AI The door rattled under the third knock, each strike sharp as a judge’s gavel. Rory froze mid-step, the takeaway bag from Golden Empress suddenly heavy in her grip. No one visited Eva’s flat unannounced. Not even the postman, who’d given up after the second deadbolt.
Another knock. Insistent.
She set the food on the cluttered side table, Ptolemy the tabby cat eyeing her with feline suspicion. The flat smelled of old paper and jasmine tea, the air thick with the weight of Eva’s research. Rory’s fingers brushed the scar on her left wrist—a childhood habit when tension coiled in her chest.
The knock came again, harder.
“Alright, alright.” She muttered, weaving through stacks of books that threatened to topple. The peephole offered a distorted view: a man in a charcoal suit, platinum hair slicked back, one hand resting on the ivory handle of his cane. Her breath hitched.
Lucien.
The last time she’d seen him, his voice had been a velvet blade cutting through her lies. *You think you can run from what you are, Aurora?* She’d walked away then. Now, he stood on Eva’s welcome mat like a summons she couldn’t ignore.
She undid the first deadbolt. Then the second. The third stuck, as it always did. A twist, a shove, and the door swung open.
Lucien filled the frame, his heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—flicking over her with the precision of a man assessing a ledger. The scent of bergamot and something darker, like gunpowder and old parchment, clung to him.
“Took you long enough.” His voice was smooth, the French lilt more pronounced when he was amused . Or annoyed.
Rory crossed her arms. “Most people call first.”
“Most people aren’t you .” His cane tapped once against the floorboards. “May I?”
She didn’t move. “Depends. Are you here to gloat, or do you actually need something?”
A smirk tugged at his lips. “Can’t it be both?”
Ptolemy chose that moment to slink between her legs, tail brushing Lucien’s trousers. The half-demon didn’t flinch, but his gaze dropped to the cat. “Eva’s still letting this little spy live here?”
“He’s grown on her.” Rory stepped back, reluctantly . “Fine. In. But wipe your shoes.”
Lucien stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him. His presence seemed to shrink the already cramped space. He took in the chaos—the scrolls pinned to the walls, the teetering towers of books, the half-empty teacups—with the detached interest of a man who’d seen palaces and hells alike.
“Cosy.” He lied.
“Don’t start.” She moved to the kitchenette, busying herself with the takeaway. The aroma of Sichuan peppercorns and star anise filled the air, a poor distraction from the man now leaning against Eva’s desk, examining a yellowed map of London’s ley lines.
“You’re avoiding me.” His cane rotated idly in his palm.
“I’m reheating dinner.” She turned on the stove, the gas clicking to life with a soft *whoosh *.
“You’ve been avoiding me for three months.”
The wok hissed as she tossed the food in. “You’re the one who said we were done.”
“Circumstances change.”
She didn’t look at him. “Circumstances don’t erase the fact that you called me a coward.”
“And you called me a *bastard *.” His tone was light, but there was an edge to it. “We’re even.”
The spatula scraped against the wok. “Not even close.”
Silence stretched, thick as the steam rising from the food. Then, the creak of the floorboards as he shifted. “Eva’s not here.”
“No.” Rory plated the food, the rich colours of the beef and vegetables vivid against the white porcelain . “She’s in Prague. Some lead on a bloodline curse.”
“Convenient.”
She finally turned, leaning against the counter. “For you , maybe.”
Lucien’s gaze locked onto hers, the black eye unreadable , the amber one burning. “I need your help.”
The words hung between them. Rory set the plate down. “That’s rich.”
“A job. A *paying * job.” He reached into his coat, withdrawing a folded sheet of heavy paper. “Discreet. Dangerous. Your speciality.”
She didn’t take it. “Last time I took your word for it, I ended up with a knife in my thigh and a demon’s mark on my ribs.”
“Last time, you survived.” His fingers tapped the paper . “This time, the mark’s already there. All you have to do is use it.”
Her fingers twitched toward the scar hidden under her sleeve. The crescent mark from her childhood had been joined by another—dark, jagged, a brand from the night everything had gone wrong. The night she’d realised Lucien’s world wasn’t just shadows and secrets, but teeth and claws.
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch.” He set the paper on the table. “A nobleman’s daughter. Missing. Last seen in the company of a lesser demon from Avaros. My father’s realm.”
Rory’s stomach twisted. “And you want me to…?”
“Find her. Before she’s used as a bargaining chip.” His jaw tightened. “Or a sacrifice.”
She exhaled through her nose. “Why me?”
“Because you ’re the only one who’s walked into Avaros and walked back out.” His voice dropped. “Because you ’re the only one I trust to do it without getting caught.”
The words settled between them, heavy as a vow. Rory stared at the paper, the embossed crest of House Moreau glinting under the lamplight. Trust. That was the real currency here, and they both knew it was in short supply.
“Fine.” She snatched the paper, unfolding it. The details were sparse: a name, a last known location, a deadline. Forty-eight hours. “But I’m not doing this for you .”
“No?” His cane tapped once. “Then who?”
“For the girl.” She met his gaze. “And because I’m still pissed at you .”
A slow smile spread across his face, sharp as a blade’s edge. “Good. Anger keeps you alive.”
Ptolemy chose that moment to leap onto the desk, knocking over a stack of Eva’s notes. The papers fluttered to the floor like wounded birds. Lucien didn’t move to help, but his eyes followed the cat’s path with something like admiration .
Rory crouched to gather them, the scent of old parchment and ink rising around her. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet, here you are.” He extended a hand, offering her a single sheet she’d missed . Their fingers brushed. A spark. A warning.
She pulled back. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” His voice was a purr. “Touch you ? Talk to you ? Remind you that you *missed * me?”
Her hand clenched around the paper. “You don’t get to say that.”
“Don’t I?” He stepped closer, the space between them charged . “Three months, Aurora. Three months of silence , and yet, when I knock, you answer.”
“Because I thought you were Eva.”
“Liar.”
She should’ve stepped back. Should’ve told him to leave. But the heat of him was a pull she couldn’t resist, like the tide to the moon. His free hand lifted, fingers tracing the line of her jaw, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. She didn’t flinch.
“You’re playing with fire,” she whispered.
His lips curved. “I *am * the fire.”
The words were a spark to tinder. She grabbed the front of his shirt, yanking him forward. Their mouths crashed together, a collision of anger and need. His cane clattered to the floor. His hands tangled in her hair, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. It was a battle, a surrender, a punishment and a plea all at once.
Then, as suddenly as it began, she shoved him back. “We’re not doing this.”
Lucien’s chest rose and fell, his eyes dark. “Aren’t we?”
“Not like this.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, as if she could erase the taste of him. Bergamot and sin. “Not when you ’re using me for a job. Not when you still think I’m some coward who runs from her past.”
He bent, retrieving his cane. The blade inside remained hidden, but she knew it was there. Always there. “I never said you were a coward.”
“You *implied * it.”
“Semantics.” He straightened, adjusting his cuffs. “The job stands. The girl doesn’t have three months. Or three days.”
Rory exhaled, the fight draining out of her. She looked at the paper in her hand, the ink bleeding slightly where her grip had tightened. A nobleman’s daughter. A demon’s realm. A deadline.
“Fine.” She tossed the paper onto the desk. “But we do this *my * way.”
Lucien’s smirk returned. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
She grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair, the leather worn but reliable. “First rule: No secrets. Not this time.”
His expression sobered, the amusement fading. “Some secrets are necessary.”
“Not between us.” She zipped the jacket, the sound sharp. “Second rule: You don’t touch me unless I say so.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “And if I disagree?”
She met his gaze, unflinching. “Then you can find someone else to walk into hell with you .”
The air between them crackled, the unspoken *third rule * hanging heavy: *Don’t fall for him again.*
Lucien broke the silence first. “We leave at dawn.”
Rory nodded, then gestured to the plate of food. “Eat. You’re going to need your strength.”
He arched a brow. “Bossy as ever.”
“And you ’re still an arse.” She grabbed a second plate from the cupboard, tossing it onto the table. “Sit. Before I change my mind.”
For a moment, he just watched her, the weight of his gaze like a physical touch. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he set his cane against the wall and took a seat. The chair groaned under his weight .
Rory served the food, the clink of the spatula the only sound in the room. She slid the plate toward him, the steam curling between them.
Lucien picked up the chopsticks, examining them like they were foreign objects. “You’re not joining me?”
“I already ate.” She leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Besides, I’d rather not watch you butcher Eva’s good silverware.”
He shot her a look, but there was no real heat in it. Instead, he surprised her by deftly manoeuvring the chopsticks, lifting a piece of beef to his mouth. His eyes closed for a brief moment, savouring. “Still the best in London.”
“Yu-Fei would be flattered.”
Lucien set the chopsticks down, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “You’re stalling.”
“I’m *eating *.”
“You’re *thinking *.” He leaned back, the chair creaking . “And overthinking is how people die in Avaros.”
She pushed off the counter. “Then let’s get one thing straight. This isn’t just your world, Lucien. It’s mine now, too. And I won’t be your puppet or your pawn .”
His expression darkened, the amber eye flashing. “I never asked you to be.”
“No.” She stepped forward, her voice low. “You just expected me to follow. To trust. To *obey *.”
The word hung between them, a challenge. Lucien’s fingers tightened around the napkin, the knuckles whitening. “And what do *you * expect, Aurora?”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because the truth was, she didn’t know. Not anymore.
The silence stretched, taut as a wire. Then, from the desk, Ptolemy knocked over another stack of papers, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet room.
Lucien’s gaze flicked to the cat, then back to her. “We’ll need supplies. Eva’s stash should cover most of it.”
Rory nodded, grateful for the reprieve. “I’ll pack.”
He stood, retrieving his cane. “And I’ll secure the border crossing. Avaros isn’t kind to uninvited guests.”
She watched as he moved toward the door, his steps measured , controlled. Every inch the man who navigated hell’s bureaucracy like it was a Sunday market.
“Lucien.”
He paused, hand on the doorknob.
“Why me?” The question slipped out before she could stop it. “Really.”
He didn’t turn. Didn’t look at her. But his voice, when it came, was raw. “Because you ’re the only one who’s ever walked away.”
The door clicked shut behind him. Rory stood there, the weight of his words pressing down on her chest. She looked at the plate of half-eaten food, the scattered papers, the cat now licking its paw with infuriating nonchalance.
Dawn was hours away. And between now and then, she had to decide: was she walking into Avaros for the girl, for the money, or for the man who’d just left her flat with more questions than answers?
She grabbed her bag, shoving the paper inside. Then, she knelt to gather the fallen notes, her fingers brushing against Eva’s handwriting. *The path to Avaros is paved with lies and good intentions.*
Rory smirked. Truer words.
A sharp *crack * echoed from the hallway. She froze. That wasn’t the sound of a door closing.
It was the sound of a deadbolt breaking.