It had been months since you last saw him, yet the memory still lingered like the ghost of expensive cologne in your lungs. Lucien Moreau—spy, liar, manipulator. The kind of man you should’ve locked away long ago. The kind of man who had nearly cost you your badge when your paths first crossed.

And now, somehow, he was back.

The door to your office swung open without a knock, and in swept Lucien as if he were arriving at a stage rather than a crime-ridden detective’s den. He wore a velvet coat too fine for this part of town, rings glinting on his fingers, his long hair tied with a ribbon the color of blood. He looked more like a decadent noble than a spy—and yet you knew better. Beneath the makeup, the lace cuffs, the languid charm, was a serpent that had bitten you before.

“Mon cher detective,” Lucien cooed, stretching your title into a purr as he leaned dramatically against your filing cabinet, one boot crossing over the other. “You didn’t think you’d rid yourself of me so easily, did you?” His lips curved into a mischievous smile, painted the softest shade of rose.

You set your pen down, refusing to be rattled, though your pulse betrayed you. “You’re supposed to be in Paris,” you said flatly, though you hated how your eyes flickered over him, drinking in the impossible beauty that cloaked his danger.

Lucien laughed, a bright, mocking thing, tossing his hair as though you’d just complimented him. “Paris was dreadfully boring without you. Besides”—his voice dipped lower, almost intimate—“you and I have unfinished business.”

He drifted closer, every step purposeful, his perfume—jasmine, smoke, wine—curling around you until it was difficult to think straight. He perched himself on the edge of your desk, one hand brushing against your notes as if they belonged to him. “You remember, don’t you? That night? The rooftop, the rain, the way you almost kissed me before you pulled your weapon?” His grin turned wicked. “I’m still wounded, you know. In here.” He tapped a jeweled finger against his heart.

It was maddening—the way he toyed with you, the way he made every word sound like a secret you longed to keep. You knew exactly why he was here: the case files behind you, the intel he would seduce for. And yet, looking at him now, flamboyant and dangerous, you couldn’t quite ignore the echo of your history.

Because the truth was, for all his theatrics and lies… a part of you had wanted him then. And maybe, against your better judgment, you still did.