AI The first knock came just as Rory was pouring herself a second cup of tea, the steam curling into the dim light of Eva’s cluttered flat. She froze, the chipped mug halfway to her lips. No one ever knocked. Eva had a key, Silas would shout up the stairs, and the delivery drivers from the Golden Empress knew better than to disturb her off the clock.
The second knock was sharper, insistent. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, uncoiled from his perch on the windowsill and slunk under the desk, his tail flicking like a metronome set to *danger *.
Rory set the tea down. The flat was a maze of books and loose papers, the kind of place where a wrong step could send an avalanche of research tumbling. She picked her way carefully to the door, her bare feet silent on the worn hardwood. The peephole showed a distorted, fish-eye view of the hallway—empty, except for the warped silhouette of a man in a tailored suit.
Her pulse jumped. She knew that silhouette .
She unlatched the first deadbolt, then the second, her fingers lingering on the third. Stupid. It was just a door. Just a man. But the last time she’d seen Lucien Moreau, she’d been the one walking away, her pride the only thing keeping her from looking back.
The third lock clicked open.
The door swung inward before she could touch it, as if he’d been leaning against it. There he was, filling the frame in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than her monthly rent, his platinum hair slicked back, his heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—fixed on her with the kind of intensity that made her skin prickle. The ivory handle of his cane gleamed in the hallway light.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said, his voice smooth, accented with the faintest lilt of Marseille .
Rory crossed her arms. “I was hoping for one. They’re usually more polite.”
A smirk tugged at his lips. “And here I thought you missed me.”
She didn’t. She *had *. That was the problem.
Lucien stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, his presence swallowing the small space. The scent of bergamot and something darker, something like gunpowder and old books, clung to him . He’d always smelled like trouble. Expensive trouble.
“You’re blocking the door,” she said.
“Am I ?” He didn’t move . His gaze flicked over her—her black hair, still damp from the shower, the oversized sweater she’d stolen from Eva’s closet, the way her fingers curled into her elbows like she was holding herself together. “You’ve lost weight .”
“Compliment or observation?”
“Both.”
She exhaled through her nose and stepped back, letting him pass. The door swung shut behind him , and for a moment, the flat felt too small, the air too thick. Ptolemy hissed from under the desk.
Lucien ignored the cat. His cane tapped once against the floor as he took in the room—the stacks of books, the yellowed scrolls pinned to the walls, the half-empty teacup on the desk. “Still playing at being a scholar, I see.”
“It’s not playing,” Rory snapped. “And you’re not here to critique my life choices.”
“Aren’t I ?” He turned to her, his expression unreadable . “You left my number by the phone. I assumed you wanted to be found.”
She had . She hadn’t. It had been a moment of weakness, a scrap of paper with his name on it, tucked beside the landline like a lifeline she wasn’t sure she’d ever use. And now here he was, as if summoned by the sheer force of her indecision.
“What do you want, Luc?”
His jaw tightened at the nickname. She’d only ever called him that once before, in a moment of vulnerability neither of them had acknowledged. “Business,” he said. “And you.”
“Flattering.” She moved to the desk, putting the solid wood between them. The surface was littered with Eva’s notes—sketches of sigils, translations of dead languages, a half-empty packet of biscuits. Rory’s fingers brushed the edge of a book, grounding herself. “But I ’m not in the market for either.”
Lucien’s cane tapped again, a slow, deliberate rhythm. “You’re lying.”
She was. God, she was. But she lifted her chin anyway. “Try me.”
He stepped closer, his movements fluid, predatory. The desk was no barrier. He loomed over it, his hands braced against the edge, caging her in. “You left London without a word. No note. No explanation. Just gone.” His voice was low, rougher than she remembered. “After everything.”
Rory’s throat tightened. *After everything.* As if those two words could encompass the weeks they’d spent tangled together—his hands in her hair, his mouth on her skin, the way he’d looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing. And then the night it had all fallen apart, when she’d realized she was just another job to him , another secret to be traded, another pawn in his endless game.
She swallowed. “I had my reasons.”
“Reasons.” His laugh was bitter . “Or excuses.”
“Does it matter?”
“It does to me.”
She wanted to look away, but his eyes held hers, unrelenting. The amber one was warm, almost human. The black one was a void. She’d once told him it was the most beautiful thing about him . He’d kissed her for it.
“Why?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper . “Why does it matter to you?”
For a second, his mask slipped. There was something raw in his gaze, something that made her chest ache. Then it was gone, replaced by the cool, calculating look she knew too well. “Because you’re the only person who’s ever walked away from me.”
The words hung between them, heavy and true. Rory’s fingers curled into fists. “And yet here you are.”
“Here I am.” He straightened, his cane clicking against the floor as he stepped back . The distance between them felt like a chasm . “I need your help.”
Of course he did. It was always business with him . Even when it wasn’t, it was.
“What kind of help?”
“The kind that involves a demon, a stolen artifact, and a very angry witch.”
Rory barked out a laugh. “So, a Tuesday?”
Lucien didn’t smile. “This isn’t a joke. The artifact is dangerous. The witch is more so. And the demon—” He hesitated. “The demon is my father .”
The room tilted. Rory gripped the edge of the desk. “Your *father *?”
Lucien’s expression was grim. “He’s not supposed to be here. And if he’s involved, it means Avaros is closer to bleeding into this world than we realized.”
Avaros. The demon realm. The place he’d spent half his life trying to escape.
Rory exhaled slowly . “And you need me because…?”
“Because you’re the only one who’s ever outsmarted me.” His voice was quiet. “And because I trust you.”
The words hit her like a physical blow. *I trust you.* As if that was enough. As if it could erase the past, the lies, the way he’d looked at her when she’d accused him of using her—like she was the one who’d betrayed *him *.
She turned away, her gaze landing on the window. The glass was streaked with rain, the city beyond it a blur of lights and shadows. London had been her sanctuary , her fresh start. And now he was here, dragging the past back in with him .
“You don’t get to do that,” she said.
“Do what?”
“Show up after months of silence and act like nothing’s changed. Act like *I * haven’t changed.”
“Haven’t you?” His voice was closer now. She could feel the heat of him at her back, the ghost of his breath against her neck. “Or are you still the same woman who ran from me because she was afraid?”
She whirled around. “I wasn’t afraid.”
“Liar.”
Her hand lashed out before she could stop it, her palm connecting with his cheek in a sharp crack. The sound echoed through the flat. Lucien didn’t flinch. His head turned slowly back to face her, his cheek already reddening.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then his hand shot out, gripping her wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to hold her there . His thumb brushed the crescent-shaped scar on the inside of her wrist, the one she’d had since she was a child. The touch was electric .
“There she is,” he murmured.
Rory yanked her hand back, but he didn’t let go. His grip was iron. “Let me go.”
“Or what?” His voice was a velvet threat. “You’ll hit me again?”
“Maybe.”
His lips curled. “I ’d like to see you try.”
She did. Or she would have, if his other hand hadn’t snaked around her waist, pulling her against him . The heat of his body seared through her sweater, the scent of him wrapping around her like a spell. She should have pushed him away. Should have kneed him in the groin, should have done *something *. But her body betrayed her, arching into him , her breath hitching as his mouth found the sensitive skin beneath her ear.
“Luc—”
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.
She couldn’t. God help her, she couldn’t.
His lips moved to her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. She turned her head, and suddenly his mouth was on hers, hot and demanding. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a challenge, a dare, a *fuck you * wrapped in desire . And she met it, her fingers tangling in his hair, her body pressing against his like she could crawl inside him and never come out.
The cane clattered to the floor. His hands were everywhere—her waist, her back, her throat, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. She gasped, and his tongue swept into her mouth, tasting her, claiming her. It was just like she remembered. Just like she’d tried to forget.
Then, as suddenly as it had started, he pulled away. His breathing was ragged, his eyes dark. “We’re not done here.”
Rory’s lips were swollen, her heart pounding . “No,” she agreed. “We’re not.”
He reached down, retrieving his cane. The moment of vulnerability was gone , replaced by the cool, collected fixer she knew. But his hands weren’t steady. Neither were hers.
“So,” she said, her voice unsteady . “A demon, a witch, and a stolen artifact.”
Lucien’s smirk returned, but it was softer now, almost fond. “You’re in?”
She should have said no. Should have told him to leave, to never come back. But the truth was, she’d missed this—the thrill, the danger , the way her pulse raced when he was near.
And maybe, just maybe, she’d missed *him *.
“Fine,” she said. “But if we die, I ’m haunting you for the rest of eternity.”
His laugh was low, rich. “Deal.”
Ptolemy chose that moment to reappear, winding himself between Rory’s legs with a disapproving meow.
Lucien’s gaze flicked to the cat. “I see some things haven’t changed.”
Rory bent down, scooping the tabby into her arms. Ptolemy glared at Lucien over her shoulder, his tail flicking. “Ptolemy’s got good instincts.”
Lucien’s grin was sharp. “Then he and I will get along just fine.”
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. And for the first time in months, the flat didn’t feel so empty.