AI The rain hammered against the window, a relentless staccato that matched the unease coiling in Rory’s stomach . She wiped her hands on her jeans, the scent of curry and cumin from the restaurant downstairs clinging to her skin. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, wound between her legs, his tail flicking against the stack of books precariously balanced on the coffee table.
The knock came just as she reached for her tea.
Three sharp raps, too deliberate to be Eva. Rory froze, the mug halfway to her lips. No one else knew she was here. No one except—
Another knock. Insistent.
She set the tea down, the porcelain clinking against the chipped wooden table. The flat’s three deadbolts gleamed under the dim lamplight as she approached the door. The peephole offered a distorted view: a figure in a charcoal suit, rain-slicked hair plastered to his forehead.
Her breath hitched.
“Open the door, Rory. I know you’re there.”
Lucien’s voice, smooth as aged whisky, carried through the wood. She pressed her forehead against the door, the cool metal of the deadbolt digging into her palm.
“Go away.”
“Not until we talk.”
She exhaled through her nose. The last time she’d seen him, his cane had been pressed against Evan’s throat, his heterochromatic eyes burning with something she couldn’t name. Then he’d vanished—no explanation, no goodbye. Just silence for six months.
“Talk, then. Through the door.”
A beat. Then the faint creak of leather—his cane shifting. “I need to see your face.”
Her fingers trembled as she undid the locks, each click a tiny betrayal. The door swung open, and there he stood, rain dripping from his chin, his suit clinging to his frame like a second skin. The amber eye caught the light first, then the black one, dark as a starless sky.
She blocked the doorway, arms crossed. “You’re dripping on Eva’s welcome mat.”
He didn’t move. “Are you going to invite me in?”
“Are you going to tell me why you’re here?”
A smirk tugged at his lips. “I missed you.”
The words landed like a punch. She stepped back, gesturing him inside with a sharp wave. “Five minutes. Then you’re out.”
He stepped over the threshold, the scent of rain and bergamot filling the space between them. Ptolemy hissed and bolted under the sofa. Lucien’s cane tapped once against the floor as he straightened, his gaze sweeping over the flat—lingering on the books, the half-empty teacup, her.
“Still running,” he observed.
“Still an arsehole,” she shot back .
His laugh was low, rich. “Fair.”
She didn’t offer him a seat. Didn’t offer him tea. Just leaned against the wall, arms still crossed, as if that could shield her from the way his presence unravelled her. He moved to the window, the rain streaking the glass like tears.
“Evan’s in London,” he said.
Her stomach dropped. “What?”
“He’s been asking about you.”
The air left her lungs. She pushed off the wall, her fingers curling into fists. “And you didn’t think to lead with that?”
He turned, the rainwater glistening on his jaw. “Would it have made a difference?”
“Yes.”
“You’d still be standing there glaring at me.”
She wanted to deny it, but the words stuck in her throat. He was right. Six months of radio silence , and he waltzes in like no time had passed, dropping bombshells like they were pleasantries.
“Why now, Lucien? Why warn me now?”
His jaw tightened. “Because he’s not just asking. He’s looking.”
A shiver ran down her spine . She knew what Evan was capable of—the bruises, the threats, the way he’d made her feel like a caged animal. And now he was here. In her city.
She swallowed. “And what do you expect me to do?”
“Let me help you.”
The words hung between them, heavy with everything unsaid. His cane tapped again, a restless rhythm. She remembered the way he’d moved that night —fluid, lethal—like a shadow given form. The way he’d looked at her after, his eyes dark with something more than anger.
“Why?” she asked, quieter now.
He stepped closer, the space between them shrinking. “Because I can’t stand the thought of him touching you again.”
Her breath caught. The air between them crackled, charged with something electric . She should’ve stepped back. Should’ve told him to leave. But she didn’t.
“And what about you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper . “What do you want, Lucien?”
His gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. The black one burned. “You know what I want.”
The memory of his mouth on hers, hot and demanding, flashed through her mind. The way his hands had gripped her waist, pulling her against him like he wanted to consume her. And then—nothing. He’d walked away.
“You left,” she said, the words raw.
“I had to.”
“Bullshit.”
His fingers twitched toward her, then curled into a fist. “There were things I needed to handle. Demons don’t take kindly to half-breeds meddling in their affairs.”
She scoffed. “And I was just supposed to wait? Hope you’d come back?”
“No.” His voice was rough. “You were supposed to be safe.”
The admission hit her like a physical blow. She wanted to hate him for it. Wanted to slam the door in his face and pretend this conversation never happened. But the fear in her gut—Evan, London, the past clawing its way back—rooted her in place.
“And now?” she asked.
Now he was here. Now the past was a living thing between them, breathing, pulsing.
Now his hand lifted, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. His touch was fire, searing through her.
“Now,” he murmured, “I’m not leaving again.”
Her pulse roared in her ears. She should’ve pushed him away. Should’ve reminded him of the months of silence , the unanswered questions. But his thumb traced the line of her jaw, and all she could think about was the way his mouth had felt on hers, the way his body had pressed against hers like he was trying to memorise the shape of her.
“You’re a bastard,” she whispered.
“Oui,” he agreed, his breath warm against her skin . “But I’m your bastard.”
And then his lips were on hers, hot and demanding, and she hated herself for the way her body responded—arching into him, her hands fisting in his damp shirt. The cane clattered to the floor. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her flush against him, and for a moment, the world narrowed to this: the heat of him, the taste of rain and sin on his tongue, the way her heart hammered against her ribs.
Then she remembered.
She shoved him back, her chest heaving. “No. Not like this.”
His eyes were dark, his lips parted. “Rory—”
“You don’t get to kiss me and make it all better. You don’t get to disappear and then waltz back in here like nothing happened.”
He ran a hand through his hair, rainwater dripping onto the floor. “I know.”
“Do you?” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, as if she could erase the feel of him. “Because it sure as hell doesn’t seem like it.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I made a mistake.”
“Damn right you did.”
Silence stretched between them, thick with everything they weren’t saying . The rain continued its relentless drumming against the window. Ptolemy peeked out from under the sofa, his ears flat.
Lucien exhaled, long and slow. “I should’ve called. Should’ve written. Should’ve done a lot of things.”
“Yeah. You should’ve.”
He bent to retrieve his cane, his movements precise, controlled. When he straightened, his expression was unreadable . “But I’m here now. And Evan’s in London. So unless you’d rather face him alone—”
She cut him off with a sharp laugh. “That’s low, even for you.”
“It’s the truth.”
She wanted to scream. Wanted to throw something. Wanted to kiss him again. Instead, she turned away, her fingers digging into the back of the sofa.
“Fine,” she said at last. “You can stay. But only because of Evan.”
His cane tapped once against the floor. “And the other reasons?”
She didn’t look at him. “There are no other reasons.”
A beat. Then, softly : “Liar.”
Her grip tightened on the sofa. She could feel his gaze on her, heavy as a touch.
“You’re pushing your luck, Frenchman.”
“Am I?”
She turned, ready to snap at him, but the look in his eyes stopped her. The amber one was warm, almost tender. The black one was a void, pulling her in.
“What?” she demanded.
He held her gaze. “Nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything—the past, the present, the way her body still hummed from his kiss. The way her stupid, traitorous heart still raced when he looked at her like that.
She broke first, glancing away. “You can sleep on the couch.”
“Generous.”
“Don’t test me.”
A smirk played at his lips. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. Damn him. Damn the way he could make her want to laugh even when she wanted to strangle him.
“There’s a spare blanket in the cupboard,” she said, gesturing to the narrow door beside the kitchenette. “And if you so much as think about sneaking into my bed—”
“You’ll what?” His eyebrow quirked. “Kick me out?”
“Worse.”
“Intriguing.”
She grabbed a pillow from the sofa and hurled it at him. He caught it one-handed, his smirk widening.
“Sleep, Lucien.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She stormed past him, heading for Eva’s bedroom, but not before she caught the way his gaze lingered on her. Not before she felt the weight of his presence, like a promise or a threat.
The door clicked shut behind her, but she knew—this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.