AI The third deadbolt slid back with a heavy, metallic clunk that vibrated right through Rory’s palm. She kept her foot braced against the bottom of the door, a habit left over from Cardiff and Evan, though if something from London’s underworld really wanted into Eva’s flat, three brass locks and a five-foot-six human weren't going to stop it.
She pulled the door open an inch, expecting a courier or perhaps the landlord from the curry house downstairs complaining about the leak in the scullery again.
Instead, she got charcoal wool, slicked-back platinum hair, and a pair of eyes that didn't match.
Rory’s breath caught, freezing halfway up her throat. She didn’t mean to let go of the doorknob, and she certainly didn't mean to let her gaze drop to his mouth before snapping back up to that unsettling, familiar face. One eye was the warm, rich amber of aged whiskey; the other was a void of pitch black, swallowing the dim light of the stairwell.
"Bonsoir, chérie," Lucien said. His voice was a low, velvet purr, roughened slightly at the edges by the damp East London chill . He leaned a fraction of his weight onto his ivory-handled cane, looking entirely absurd standing on the frayed, cumin-scented landing of Brick Lane. He belonged in a Mayfair member's club, not here. "Are you going to leave me in the draft, or have you forgotten your manners entirely?"
Rory recovered her poise, the cool-headed detachment slamming down like a floodgate over the sudden, treacherous thudding of her heart. "This isn't my flat, Luc. And you weren't invited."
"Eva is in Prague until Tuesday," he replied smoothly, not moving an inch. "Which makes you the reigning monarch of this particular kingdom of dust and paper. And I rarely wait for invitations. You know that."
She did know that. She knew a lot of things about Lucien Moreau. She knew the exact weight of his cane and the lethal, whisper -thin blade concealed inside it. She knew he took his espresso with a twist of lemon peel, that he spoke four languages and cursed predominantly in Marseillais slang when he lost his temper, and she knew the exact temperature of his skin when he pressed her against the wainscoting of his townhouse in Soho.
She also knew how it felt to wake up in that townhouse alone, with a hundred-pound note on the nightstand beside a dossier she’d risked her neck to help him steal, reduced to a paid contractor the morning after she’d been stupid enough to think they were something else.
"Go away, Lucien," she said, shifting her weight to push the door shut. "My shift at the Golden Empress ran late. I smell like sweet and sour pork, my feet hurt, and I’m supposed to be watering Eva’s cat, not entertaining fixers."
Before the latch could catch, the tip of his cane wedged itself into the gap. He didn't push—he didn't have to. If he used his half-demon strength, he’d take the doorframe off its hinges. Instead, he just looked at her through the narrowing crack, the smug broker's mask slipping just enough to show a flash of something tight and desperate beneath.
"I have a problem, Aurora," he said softly .
He only ever used her full name when he was bleeding or when he was lying . Rory’s eyes narrowed, her bright blue gaze raking over his tailored suit. Charcoal, impeccable, not a thread out of place—until she looked at his left hand. He had it tucked casually into his trouser pocket, but a dark, rust-colored stain was blooming through the grey wool near his hip.
Not lying, then. Bleeding.
With a quiet curse, Rory stepped back and pulled the door open.
Lucien stepped inside, bringing the scent of rain, expensive cedarwood cologne, and the sharp, coppery tang of Avarosian blood with him. The cramped living room shrank the moment he entered it. There was barely enough room for one person to navigate the teetering stacks of occult books, parchment scrolls, and frantic research notes Eva left covering every horizontal surface, let alone a five-foot-eleven half-demon in bespoke tailoring.
Rory shut the door and threw all three deadbolts out of sheer muscle memory. When she turned around, Ptolemy, Eva’s massive tabby cat, was already winding himself around Lucien’s ankles, purring like a chainsaw.
"Traitor," Rory muttered to the cat. She crossed her arms, her left thumb unconsciously rubbing the small crescent-shaped scar on her wrist. "Take off the jacket. And don't bleed on the sixteenth-century grimoires. Eva will flay us both."
Lucien’s mouth twitched, a ghost of his usual arrogant smirk, though it looked strained. "Your concern for my well-being is overwhelming, as always."
"My concern is for the upholstery," she countered coolly, though her stomach did an unpleasant flip as he set his cane against a stack of encyclopedias and shrugged out of his suit jacket.
His white dress shirt was plastered to his ribs on the left side, soaked through with crimson that had a faint, unnatural iridescence to it. Demon blood burned hotter than human blood; she could practically feel the heat radiating off him from three feet away.
"Sit," she ordered, pointing to the only clear spot on the battered leather sofa. She had to shove a pile of translations on Eastern European vampires onto the floor to make room for him.
Lucien lowered himself onto the cushions with a muffled groan, his head tipping back against the sofa. His platinum hair, usually slicked back with military precision, had a single pale lock falling loose across his forehead. He looked exhausted. It had been six weeks since she’d walked out of his townhouse—forty-two days of radio silence , of telling herself she was glad to be rid of the arrogant Frenchman and his underworld games.
Seeing him hurt undid six weeks of stern self-lectures in about four seconds.
Rory marched into the minuscule bathroom, grabbed the plastic first-aid kit from beneath the sink, soaked a flannel in warm water, and marched back out. She didn't have silk thread for stitches, and she didn't have a demon-healer on speed dial, so antiseptic and gauze would have to do.
She dropped to her knees between his spread legs because there was literally nowhere else to kneel, the coffee table being buried under three feet of ancient maps. The proximity hit her like a physical blow.
"Buttons," she said brusquely, staring at his collarbone rather than his eyes.
"Do it yourself, chérie," he murmured, his voice thick . "You used to be quite enthusiastic about tearing my shirts off."
Rory’s jaw tightened. She reached up, her fingers deftly working the small mother-of-pearl buttons down his chest. She kept her touch clinical, ignoring the way his skin jumped beneath her knuckles, ignoring the heavy, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. When she parted the linen and peeled the blood-soaked fabric away from his side, she hissed through her teeth.
Three jagged, parallel gouges raked across his lower ribs. The edges of the wounds were blackened , smoking faintly with residual hellfire.
"Hellhound?" she asked, grabbing the wet flannel.
"Barghest," Lucien corrected through gritted teeth as she pressed the warm cloth to the wound. His hand shot out, his long fingers wrapping around her left wrist like a steel manacle, right over her crescent scar. "Putain—careful, Rory."
"Hold still, you big baby. If you wanted gentle, you should have gone to a clinic."
"I couldn't go to a clinic," he breathed, his grip on her wrist loosening from a vise to a heavy, warm weight . His thumb stroked once, twice, over the raised skin of her scar. "The broker who set the dog on me has eyes on every night-doctor from Whitechapel to Chelsea. And my townhouse is compromised."
Rory froze, the bloodstained flannel poised an inch from his ribs. Her father was a barrister; she had been raised to spot holes in testimonies, to read between the lines of what people said to find what they actually meant. She slowly lifted her gaze from his torn side to his face.
Lucien was looking down at her, his mismatched eyes dark and entirely devoid of humor.
"You came to Brick Lane," she said quietly, the realization clicking into place . "You crossed the river bleeding out from a Barghest mauling."
"I didn't know Eva was in Prague until I bribed the boy in the curry shop downstairs ten minutes ago," Lucien admitted, his voice dropping to a rough whisper . "I didn't come looking for a witch, Rory. And I didn't come to Eva's flat because I forgot where you live."
"Everyone knows I live above Silas' bar," she said, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird . "Silas would have poured gin in the wound and sewed you up with fishing line. Why didn't you go there?"
"Because Silas has a shotgun behind the counter and he promised to take my kneecaps off if I ever came within a mile of your flat again," Lucien said simply.
Rory blinked. "He what?"
"After I let you walk out," Lucien continued, his amber eye burning into hers while the black one seemed to pull her in. "You went to work that evening. You cried in the storeroom behind the bar. Silas found you, deduced who was responsible, and paid me a visit."
Heat flooded Rory’s cheeks, a humiliating mix of anger and mortification. "I didn't cry over you. I had chopped onions for Yu-Fei."
"You deliver the food, chérie, you don't prep it," Lucien said softly . His fingers slid up from her wrist, tracing the line of her forearm before coming to rest at the curve of her jaw. His thumb brushed her cheekbone, smearing a phantom tear that was six weeks dry. "I left the money on the table because my father’s people were watching the house, Aurora. If they thought you were anything more to me than an asset—a clever little human thief I hired for a job—they would have used you to break me."
The stale, spice-heavy air of the flat seemed to vanish. Rory sat back on her heels, though she didn't pull away from his hand. "You could have told me."
"And what would you have done?" A faint, bitter smile touched his lips. "You, with your brilliant, stubborn head and your catastrophic savior complex ? You would have refused to leave. You would have tried to outthink a duke of Avaros. I had to make you angry enough to walk out that door and never look back. I knew your pride wouldn't let you stay if I treated you like a transaction."
It was true. It was so devastatingly, infuriatingly true that Rory wanted to slap him. After Evan—after years of being made to feel small and dependent in Cardiff—her pride was the armor that kept her upright. Lucien had known the exact weak point in that armor, and he had driven his blade right through it to get her out of the blast radius.
"You're a bastard, Luc," she whispered, her voice trembling despite every effort to keep it steady .
"Je sais," he murmured. His hand slid behind her neck, tangling in the straight, shoulder-length black hair at her nape, and he tugged her forward. "I have spent six weeks convincing the underworld that you mean nothing to me. And then I took a Barghest's claws to the ribs, thought I might actually die in a gutter in Shoreditch, and my feet brought me straight to you anyway."
Rory looked at his mouth, then into his strange, captivating eyes. The hurt was still there, a dull ache beneath her breastbone, tangled up with the terrifying reality of what he was and the world he lived in. He was a liar, a manipulator, and a half-demon who dealt in secrets.
He was also shivering , his skin burning hot against her palm where she had unconsciously braced her hand against his uninjured chest.
"If your father's people followed you here—" she started.
"They didn't," he interrupted, pulling her closer until her knees bumped the bottom of the sofa and her face was inches from his. "The broker who set the dog on me is dead. The hound is dead. And I am very tired of pretending I don't starve for you when you're not in the room."
Rory let out a shaky breath, her cool head finally, completely abandoning her. "I still have to stitch you up."
"In a minute," Lucien breathed, and closed the distance between them.
His mouth was hot, tasting of copper and rain and desperate relief. Rory made a small sound in the back of her throat, dropping the flannel onto the floor as both of her hands went to his shoulders, careful of his injured side even as she kissed him back with six weeks of pent-up fury and longing. His tongue swept against hers, a slow, devastating claim that made her toes curl inside her battered trainers.
When he finally broke the kiss, he didn't let her go, resting his forehead against hers, his breathing ragged.
"Stay angry with me tomorrow," he whispered against her lips, his thumb tracing the corner of her mouth. "Tonight, just don't make me leave."
Rory looked down at the bottle of antiseptic, then back up at the impeccably ruined Frenchman bleeding all over her best friend's sofa. A slow, sharp smile curved her lips.
"I'm not making you leave, Luc," she said, reaching for the rubbing alcohol and the curved needle in the kit. "In fact, you're going to wish I had kicked you out on the landing."
Lucien’s low, genuine laugh filled the cramped room, right before she poured the antiseptic over the hellfire burns and he swore violently in four different languages.