Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMF5PAV644G5WJDE05RZV7

Rory's breath caught when she opened the door. Lucien Moreau stood in the hallway, his tall frame silhouetted against the dim light of the stairwell. The familiar scent of his cologne—expensive, with notes of cedar and something otherworldly—washed over her before he even spoke. "Bonsoir, Aurora." His voice was exactly as she remembered, that slight French accent curling around her name like smoke. "What are you doing here?" She gripped the doorframe, suddenly aware she was wearing only sleep shorts and a faded Cardiff University t-shirt. Her bare feet felt cold against the floor. Lucien's mismatched eyes—one amber, one black—took her in with a single sweep that made her feel both exposed and seen. He leaned slightly on his ivory-handled cane, though she knew perfectly well he didn't need it for walking. "I was in the neighborhood." His lips curved into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "May I come in? It's rather important." "This isn't my flat. It's Eva's." Rory didn't move from the doorway. "I'm aware. I traced you here." He tilted his head slightly. "You've been rather difficult to find these past six months." "That was intentional." She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling the small crescent scar on her left wrist press against her skin. A reminder of another time she'd trusted too easily. Behind her, Ptolemy meowed loudly, his tabby form weaving between her legs as if to judge the visitor for himself. "Your friend's cat approves of me," Lucien observed. "Ptolemy likes anyone who might feed him." But she stepped aside, letting him enter. It was either that or continue their conversation in the hallway where Eva's neighbors might hear. And given that one of those neighbors was a particularly nosy dryad, privacy seemed the better choice. Lucien stepped past her, his shoulder brushing hers in the narrow entryway. He smelled like rain and distant places. The subtle whiff of brimstone that clung to all half-demons was nearly imperceptible beneath his expensive cologne. "Thank you." He moved into the flat with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to being welcome anywhere. His gaze swept over Eva's cluttered living space—the stacks of books, the scrolls unfurled across the coffee table, the half-empty mugs of tea. "Eva's not here," Rory said, closing the door and turning all three deadbolts out of habit. "She's at a conference in Edinburgh until Thursday." "I didn't come to see Eva." Of course he hadn't. Rory pushed a hand through her black hair, wishing she'd at least brushed it before answering the door. "Look, it's nearly midnight, and I have an early delivery shift tomorrow for Golden Empress. Whatever business brought you here can wait until—" "You left without saying goodbye," Lucien interrupted, his voice soft. The words hung in the air between them. Rory felt her throat tighten. "That wasn't an accident." She moved past him into the kitchen, needing distance, needing something to do with her hands. "Tea? Or are you still pretending to enjoy that awful whiskey?" "I never pretended." He followed her, setting his cane against the counter. "And yes, tea would be lovely." She filled the kettle, hyperaware of his presence as he settled against the doorframe, watching her with those unsettling eyes. The flat suddenly felt too small, the air too thick. "You disappeared, Aurora. In the middle of a rather delicate situation, if I recall correctly." "You recall correctly." She kept her back to him as she reached for the tea tin. "The Blackwood affair was becoming too dangerous. I made a choice." "Without consulting me." "Without consulting anyone," she corrected, turning to face him. "That's how choices work sometimes." His expression remained carefully neutral, but she caught the slight tightening around his eyes. Six months ago, she would have reached out, touched his arm, tried to smooth that tension away. Now, she stayed on her side of the kitchen. "You were shot." His voice was level, but she heard the undercurrent of something darker. "You were bleeding in my arms, and then you vanished from the hospital." "I healed." She held up her hands as if to prove it. "Fae blood has its advantages, as you well know." "That's not the point, and you know it." He finally moved, stepping closer, and she instinctively pressed back against the counter. Lucien noticed and stopped, a flash of something like hurt crossing his face before he masked it. "I thought you were dead." The kettle began to whistle, and Rory turned gratefully to deal with it, pouring water over tea bags in two mismatched mugs. Her hands were steady, but her heartbeat was not. "I'm sorry about that," she said quietly, her back still to him. "But after what happened with the grimoire, and then the ambush... I needed to disappear for a while." "For six months? Without a single word?" She turned, holding out a mug to him. "What would I have said, Lucien? 'Sorry for almost getting you killed, but I'm off to lick my wounds now, see you when I see you'?" He took the mug, his fingers brushing hers. The contact sent a jolt through her that had nothing to do with his half-demon nature. "You might have said you were alive. That would have been sufficient." His voice was controlled, but his eyes—those mismatched eyes that had once looked at her with such warmth—were cold. "Instead, I had to learn from Silas that you'd taken a flat above his bar." "How is Silas?" The question was automatic, an attempt to redirect. "Unimpressed with your disappearing act. As was I." He took a sip of tea, grimaced slightly at the heat, and set it aside. "But that's not why I'm here." "Then why are you here?" She blew on her own tea, using the mug as a shield between them. "The Blackwood grimoire has resurfaced." Rory's hands tightened on her mug. "Impossible. We saw it destroyed." "We saw what they wanted us to see." Lucien's expression was grim. "Three days ago, a collector in Prague was found with his heart removed. The same signature as the others." The memory flashed through her mind—a marble floor slick with blood, symbols carved into flesh, the smell of burning pages. She'd barely escaped with her life. With both their lives. "And you think I can help?" she asked, setting her tea down with a sharp click. "I'm out, Lucien. I deliver noodles now. I have a normal life." He laughed, a short, bitter sound. "Do you? Is that why you're staying at Eva's place with triple deadbolts, instead of your own flat? Why you jump at shadows and sleep with that iron knife under your pillow?" "You don't know anything about how I sleep." The words came out sharper than intended. His gaze locked with hers. "Don't I?" The memory hung between them—tangled sheets, his mouth on her neck, her hands in his platinum hair. The way he'd whispered her name, how safe she'd felt despite knowing exactly what he was. What they both were. "That was before," she said quietly. "Before you decided I couldn't be trusted?" There was no accusation in his tone, only a deep weariness that made something in her chest ache. "Before I decided no one could be trusted. Including myself." She pushed away from the counter, moving to the living room where she could breathe. Ptolemy jumped onto the back of the sofa, watching them both with unblinking yellow eyes. Lucien followed, his footsteps nearly silent despite the hard floors. He'd always moved like that, like a predator, though he'd never made her feel like prey. Until the night everything went wrong. "I need your help, Aurora," he said finally, standing in the center of the cluttered room. "Not just because of your expertise with binding spells, though that would be useful. But because you're the only one who knows what we're truly dealing with." "And if I say no?" She turned to face him, lifting her chin. The corner of his mouth quirked up, almost sad. "Then I leave. I find another way. But more people will die while I do it." "That's not fair." "Very little is." He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn't been there six months ago. "I'm not here to force you. Or to rehash the past. But we were good together, you and I. As partners." "Partners," she echoed. "Is that what we were?" Something flickered in his expression—a crack in the carefully constructed facade. For a moment, she glimpsed the man beneath the fixer, the information broker, the half-demon who moved through London's supernatural underworld like a shark through dark waters. "We were many things," he said softly. "Most of which I've missed terribly." The raw honesty in his voice made her breath catch. This wasn't the Lucien who negotiated deals and collected favors. This was the man who'd held her through nightmares, who knew how she took her coffee, who'd once spent an entire evening helping her translate a scroll just because she'd mentioned she was curious about it. "I can't go back to that life," she said, and wasn't sure if she meant the danger or him, or if they were somehow the same thing in her mind. "I'm not asking you to." He took another step closer, and this time she didn't back away. "I'm asking for your help. Just this once. And then, if you wish to return to delivering noodles and pretending the other world doesn't exist, I won't stop you." Rory looked at him—really looked. At the tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his mouth. He was worried. Lucien Moreau, who prided himself on having a solution to every problem, was genuinely afraid. "There's something you're not telling me," she said. He hesitated, then reached into his suit pocket and withdrew a small, folded piece of paper. "This was left at the scene in Prague." She took it, unfolding it carefully. Her blood went cold at the sight of her own name written in what appeared to be dried blood. "They're looking for you," Lucien said quietly. "Which means you were never truly out. You were just waiting for them to find you."