Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMM7G3CWS4NS1181N0MF7E

The door swung open before Rory could turn the last deadbolt, the chain rattling like a warning. There he stood—Lucien Moreau, leaning against the doorframe as if he owned the place, one pale eyebrow arched in that infuriating way of his. His charcoal suit was immaculate, the ivory handle of his cane gleaming under the dim hallway light, and his heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—locked onto hers with unsettling precision. 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. “You’re not Eva,” he said, voice smooth as aged whiskey. “No,” Rory replied, gripping the edge of the door. “She’s at the shop.” Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby cat, chose that moment to slink between Lucien’s legs, tail flicking in disdain. Lucien didn’t so much as glance down. His gaze remained fixed on Rory, unreadable. “Then I suppose I’ll have to settle for you.” The words were light, but the weight behind them wasn’t. Rory’s fingers tightened. “What do you want, Lucien?” He pushed off the doorframe, stepping inside without invitation. The scent of him—bergamot and something darker, something that always made her think of storm clouds—filled the cramped flat. “Can’t a man visit an old friend?” “You don’t have friends,” she said, shutting the door harder than necessary. The three deadbolts clicked into place like the final notes of a dirge. Lucien smirked, turning to take in the chaos of Eva’s flat—towers of books teetering on every available surface, scrolls unrolled across the coffee table, the faint scent of curry clinging to the air. “Still charming, I see.” Rory crossed her arms. “You didn’t answer my question.” He sighed, tapping his cane against the floor. The sound was sharp, deliberate. “Fine. I need your help.” “Of course you do.” “It’s about the Black Ledger.” Rory stilled. The Black Ledger was no joke—a tome rumored to hold the names of every supernatural being in London, mortal and otherwise. Eva had been hunting it for months. And Lucien? Lucien had always been the one to profit from such things. “Eva’s not here,” Rory said carefully. “I know.” He turned, his amber eye catching the light. “I came for you.” The words hung between them, heavy with implication. Rory’s pulse jumped. She could still remember the last time he’d said something like that—*Stay. Just for tonight.*—before vanishing at dawn without a word. She forced herself to exhale. “Why me?” Lucien stepped closer, close enough that she could see the faint scar along his jawline, the one he’d gotten in Marseille years ago. “Because you’re the only one who can get into the Vault without setting off the wards.” The Vault. A high-security supernatural bank beneath the Thames, where the Ledger was rumored to be kept. Rory had broken into harder places, but never with Lucien at her side. Never with the weight of their history pressing down on her. “And why would I do that?” she asked, voice steadier than she felt. His black eye gleamed. “Because you owe me.” The air left her lungs. *Owe him?* After everything—after the way he’d left, after the way he’d made her feel like she was the only person in the world before deciding she wasn’t worth staying for—he had the audacity to say that? Rory’s hands curled into fists. “I don’t owe you a damn thing.” Lucien tilted his head, studying her. Then, slowly, he reached out, brushing his thumb over the crescent-shaped scar on her wrist. The touch was light, but it burned. “Don’t you?” She jerked back, heart hammering. “Get out.” For a moment, he just looked at her, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. Then he nodded, stepping back. “Fine. But the Ledger surfaces in three days. If you change your mind—” “I won’t.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “We’ll see.” The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Rory standing in the middle of Eva’s flat, her skin still tingling where he’d touched her. Ptolemy wound around her ankles, purring, but the sound was lost beneath the roar of her own thoughts. She should have slammed the door in his face. Should have told him to go to hell. But as she stared at the closed door, her fingers traced the scar on her wrist, and she wondered if maybe—just maybe—she already had.