Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMKQX1VXRGHYR4X3168SJF

Aurora almost knocked over her cup of tea when the knocking came. Three sharp raps against the wood, authoritative and unmistakable. Eva wasn't due back for hours, and no one else knew she was here. She set the mug down beside her stack of textbooks and padded toward the door in sock-clad feet. The old floorboards creaked beneath her weight. The curry scent from the restaurant below had seeped into everything—the walls, the furniture, her clothes. It wasn't unpleasant, just persistent, like most things in this part of London. Aurora peered through the peephole and her heart stuttered. She'd recognize that platinum blond hair anywhere. Her fingers hesitated over the first deadbolt, then the second, then the third. Each click felt like a countdown to something inevitable. She pulled open the door just enough to reveal herself, but not enough to be an invitation. "Lucien." His name came out steadier than she expected. He stood in the narrow hallway, immaculate in a charcoal suit that looked like it cost more than three months of her delivery job salary. One hand rested on his ivory-handled cane, the other hung at his side. He looked exactly as she remembered, yet somehow more. More intense. More present. More everything. "Aurora." His voice rolled over her name with that slight French accent that used to make her stomach flip. "May I come in?" She hesitated. "How did you know I was here?" The corner of his mouth twitched upward. "Information is my currency, chérie. You know this." Aurora's fingers tensed on the door frame. "That's not an answer." "Your friend's cat has a very distinctive meow. I heard it in the background when you called Silas about your shift tomorrow." His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—met hers directly. "The rest was simple deduction." Of course it was. Nothing was ever simple with Lucien. "Eva isn't home," she said. "I didn't come to see Eva." The words hung between them, heavy with implication. Aurora swallowed and stepped back, opening the door wider. It wasn't forgiveness or even acceptance—just acknowledgment that whatever conversation they needed to have wouldn't be had in a hallway that smelled of curry and old carpet. Lucien stepped inside, his cane tapping lightly against the floor. Ptolemy appeared from beneath the cluttered coffee table, stretching languorously before padding over to wind around Lucien's ankles. "Traitor," Aurora muttered to the cat. Lucien smiled, just slightly, as he surveyed the cramped space. Books were stacked on every surface, research notes pinned to walls, and scrolls tucked into the most unlikely places. Eva's organizational system was comprehensible only to her. "You look well," he said, turning back to Aurora. She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly aware of her worn jeans and oversized Cardiff University sweatshirt. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she hadn't bothered with makeup. Six months ago, she would have died before letting Lucien see her like this. "What do you want?" She aimed for cold but landed somewhere near wary. Lucien set his cane against the wall and unbuttoned his suit jacket with elegant fingers. "To see you. To talk." "We did plenty of talking last time." Aurora moved to the kitchenette, needing distance. She busied herself with the electric kettle. "Tea?" "Please." She grabbed a mug from the drying rack—one of Eva's with a pentagram and the words 'Witches Brew' emblazoned on it—and dropped in a tea bag. The mundane task helped steady her nerves. "I've missed you," Lucien said quietly. The words sliced through her carefully constructed defenses. Aurora kept her back to him, watching the kettle, refusing to let him see how those three simple words affected her. "You made your choice," she finally said. "Half-demon, remember? 'Too dangerous to get attached.' Your words, not mine." "I was wrong." Aurora turned, leaning against the counter. "Were you? Because I remember you being quite convinced. Something about your father's enemies and keeping me safe." Lucien moved toward her, stopping at a respectful distance. In the small flat, that still put him close enough that she could smell his cologne—something expensive and subtle that reminded her of rainy nights and whispered promises. "The situation has changed." He held her gaze. "I've eliminated certain... threats." "Eliminated." Aurora let the word hang. "Do I want to know what that means?" "Probably not." At least he was honest. That had always been Lucien's contradictory nature—a dealer in secrets and shadows who rarely lied to her face. The kettle clicked off. Aurora poured water over the tea bag, watching the dark color bloom and spread. She handed him the mug without meeting his eyes. "Thank you." His fingers brushed hers in the exchange, sending an unwelcome jolt through her system. Ptolemy jumped onto the counter beside Aurora, purring loudly. She stroked the tabby absently, grateful for the distraction. "He remembers me," Lucien observed, sipping his tea. "Cats are drawn to danger." Aurora finally looked up at him. "Why are you really here, Lucien? After six months of silence?" Lucien set down his mug and reached into his inner jacket pocket. He withdrew a small velvet pouch and placed it on the counter between them. "What is this?" she asked, not touching it. "Protection." He nudged the pouch toward her. "Something I should have given you long ago." Curiosity—always her weakness where Lucien was concerned—got the better of her. Aurora picked up the pouch and loosened the drawstring. A pendant slid out onto her palm—a deep blue stone wrapped in intricate silver wirework. "Lapis lazuli," Lucien explained. "The silver is mixed with iron and blessed salt. It will shield you from magical tracking and most minor hexes." Aurora stared at the pendant. "Why now?" "Because I was wrong to push you away." His voice dropped lower. "Because I thought I was protecting you by keeping my distance, but I've come to realize that was arrogance." She closed her fingers around the pendant. "And what am I supposed to do with this information?" "Whatever you want." Lucien stepped closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head slightly to maintain eye contact. "I'm not asking for forgiveness, Aurora. I'm asking for a chance to explain properly. To start again, perhaps." "Start again," she repeated, the words bitter on her tongue. "After you walked away without looking back?" "I looked back every day." His mismatched eyes held hers, intense and unblinking. "Every single day." Aurora felt the familiar pull between them—the gravity that had drawn her to him from their first meeting at Silas's bar. It would be so easy to fall back into orbit around him. Too easy. "I have a life now," she said. "A job. I'm finally moving forward after Evan. I can't just—" "I know about the threats," Lucien interrupted. "The notes left at your delivery job. The man who followed you home last Tuesday." Aurora stiffened. "How—" "As I said, information is my currency." His expression hardened. "Someone is watching you, Aurora. Someone connected to your ex." The revelation knocked the air from her lungs. She'd felt eyes on her recently but had convinced herself it was paranoia. The legacy of an abusive relationship—always looking over your shoulder, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Evan is in Cardiff," she said, but uncertainty crept into her voice. "His cousin isn't." Lucien's hand moved toward hers but stopped short of touching her. "I'm not here to disrupt your life. I'm here because you may be in danger, and regardless of what happened between us, I will not stand by and allow that." Aurora set the pendant on the counter and rubbed her left wrist, thumb tracing the small crescent-shaped scar there—a reminder of another time she'd underestimated danger. The weight of Lucien's words settled over her. "So this is professional concern?" She tried to keep her tone light. "Just another day for London's supernatural fixer?" Something flashed in his eyes—frustration, perhaps, or hurt. "No, Aurora. This is me, unable to stay away from the woman I—" He stopped himself, jaw tightening. "This is personal. Entirely personal." The silence that followed was electric. Ptolemy, sensing the tension, jumped down and disappeared into Eva's bedroom. "I don't know what you want me to say," Aurora finally whispered. "Say you'll let me help." Lucien's voice was equally soft. "Say you'll wear the pendant. Say you'll call me if anything feels wrong." He paused, swallowing visibly. "Say you don't hate me for leaving." "I never hated you." Aurora looked down at her hands. "I wanted to. It would have been easier." "Nothing about us was ever easy." The ghost of a smile touched his lips. Aurora picked up the pendant again, feeling its weight. Six months of anger, hurt, and longing churned inside her. She'd spent so much energy trying to forget Lucien Moreau, only for him to appear at Eva's door like he'd never left. "If I wear this," she said slowly, "it doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean I forgive you or that I'm ready to pick up where we left off." Lucien nodded. "I understand." "And if I call you, it's because I need help, not because..." She trailed off, unable to finish the thought. "Of course." He reached for his cane, straightening his posture. "I should go. I've intruded on your evening long enough." Aurora watched him prepare to leave, and something tightened in her chest. Words bubbled up before she could stop them. "Why did you really come tonight, Lucien? The truth." He paused, hand on his cane, looking more vulnerable than she'd ever seen him. The carefully constructed facade of the untouchable fixer cracked just enough for her to glimpse the man beneath. "Because I needed to see your face," he admitted. "Because I heard a rumor of danger and the thought of you hurt was... unbearable." He met her gaze directly. "Because six months was too long." Aurora's throat tightened. Despite everything, despite the pain and the anger, something inside her recognized the truth in his words. It resonated with her own sleepless nights and the times she'd caught herself looking for platinum blond hair in crowds. "It was," she agreed softly.