AI The first knock came just as Rory was pouring herself a second cup of tea, the chamomile steam curling into the lamplight. She froze, the chipped mug halfway to her lips. No one visited Eva’s flat unannounced—not without calling first, not with the way the front door groaned like a dying beast every time it opened. The second knock was sharper, impatient. Ptolemy, the tabby, uncoiled from his perch on the windowsill and slunk under the sofa, tail flicking.
Rory set the tea down. The flat was a maze of Eva’s research—stacks of books teetering like drunken sentinels , scrolls unfurled across the coffee table, a half-eaten plate of biscuits gone stale. She navigated it barefoot, the wooden floor cool beneath her soles. The peephole was useless; the fish-eye lens only showed a distorted sliver of the hallway. She pressed her eye to it anyway.
A man stood there, immaculate in a charcoal suit, his platinum hair slicked back like he’d just stepped out of a boardroom rather than the grimy backstreets of Brick Lane. Lucien. The sight of him sent a jolt through her, sharp as static. She hadn’t seen him in six months—not since that night in the alley behind Silas’ bar, when he’d pressed her against the brick wall and kissed her like he was trying to memorize the shape of her, then walked away without a word.
Her pulse thrummed in her throat. She should leave him out there. She should pretend she wasn’t home. But the third knock came before she could decide, and this time, it rattled the deadbolts.
Rory exhaled through her nose, then turned the first lock. Then the second. The third stuck, as it always did, and she had to jiggle the key before it gave way with a reluctant click. The door swung open before she could step back, and there he was, filling the doorway with his presence, the scent of bergamot and something darker—gunpowder, maybe, or the faint metallic tang of his demon blood.
Lucien’s heterochromatic gaze flicked over her, amber and black, assessing. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
Rory crossed her arms. “I’ve been busy.”
“Liar.” His voice was smooth, accented, the kind of voice that could charm secrets out of a saint. He leaned against the doorframe, the ivory handle of his cane glinting in the dim light. “You’ve been avoiding my calls, my messages. Even Silas won’t tell me where you’ve been.”
She wanted to slam the door in his face. She wanted to drag him inside and kiss him until neither of them could breathe. Instead, she stepped back, leaving the door open in silent invitation. “What do you want , Luc?”
He didn’t move at first, just studied her—the straight fall of her black hair, the way her bright blue eyes had darkened at the sight of him, the small crescent scar on her left wrist, pale against her skin. Then he stepped inside, the door swinging shut behind him. The flat felt smaller with him in it, the air thicker.
“You look well,” he said.
“Don’t.” She turned away, leading him into the living room. “If this is just a social call, you can leave.”
“It’s not.” He followed her, his cane tapping lightly against the floor. His gaze swept over the chaos of Eva’s research, lingering on a half-unrolled scroll covered in what looked like demonic sigils . “You’ve been digging into things you shouldn’t.”
Rory stiffened. “That’s none of your business.”
“It is when it involves Avaros.” His voice was low, dangerous . “You know what my father is. You know what he’s capable of.”
She whirled on him. “And you know why I’m doing this. Evan isn’t just some ex I ran from, Luc. He’s connected. He’s got ties to the same circles your father moves in. And if I don’t figure out how deep those ties go, I’m not going to be the only one who gets hurt.”
Lucien’s jaw tightened. “So you’re playing detective.”
“I’m surviving.” She gestured to the mess around them. “Eva’s been helping me. We’re close to figuring out how Evan’s been moving between realms. And if we can cut off his supply lines—”
“You’ll what?” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Start a war? Because that’s what this is, Rory. You’re poking at a hornet’s nest, and when it explodes, it won’t just be you in the crossfire.”
She could feel the heat of him, the way his presence seemed to pull at her, like gravity. “Then help me.”
He went still. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the distant hum of the curry house below, the clink of dishes, the murmur of voices. Then he let out a slow breath. “You know I can’t.”
“Because of your father?”
“Because of what I am.” His fingers tightened around the cane. “I’ve spent my life walking the line between your world and mine. If I take sides—”
“You already have.” She reached out, her fingers brushing the lapel of his suit . The fabric was warm, as if he’d just taken it off. “You helped me before. You got me out of that mess with the Blackthorn Covenant. You could have walked away then, but you didn’t.”
His gaze dropped to her hand, then back up to her face. “That was different.”
“Was it?” She stepped closer, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his amber eye, the way his black eye seemed to swallow the light. “Or are you just afraid?”
Something flickered in his expression—anger, maybe, or something raw and aching. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I know exactly what I’m asking.” Her voice was steady, but her heart wasn’t. It hammered against her ribs, wild and reckless. “I’m asking you to stop pretending you don’t care.”
For a second, she thought he might kiss her. His gaze dropped to her lips, and his breath hitched, just slightly . But then he stepped back, putting space between them. “This isn’t about us .”
“Isn’t it?” She laughed, sharp and bitter. “That’s rich, coming from you. You’re the one who kissed me and then vanished into the night like some kind of supernatural Casanova. You’re the one who won’t even admit that there’s an *us * to begin with.”
His mouth twisted. “There can’t be.”
“Why not?” She threw her hands up. “Because I’m human? Because you’re half-demon? Newsflash, Luc—*I don’t care.*”
“You should.” His voice was a growl. “You have no idea what it’s like—what I am. The things I’ve done. The things I *want * to do when I look at you.”
The air between them crackled, charged . Rory’s breath came faster. “Then do them.”
Lucien’s control snapped. One moment he was across the room, the next he was in front of her, his free hand tangling in her hair, tilting her head back. His cane clattered to the floor as he kissed her, hard and hungry, like he’d been starving for it. Rory gasped, her hands flying to his chest, but she didn’t push him away. Instead, she kissed him back, just as fiercely, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
He tasted like sin and expensive whiskey, and she wanted to drown in it. His other hand slid around her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she could feel the heat of him, the way his body seemed to hum with something dark and electric . She arched into him, her own body responding, her skin tingling where he touched her.
Then, just as suddenly as he’d kissed her, he pulled away, his breath ragged. “This changes nothing.”
Rory’s lips were swollen, her heart pounding . “Liar.”
He let go of her, stepping back like she’d burned him. His cane was on the floor between them, and he bent to retrieve it, his movements stiff. “I came here to warn you. Not to—” He gestured vaguely between them. “Not to *this.*”
She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold. “Then you shouldn’t have come at all.”
Lucien’s jaw worked. He looked at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable . Then he turned toward the door. “Be careful, Rory. Avaros isn’t a place you want to draw attention from.”
She wanted to call him back. Wanted to tell him she didn’t care about the risks, that she just wanted him. But the words stuck in her throat as he reached for the door handle.
Then Ptolemy chose that moment to reappear, winding himself between Lucien’s legs with a loud, demanding *mrrow.* Lucien froze, looking down at the cat like he wasn’t sure if it was a threat or an offering.
Rory couldn’t help it. She laughed.
Lucien shot her a glare, but there was something almost… fond in it. “Your friend’s cat has terrible timing.”
“He’s Eva’s cat. And he’s got good instincts.” She crouched down, scooping Ptolemy into her arms. The cat purred, kneading her shoulder with his claws. “He likes you. That’s got to mean something.”
Lucien exhaled, long and slow. Then, to her surprise, he crouched down as well, extending a hand toward Ptolemy. The cat sniffed it, then butted his head against Lucien’s knuckles, demanding attention.
“Traitor,” Rory muttered, but she was smiling.
Lucien scratched behind Ptolemy’s ears, his expression softening. “Cats have always liked me. Demons, too.”
Rory’s smile faded. “Is that supposed to be a warning?”
He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his trousers. “It’s just the truth.” He met her gaze, and for the first time since he’d walked in, there was no armor in his eyes. Just raw, unfiltered Lucien. “I *do * care, Rory. More than I should. But caring doesn’t change what I am. And it doesn’t change what’s coming.”
She swallowed. “Then let me help you face it.”
For a heartbeat, she thought he might say yes. But then the shutters came down again, and he was the impeccable, untouchable Lucian Moreau once more. “Lock your doors. And for God’s sake, stay out of Avaros.”
He didn’t wait for a response. The door clicked shut behind him, and just like that, he was gone .
Rory stood there, Ptolemy warm in her arms, listening to the sound of his retreating footsteps . The flat felt emptier than it had before he’d arrived.
Then she set the cat down and walked to the door. She turned the deadbolts, one by one, but she didn’t engage the last. Instead, she pressed her forehead against the cool wood and closed her eyes.
She wasn’t done with him. Not by a long shot.