Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMD8CZGZ1V448Z0TJV1DKE

The door swung open before Rory could knock a second time, and there he stood—Lucien Moreau, looking as if he’d stepped straight out of a Savile Row fitting room rather than the grimy stairwell of a Brick Lane flat. His platinum hair was slicked back with precision, not a strand out of place, and his heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—locked onto hers with unsettling intensity. The faint scent of bergamot and something darker, something like smoke, curled into the hallway. Rory’s breath hitched. She hadn’t seen him in six months. Six months of silence, of pretending she didn’t still wake up some nights with the ghost of his touch on her skin. “Aurora,” he said, his voice smooth as aged whiskey. The French lilt in his words was more pronounced than she remembered, or maybe she’d just forgotten how it made her stomach flip. “You’re looking well.” She crossed her arms, the crescent-shaped scar on her wrist pressing against her sleeve. “Cut the bullshit, Lucien. What are you doing here?” A corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Straight to the point. I always admired that about you.” He stepped aside, gesturing into the flat. “May I come in?” Rory hesitated. The last time they’d been in a room together, things had ended with a slammed door and a lot of things left unsaid. But the hallway of Eva’s flat was no place for this conversation, and Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, was already winding around Lucien’s ankles, purring like a traitor. “Fine,” she muttered, stepping past him. The flat was exactly as she remembered—cluttered, lived-in, every surface buried under books and scrolls and half-unrolled maps. The air smelled of old paper and the faint tang of curry from the restaurant downstairs. She turned to face him, arms still crossed. “But you’ve got five minutes.” Lucien shut the door, the three deadbolts clicking into place with a finality that made her pulse jump. He leaned against the doorframe, his ivory-handled cane resting against his thigh. “Five minutes. I’ll take what I can get.” Rory exhaled sharply. “Why are you here, Lucien? And don’t give me some line about missing my sparkling personality.” His amber eye gleamed, the black one swallowing the light. “I need your help.” She laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. “Of course you do. Because that’s what this always was, wasn’t it? You needed something, and I was convenient.” “Aurora.” His voice dropped, low and rough. “That’s not fair.” “Fair?” She stepped closer, her hands curling into fists. “You want to talk about fair? How about the fact that you ghosted me after—” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “No. I’m not doing this. Whatever you’re here for, find someone else.” Lucien pushed off the doorframe, closing the distance between them in two strides. His cane tapped against the floor, a slow, deliberate rhythm. “There is no one else.” “Bullshit.” Rory’s heart hammered against her ribs. “You’ve got half the supernatural underworld in your pocket. Go ask one of them.” “I could,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a murmur. “But none of them are you.” The words hung between them, heavy and dangerous. Rory’s throat tightened. She wanted to step back, to put distance between them, but her body betrayed her, rooted in place as if magnetized. Lucien’s gaze flicked to her lips, then back to her eyes. “I made a mistake,” he said quietly. “Walking away from you was the biggest one of my life.” Rory’s breath came faster. “You don’t get to say that. Not after six months of silence.” “I know.” His hand lifted, fingers brushing against her cheek before she could flinch away. His touch was warm, electric. “But I’m saying it now.” She should have pulled away. Should have told him to leave. But the hurt in his eyes—real, raw—held her captive. “Why now?” she whispered. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you.” His thumb traced the line of her jaw, slow and deliberate. “Because every time I close my eyes, I see your face. Because I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you.” Rory’s pulse roared in her ears. She wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to. But the last time she’d let herself trust him, he’d left without a word. “Prove it,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Lucien’s breath hitched. Then his hand was in her hair, tilting her face up to his, and his mouth crashed down on hers. The kiss was desperate, hungry, years of longing poured into a single moment. Rory’s hands fisted in his lapels, pulling him closer, needing to erase the distance between them. His tongue swept against hers, hot and demanding, and she met him stroke for stroke, her body arching into his like it had been made to fit against him. When they finally broke apart, breathless, Lucien rested his forehead against hers. “I’ve missed you,” he murmured. “Every damn day.” Rory’s fingers trembled as she traced the line of his jaw. “Then why did you leave?” Lucien’s expression darkened. “Because I was a coward. Because I thought if I walked away first, it wouldn’t hurt as much when you realized what I am.” Rory’s chest ached. “I already knew what you were, Lucien. Half-demon, full-time asshole. It didn’t matter to me.” “It should have.” His voice was rough. “My world is dangerous, Aurora. And I didn’t want to drag you into it.” “Too late,” she said softly. “I was already in it the moment I met you.” Lucien’s breath shuddered out of him. He pressed his lips to her forehead, then her temple, then the corner of her mouth. “I won’t make the same mistake twice,” he promised. “If you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that to you.” Rory’s heart swelled, even as the rational part of her brain screamed warnings. She’d been hurt before. She’d trusted before. But Lucien wasn’t Evan. Lucien had never lied to her, not really. He’d just been afraid. And so was she. She cupped his face in her hands, her thumbs brushing over the sharp angles of his cheekbones. “One day at a time,” she said. “That’s all I can promise.” Lucien’s eyes burned into hers. “Then I’ll take it.” He kissed her again, slower this time, deeper. Rory melted into him, her hands sliding under his jacket to feel the heat of his skin through his shirt. The cane clattered to the floor, forgotten, as Lucien backed her against the nearest wall, his body pinning hers in place. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured against her lips. Rory shook her head, her fingers tangling in his hair. “Don’t you dare.” Lucien groaned, his hands sliding down her sides to grip her hips. “You’re going to be the death of me, Aurora Carter.” She grinned, breathless. “But what a way to go.” And then there were no more words, just the slide of skin against skin, the gasp of breath between kisses, the quiet, desperate sounds of two people who had spent too long apart finally finding their way back to each other.