Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMV7R0P5A2W87GSW7QKNZN

The door swung open before Rory could knock a second time, and there he stood—Lucien Moreau, leaning against the frame like he’d been expecting her. His platinum hair was slicked back, just as she remembered, but his heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—held a flicker of something unreadable. Surprise, maybe. Or irritation. The scent of sandalwood and old books drifted from the flat behind him. “Rory,” he said, voice smooth as aged whiskey. “This is unexpected.” She swallowed, gripping the strap of her messenger bag tighter. “Yeah, well. I didn’t exactly plan on showing up at your door either.” Lucien exhaled through his nose, then stepped aside, gesturing with his ivory-handled cane. “Come in, then. Before Ptolemy decides to make a break for it.” The tabby in question was already weaving between Lucien’s legs, tail flicking with feline judgment. Rory stepped inside, her boots scuffing against the worn floorboards. The flat was exactly as she remembered—cluttered, lived-in, every surface buried under books and scrolls. A half-empty cup of tea sat on the coffee table, steam long gone. She turned to face him. “I need your help.” Lucien arched a brow, shutting the door with a quiet click. “Do you now?” “Don’t act like you’re surprised.” Rory crossed her arms. “You’re the one who told me to come to you if I ever needed—” “A favor,” he cut in, voice low. “Not a rescue.” She flinched. That word—rescue—hung between them, heavy with history. The last time she’d seen him, she’d been bleeding in the back of a cab, running from Evan. Lucien had patched her up, given her a place to stay, and then… then he’d walked away. No explanation, just a note on the pillow. *This isn’t a life for you.* “Well, I’m not asking for a rescue,” she said, sharper than she intended. “I’m asking for information. There’s a name I need to track down. Someone from the underworld.” Lucien studied her for a long moment, then sighed, running a hand through his hair. The motion made his tailored suit jacket pull tight across his shoulders. “And you couldn’t have called?” “I don’t have your number.” “You could’ve gotten it.” “From who? Silas?” She scoffed. “He’d have asked questions.” “And I won’t?” Rory hesitated. The truth was, she didn’t know what Lucien would do. That was the problem. He was a fixer, a broker of secrets, and she’d never been entirely sure where his loyalties lay. But she also knew, with bone-deep certainty, that he wouldn’t turn her away. Not when she looked at him like this—like she was drowning and he was the only one who could throw her a line. “Please,” she said softly. Lucien’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening. He turned away, moving to the small kitchenette. The clink of glass followed, then the glug of liquid being poured. “Drink?” “No.” “You’re going to need one.” She watched as he downed his own glass in one smooth motion, then refilled it. The amber liquid caught the light, glowing like his eye. When he finally turned back to her, his face was carefully blank. “Who is it you’re looking for?” Rory exhaled, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. “His name’s Elias Veyne. He’s a collector. Deals in occult artifacts.” Lucien stilled. “Veyne?” “You know him.” “Of course I know him.” His voice was dangerously calm. “He’s not someone you want to tangle with, Rory.” “I don’t have a choice.” “There’s always a choice.” She stepped closer, close enough to see the faint scar along his collarbone—old, but not as old as the ones she couldn’t see. “Not this time.” Lucien’s gaze dropped to her wrist, where the crescent-shaped scar peeked out from under her sleeve. His fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach for her. Instead, he set his glass down with a sharp *clink*. “Tell me everything.” Rory hesitated, then pulled the crumpled note from her pocket. The paper was thin, the ink smudged. “This was left at my flat. No signature, but the handwriting matches the letters Evan used to send me.” Lucien took it, his expression darkening as he read. “‘The past always catches up.’ Charming.” “Evan’s not the type to be poetic. Someone’s using him to get to me.” “And you think Veyne is behind it?” “I think he’s the only one who’d know enough about my past to make it hurt.” She swallowed. “Evan’s not just an ex, Lucien. He’s—” “A monster,” Lucien finished, voice flat. “I know.” Rory looked away. She didn’t need his pity. She needed his help. Lucien folded the note carefully, then tucked it into his jacket pocket. “I’ll find out what I can. But you’re not going after Veyne alone.” “I wasn’t planning on it.” “Good.” He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his amber eye. “Because if you think I’m letting you walk into this without me, you’re even more reckless than I remember.” Rory’s breath hitched. The air between them was charged, thick with things unsaid. She could smell the whiskey on his breath, see the way his pulse jumped in his throat. “Lucien—” His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing over her cheekbone. “You should’ve called.” She should’ve. But she hadn’t. Because some part of her had known that if she heard his voice, she wouldn’t be able to stay away. His lips were warm when they met hers, hesitant at first, then deeper, like he was trying to memorize the shape of her. Rory melted into him, her hands fisting in his jacket. It had been so long—too long—and yet it felt like no time had passed at all. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers. “This changes nothing,” he murmured. Rory smiled, bitter and sweet. “Liar.” Lucien’s laugh was low, rough. “Maybe.” His hand slid down to her wrist, fingers tracing the scar there. “But I’m still not letting you face this alone.” She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him she didn’t need his protection. But the truth was, she did. And for the first time in a long time, she let herself admit it.