AI The first knock came just as Rory was wiping flour from her hands, the scent of cardamom and sugar still clinging to her fingers. She froze, the dish towel suspended mid-air. No one ever knocked on Eva’s door without calling first—especially not at this hour, with the streetlights below just beginning to flicker on. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, lifted his head from his perch on the windowsill, ears twitching.
The second knock was firmer, deliberate. Rory set the towel down, her pulse quickening. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Eva was still at the library, and Silas would’ve texted if he needed something from the flat. She padded across the cluttered floor, sidestepping a stack of books that had spilled from the coffee table. The three deadbolts gleamed under the dim hallway light as she reached for them, her fingers hesitating on the cold metal.
“Who is it?” she called, voice steady despite the unease coiling in her stomach .
A beat of silence . Then, smooth and unmistakable: “It’s Lucien.”
Her breath hitched. Of all the names she’d expected to hear, his wasn’t one of them. Not after the way they’d left things. Not after the months of radio silence . She unlatched the first bolt, then the second, her movements slow, as if delaying the inevitable . The third lock clicked open, and she pulled the door inward just enough to see him.
Lucien Moreau stood in the hallway, impeccable as ever in a charcoal suit that seemed to drink in the dim light . His platinum hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place, and his heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—fixed on her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. He leaned slightly on his ivory-handled cane, the picture of effortless elegance, even here, in the shabby corridor of a building that smelled faintly of curry and old paper.
“Rory,” he said, as if her name were a secret he’d been keeping.
She should’ve slammed the door. Should’ve told him to leave, to call first, to never show up unannounced like this. But the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she stepped back, pressing a hand to the door to keep it open. “You’re here,” she said, stupidly .
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Observant as ever.”
She exhaled through her nose, gripping the edge of the door. “What do you want?”
His smirk faded, replaced by something more unreadable . “Can I come in?”
Rory hesitated. The last time she’d seen him, they’d been in a dimly lit bar in Soho, his voice low and urgent as he’d warned her about the dangers of digging into certain corners of London’s underworld. She’d been reckless then, fueled by anger and the need to prove something—to him, to herself. And he’d walked away when she refused to listen. Now, here he was, as if no time had passed at all.
She stepped aside, gesturing him in with a sharp wave of her hand. “Five minutes.”
Lucien inclined his head, stepping over the threshold with the grace of a man who knew exactly how much space he took up. Ptolemy, ever the judge of character, hissed from his perch and slunk into the shadows of the bedroom. Lucien ignored the cat, his gaze sweeping over the flat—the books piled on every surface, the half-baked tray of pastries cooling on the counter, the faint smear of flour on Rory’s cheek.
“You’ve been baking,” he observed.
“And you ’ve been missing,” she shot back, crossing her arms.
He didn’t flinch. “I had business to attend to.”
“In Marseille?”
“Among other places.”
Rory clenched her jaw . Typical. Vague, evasive, infuriating. She turned away from him, marching into the tiny kitchen to busy her hands with something—anything—to keep from looking at him. “Well, your business must be very important if it kept you from so much as a text.”
“You know how it is.”
“No,” she said, spinning back to face him. “I don’t. Because I don’t disappear for months without a word.”
Lucien’s expression darkened, just for a second, before smoothing back into neutrality. “I’m here now .”
“Yes,” she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “And I’m supposed to be grateful?”
He sighed, shifting his weight onto his cane. “I didn’t come here to fight, Rory.”
“Then why *did * you come?” She threw her hands up, flour dusting the air between them. “Because it’s been *months *, Luc. Months. And now you just—what, decided to drop by for old times’ sake?”
His jaw tightened. “I came because I heard about Evan.”
The name hit her like a physical blow. She staggered back a step, her fingers gripping the edge of the counter. “What about him?”
Lucien’s gaze was unrelenting. “He’s in London.”
Rory’s stomach twisted. Evan. Her ex. The man who’d made her life a living hell for the better part of a year before she’d finally found the strength to leave. The man she’d fled Cardiff to escape. She swallowed hard, forcing her voice steady. “How do you know this?”
“I have my sources.”
“Of course you do.” She turned away again, her fingers digging into the countertop. “And what, you thought you ’d come warn me? Play the hero?”
“I thought you ’d want to know.”
She whirled back to face him, her pulse hammering in her ears. “Or maybe you just wanted an excuse to see me.”
Lucien’s eyes flashed, the black one seeming to darken further. “This isn’t a game, Rory.”
“No,” she snapped. “It’s not. So why now ? Why warn me *now * when you couldn’t be bothered to check in for months ?”
He was silent for a long moment, the air between them thick with everything unsaid. Then, quietly: “I was giving you space.”
“Space?” She let out a bitter laugh. “That’s rich. You don’t get to decide when I need space, Luc. You don’t get to disappear and then waltz back in here like nothing happened.”
“I know.”
The words were simple, but they cut through her anger like a blade. She faltered, her chest heaving as she stared at him. He looked the same—impeccable, untouchable—but there was something in his eyes now , a flicker of something raw. Regret, maybe. Or guilt.
She hated that it affected her.
“You know,” she repeated, voice softer now, the fight draining out of her . “Do you ? Do you have any idea what it was like, Luc? To have you just—gone? After everything?”
His grip tightened on the cane. “I thought it was what you wanted.”
“You *thought *?” She shook her head, a hollow laugh escaping her. “Since when do you assume what I want instead of asking?”
Lucien’s free hand flexed at his side, as if he wanted to reach for her but thought better of it. “I made a mistake.”
The admission hung between them, heavy and fragile. Rory’s throat tightened. She wanted to stay angry, to hold onto the bitterness that had festered in his absence. But the way he was looking at her now —like she was the only thing in the room worth seeing—made it hard to remember why she’d been so furious in the first place.
She exhaled sharply , rubbing her temples. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here you are, still talking to me.”
She groaned, but there was no real heat in it. “Fine. You’re here. You’ve warned me. Now what?”
Lucien took a step closer, his polished shoes silent on the worn floorboards. “Now, I make sure you ’re safe.”
Rory’s breath caught. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know.” Another step. “But you don’t have to.”
She should’ve told him to leave. Should’ve reminded him that she didn’t need his protection, that she’d been doing just fine without him. But the truth was, she *hadn’t * been fine. Not really . Not when the nights were long and the flat felt too quiet, not when she jumped at shadows that reminded her of Evan’s lingering presence in her life. And now , with Lucien standing here, close enough that she could see the faint stubble shadowing his jaw, close enough that she could catch the scent of his cologne—something dark and spiced, like cloves and old leather—she realized how much she’d missed him.
“Luc,” she whispered, her voice barely audible .
He reached out then, his fingers brushing against her wrist, just above the crescent-shaped scar there. The touch was light, almost hesitant, but it sent a jolt through her all the same. “I shouldn’t have stayed away.”
Her skin burned where he touched her. She wanted to pull away, to put distance between them before she did something stupid. But she didn’t. She stood there, frozen, as his thumb traced the old scar, his touch featherlight.
“Why now ?” she asked again, softer this time.
His gaze lifted to meet hers, and for the first time, she saw the cracks in his composure. The half-demon, the fixer, the man who always had a plan—he looked lost. “Because I couldn’t stay away any longer.”
The words hung between them, thick with promise. Rory’s heart pounded so loudly she was sure he could hear it. She should’ve pushed him away. Should’ve told him it was too late, that he’d had his chance. But the truth was, she didn’t want to. Not when his hand was warm against her skin, not when his eyes were searching hers like she was the answer to a question he’d been asking for years.
She swallowed hard. “And what if I don’t want you here?”
Lucien’s lips quirked, just slightly . “Then I’ll leave.”
She knew he wouldn’t. Not really . Not unless she made him.
Rory closed her eyes, her breath shaky. She could lie. Could tell him to go, to leave her alone. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she found herself leaning into his touch, just a fraction. “You’re an idiot.”
His chuckle was low, rough. “So I’ve been told.”
She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. “Evan’s not your problem.”
“No,” he agreed. “But *you * are.”
The air between them crackled, charged with something electric . Rory’s pulse raced , her body hyper-aware of his proximity. She could see the flecks of gold in his amber eye, the way his dark eye seemed to pull her in, endless. She could feel the heat radiating off him, the solid presence of him so close.
She should’ve stepped back. Should’ve put an end to this before it went any further. But she didn’t.
Instead, she reached up, her fingers curling into the lapel of his suit. “Luc,” she breathed, her voice barely a whisper .
He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just watched her, his breath shallow, as if he were afraid to break the moment.
Rory’s heart hammered against her ribs. She could feel the weight of the past between them—the arguments, the silence , the things they’d never said. But beneath it all, there was something else. Something that had always been there, no matter how hard she’d tried to ignore it.
She tugged him closer, her voice steady despite the storm inside her. “If you ’re here, then be here. No more disappearing. No more secrets.”
Lucien’s hand slid from her wrist to her waist, his grip firm, possessive. “No more disappearing,” he echoed .
And then, finally, he kissed her.
It wasn’t gentle. wasn’t hesitant. It was the kind of kiss that felt like a promise, like a vow . His lips were warm against hers, demanding, and she met him just as fiercely, her fingers tangling in the fabric of his suit as she pulled him closer. The cane clattered to the floor, forgotten, and his arms wrapped around her, lifting her as if she weighed nothing.
Rory’s back hit the wall, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs. Lucien’s body pressed against hers, his hands cradling her face as the kiss deepened. She could taste the faint bitterness of coffee on his tongue, could feel the heat of him seeping through her clothes. It was overwhelming, intoxicating—the way he kissed her like she was the only thing that mattered.
When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested together, their breaths mingling. Lucien’s thumb traced her bottom lip, his voice rough. “I’ve missed you .”
Rory’s eyes burned. She wanted to be angry, wanted to hold onto the hurt. But how could she, when he was looking at her like this? Like she was his whole world.
She swallowed hard, her voice barely a whisper . “Don’t leave again.”
He pressed his lips to her forehead, his breath warm against her skin. “Never.”
And for the first time in months , Rory believed him.