm and sure. “Second thoughts?”
She shook her head. “Just wondering if I should pack a toothbrush.”
He laughed, low and rich, and for a moment, it was like the last three months had never happened. Like they were still partners. Still *them *.
Then his cane tapped against the hallway floor, the sound sharp as a gunshot. “You won’t need one where we’re going.”
And just like that, the moment was gone . The weight of what they were about to do settled between them , heavy as the secrets they carried.
Aurora took a deep breath, steeling herself. “Lead the way, *Luc *.”
His smile was all teeth. “Gladly.”
They stepped into the hallway, the door swinging shut behind them with a final, echoing *click *.
Somewhere in the flat, Ptolemy yowled, as if sensing the storm that was coming .