AI The third deadbolt slid home with a satisfying thunk. Rory leaned her forehead against the cool wood of the door, the day’s grime and the smell of curry from the restaurant below clinging to her. A shower, a cheap beer, and a few hours of case law before she could pass out—that was the plan. It was a good plan.
A knock, sharp and insistent, shattered it.
She froze. Eva wasn’t due back from her archive run until late. Rory wasn’t expecting anyone. She pushed off the door and peered through the spyhole.
Her breath hitched.
The distorted, fish-eye view showed a charcoal suit, a shock of platinum blond hair, and a face she’d spent three months trying to forget. Lucien Moreau. He stood there, a dark, elegant silhouette against the dim hallway light, his ivory-handled cane held loosely in one hand.
Another knock, this one slower, more deliberate.
“Rory. I know you’re in there. Your light’s on.”
His voice, muffled by the door, still carried that infuriatingly smooth cadence. It was the voice that had whispered secrets against her skin, the one that had lied with a smile.
She didn’t move. He could stand there until the mould on the walls grew a beard.
“It’s about the Ardent file,” he said, the words a clear, cold key designed to pick the lock of her silence . “The one you asked me to find.”
Her jaw tightened. The Ardent file. The very thing that had started the whole damn mess. She’d asked him for information, paid him for it, and then he’d disappeared, leaving her with nothing but a dead end and a bitter taste in her mouth. Now he had the gall to show up here, on her doorstep, dangling it like bait.
She snapped the lock, pulled the door open a crack, the chain still firmly in place. It was just enough to see the full picture of him. He looked the same. Impeccable. His mismatched eyes—one amber, one black—settled on her, and a faint, unreadable smile played on his lips.
“You look well, Aurora.”
“It’s Rory,” she said, her voice flat . “And you have five seconds to tell me why you’re darkening my doorway before I slam this in your face.”
His smile didn’t waver. “The file. I have it. But it’s not something I can slip under the door. It requires context. A conversation.”
“We’ve had conversations before. They didn’t end well.” The memory of their last one, in his office, flared hot and sharp in her mind. The taste of his whiskey on her tongue, the weight of his hand on her back, the sudden, icy chill when he’d pulled away and told her to leave. “Leave the file with Eva. I’m busy.”
She started to push the door shut.
“Evan is looking for you,” he said.
The words stopped her cold. Her hand tightened on the door’s edge, knuckles turning white. He knew about Evan. He knew the name she never spoke, the ghost that haunted her every shadow. Her old life in Cardiff felt like a different person, but Evan was the thread that still tied her to it, a knot of fear in her stomach .
She stared at him through the narrow gap, seeing the truth in his mismatched eyes. He wasn’t bluffing . He never bluffed about things like this. It was his business.
“How do you know that?” Her voice was a low whisper , stripped of its earlier defiance.
“Because he’s been asking for you in the kinds of places I frequent. He’s not the subtle type.” Lucien’s gaze was steady. He wasn’t gloating , wasn’t using it as leverage. It was a simple, brutal statement of fact. “I can help you with this, but not from a hallway.”
A long, heavy silence stretched between them. The sounds of Brick Lane—a distant siren, the chatter of a late-night crowd—seeped through the thin walls of the flat. Her flat. Her sanctuary . And now, this man was threatening to shatter it.
Reluctantly, she closed the door, slid the chain free, and opened it fully. She stepped back, a wordless invitation. He walked in, his gaze sweeping the cramped space before settling on her. The click of the door closing behind him sounded like a verdict .
“So,” she said, crossing her arms. “Talk.”
He didn’t. Not right away. He moved past her, towards the chaos of Eva’s research. His shoes were silent on the worn floorboards. He picked up a scroll, his long fingers tracing the strange symbols on the parchment. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, eyed him with suspicion from a towering stack of books, tail twitching.
“You’ve been busy,” he murmured, setting the scroll down.
“I’m not paying you for small talk.” Her voice was sharp, strained. “The file, Lucien.”
He turned, his expression serious now, the charming veneer gone. “The file is a trap. The information inside is genuine, but it’s been salted with a minor demonic sigil, a… harmless thing, but it acts as a beacon . I found it, and I burned it. I paid off the seller. But the damage is done. The circle that created it knows someone is looking into the Ardent legacy, and so does Evan.”
She felt a wave of nausea . A demonic sigil. Of course. This wasn’t just a legal case anymore. It had never been.
“So you thought you’d come here and play the hero,” she said, her voice laced with bitterness. “Show up after three months of silence , drop a bombshell, and fix everything.”
He took a step closer, his posture radiating a sudden, unexpected tension . His eyes, one warm amber, one a pool of darkness, held her captive.
“I didn’t ‘not talk to you’ for three months, Rory,” he said, his voice dropping low . “I was in Avaros. Tying up loose ends from a contract that got messy. I couldn’t reach out. It wasn’t… safe.”
“Avaros,” she repeated, the word tasting foreign and absurd on her tongue . A demon realm. He’d been in a demon realm. The implication was so vast, so alien, it made her head spin. “You could have told me. Before you left.”
“I didn’t know it would be dangerous until I was there,” he said, his gaze never leaving hers. “I didn’t want to drag you into that.”
“You think this—Evan finding me—is any different?” Frustration warred with a treacherous flicker of relief inside her. “I can handle myself, Lucien.”
“I know you can,” he said, the words soft, carrying the weight of a genuine apology. He lifted a hand, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek. The brief contact sent a shiver down her spine. “But that doesn’t mean you have to do it alone.”
They stood like that for a frozen moment, the air thick with the history between them—the unspoken apology on his lips, the lingering accusation in her eyes. Her gaze flickered down to his mouth.
“What now?” she said, her voice barely a whisper .
Lucien’s hand dropped. “Evan is a fool, but a persistent one. He will find you. I have a safe house. We can go there, plan our next move.”
“Our?” she echoed, her walls slamming back up . “You’re not staying here. We are not a ‘we’.”
A flicker of something—pain, regret—crossed his face before he smoothed it over. “Fine. Evan is in London. I have contacts there. I can get you out of this city by morning. But the safe house is closer, and we’re exposed here.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you. Not after you left me standing in your office.” The words were out before she could stop them, raw and vulnerable. A part of her had been standing in that office ever since, waiting for an explanation that never came.
His jaw tightened. He reached for his cane, his fingers wrapping around the ivory handle. “You’re right. You’re owed more than a cryptic explanation and a safe house address.” He met her eyes, his stare unwavering . “Rory, I left because… I couldn’t protect you from him. From Evan. I had a lead, a way to end this, a way to make him disappear. But I had to cross into Avaros to do it. I couldn’t tell you, because if I failed, I didn’t want you to be looking for someone who wasn’t coming back.”
The confession hung in the air , a raw, jagged thing. It didn’t excuse him, but it explained. He hadn’t left her; he’d gone to war for her.
“And he’s here now,” she said, the fight draining out of her . “So you failed.”
“I failed to finish it,” he corrected gently . “The contract is still active. But it means I know how he thinks. I know his patterns. Let me help. Not as a fixer. As me.”
A long moment passed. She looked from his determined face to the cluttered flat, a haven she’d built to feel safe, and knew it was a lie.
“I need a bag,” she said.
The line of his shoulders relaxed a fraction. “I’ll wait.”