AI The first knock came just as Rory was pouring boiling water over a chamomile tea bag, the steam curling into the dim light of Eva’s cluttered kitchen. She froze, the kettle hovering mid-air, her bright blue eyes flicking to the door. No one ever knocked this late. Eva was at the library, Ptolemy was curled on the windowsill, and the only other person with a key was Silas, who never announced himself.
The second knock was sharper, impatient. Rory set the kettle down with a clink, her pulse quickening. She wiped her hands on her jeans—Eva’s old ones, rolled at the cuffs—and moved through the maze of books stacked on the floor, her bare feet silent on the worn hardwood.
The peephole showed a distorted, fish-eye view of the hallway: empty except for a tall figure in a charcoal suit, his platinum hair slicked back, one hand resting on the ivory handle of his cane. Her breath hitched. Lucien.
She hadn’t seen him in six months. Not since that night in the back room of Silas’ bar, when he’d pressed her against the wall and whispered something in French she’d been too stubborn to ask him to translate. Not since she’d walked away before he could finish.
The third knock rattled the door in its frame. Rory exhaled, then unlatched the first deadbolt. Then the second. Her fingers hesitated on the third.
“Open the door, Rory,” his voice came, low and amused. “I know you’re there. I can hear you breathing.”
She turned the last lock and pulled the door open just enough to see him properly. Lucien Moreau stood in the hallway, impeccable as ever, his heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—flicking over her with the kind of assessment that made her skin prickle. The overhead light caught the sharp angles of his face, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. He smelled like bergamot and something darker, something that clung to the back of her throat.
“You’re late,” she said, because it was the first thing that came to mind, and because she refused to let him see how his sudden appearance had unbalanced her .
One corner of his mouth quirked. “For what?”
“For being a pain in my arse.”
His smile widened, just a little. “I ’ve missed you too.”
She should have slammed the door in his face. But the words died in her throat as she took in the tension in his shoulders, the way his knuckles whitened around the cane. Something was wrong.
Rory stepped back, gesturing him inside with a jerk of her chin. “Don’t just stand there. You’re letting the cold in.”
Lucien didn’t move immediately. His gaze lingered on her—the straight black hair she’d left loose, the old Cardiff University hoodie she’d stolen from her brother, the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, pale against her skin. Then he stepped over the threshold, his polished shoes silent on the floorboards. The door swung shut behind him, and for a moment, the space between them felt charged , like the air before a storm.
Ptolemy chose that moment to stretch and leap down from the windowsill, his tail flicking as he sauntered toward them. He sniffed at Lucien’s shoes, then hissed and darted under the sofa.
Lucien raised an eyebrow . “Still not a fan, I see .”
“He’s a good judge of character,” Rory said, crossing her arms. “What do you want, Luc?”
His expression sobered. He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper, holding it between two fingers. “This was slipped under my door an hour ago.”
Rory took it, unfolding the paper carefully . It was a single sentence, written in a jagged, hurried hand: *She knows about the deal. Run.*
Her stomach twisted. “What deal?”
Lucien’s jaw tightened. “The one I made with Malphora.”
The name sent a chill down her spine. Malphora—the demon who’d been hunting her for months, the one who’d left that scar on her wrist when she was a child. The one who’d nearly killed her in a back alley in Soho.
Rory’s fingers crumpled the paper. “You made a deal with *her *?”
“I had to.” His voice was low, defensive . “She was going to kill you. I bought you time.”
“By making a deal with a demon?” Rory’s voice rose, sharp with betrayal. “What the hell, Luc? You know what she is. You know what she *does *.”
“And you know what *I * am,” he snapped, his amber eye flashing. “Or have you forgotten?”
The words hung between them, bitter and raw. She hadn’t forgotten. How could she? The night he’d told her —really told her —about his father, about the blood in his veins, about the things he’d done to survive in this world. The night she’d kissed him anyway, because she’d been angry and reckless and because, God help her , she’d wanted to.
But then she’d walked away. Because half-demon or not, Lucien Moreau was still a fixer, still a man who traded in secrets and lies. And she couldn’t trust that.
Rory turned away, rubbing her temples. “So. Malphora knows about your deal. What does that mean?”
“It means she’s coming for me.” His voice was quiet. “And when she does , she’ll come for you too.”
Rory whirled back to face him. “Then why the hell are you *here *? Why aren’t you halfway to Marseille by now?”
“Because,” he said, stepping closer, “I ’m not leaving you to face her alone.”
She wanted to hit him. Or kiss him. Or both. Instead, she just stared at him, her chest tight. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I know.” His free hand reached out, almost brushing her arm, but he stopped himself. “But I ’m asking. Let me help you.”
Rory looked away, her gaze landing on the chaos of Eva’s flat—the books, the scrolls, the notes pinned to the walls like some kind of mad scholar’s web. This was her life now. Hiding. Running. Surviving. And Lucien was part of that, whether she liked it or not.
“Fine,” she said at last, her voice tired. “But you’re sleeping on the couch.”
A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “I ’ve slept in worse places.”
She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.”
Lucien’s smile faded as he studied her , his expression softening. “You’ve lost weight .”
Rory’s hand went to her hip, self-conscious. “I ’ve been busy.”
“Running.”
“Surviving.”
He nodded, as if that explained everything. Maybe it did. “You always were terrible at taking care of yourself.”
“And you’re always an arse.” But there was no heat in it. She sighed, rubbing her face. “Look, it’s late. We’ll figure this out in the morning.”
Lucien didn’t move. “Rory.”
She looked up at him, her guard slipping just a little. “What?”
His throat worked as he swallowed. “I should have told you. About the deal. About everything.”
She wanted to tell him it didn’t matter. That she understood. That she’d made her own choices, her own mistakes. But the words stuck in her throat.
Instead, she just said, “Yeah. You should have.”
The silence between them was thick, heavy with all the things they weren’t saying . Then Lucien reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch light, almost hesitant. “I ’m sorry.”
Rory closed her eyes, leaning into his hand just for a second. It was a mistake. She knew it was. But God, it felt good to have him here . To not be alone.
When she opened her eyes again, he was watching her , his dark gaze intense. “Rory,” he murmured, and her name on his lips sent a shiver down her spine.
She should have stepped back. Should have reminded him of all the reasons this was a bad idea. But instead, she found herself reaching up, her fingers curling into the lapels of his suit, pulling him closer. “Shut up, Luc.”
And then she kissed him.
It was reckless. Stupid. Everything she’d told herself she wouldn’t do again. But the moment his lips met hers, it was like the last six months had never happened. His free hand came up to cradle the back of her head, his cane clattering to the floor as he pulled her against him. The kiss was desperate , hungry—like they were trying to make up for lost time, for every word left unsaid, for every touch they’d denied themselves.
Rory’s hands slid up to his shoulders, her fingers tangling in the soft fabric of his suit. He tasted like whiskey and sin, and she couldn’t get enough. When his teeth grazed her lower lip, she gasped, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping into her mouth like he was memorizing her all over again.
Then, just as suddenly as it had started, she pulled away, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. “We can’t—”
“We already are,” he murmured, his forehead resting against hers .
She wanted to argue. To tell him this changed nothing. But the truth was, it changed everything. Because as much as she wanted to hate him, as much as she wanted to pretend she didn’t need him, she did. And that terrified her .
Lucien must have seen the panic in her eyes, because he stepped back, giving her space. His thumb brushed her cheekbone, his touch gentle. “We don’t have to figure it out tonight.”
Rory swallowed, nodding. She needed time. Needed to think. Needed to remember all the reasons this was a bad idea.
But for now, she just said, “Couch. Now.”
He smirked, bending to retrieve his cane. “Yes, ma’am.”
As he settled onto the sofa, his long legs stretched out in front of him, Rory grabbed a blanket from the back of the armchair and tossed it at him. “Don’t get comfortable . This isn’t permanent.”
Lucien caught the blanket, draping it over himself with a flourish. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She turned off the light, plunging the room into darkness. The only sound was the distant hum of the city outside, the occasional creak of the old building settling.
“Rory,” Lucien’s voice came from the shadows, quiet.
“What?”
“Thank you.”
She didn’t ask for what. She didn’t need to.
Rory climbed into Eva’s bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. She told herself she wouldn’t sleep. That she’d stay awake, keep watch. But the sound of Lucien’s steady breathing, the warmth of his presence just a few feet away, lulled her into a restless doze.
And for the first time in months, she didn’t feel alone.