Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMVA6HJBJMT3465SYZ90CF

The door swung open, and for a heartbeat, Aurora couldn't breathe. "Lucien." His name escaped her lips before she could stop it. He stood in Eva's doorway like a specter from another life, impeccably dressed in one of his tailored charcoal suits despite the late hour. The dim hallway light caught the platinum of his slicked-back hair, giving him an almost ethereal glow. His mismatched eyes—one amber, one black—regarded her with careful neutrality. "Bonsoir, Rory." His voice carried the same smooth French lilt she remembered from their last encounter six months ago. "May I come in?" Aurora's fingers tightened around the edge of the door. Behind her, Eva's flat was a catastrophe of research materials and takeout containers. She'd been crashing here for three days while her own place above Silas' bar underwent emergency plumbing repairs. Eva herself was away investigating something in Edinburgh—something involving standing stones and astronomical alignments that Aurora had only half listened to. "Eva's not here," she said, as if that answered his question. "I'm aware." Lucien shifted his weight, the ivory handle of his cane catching the light. "I came to see you." A chill ran down Aurora's spine. "How did you know I was here?" The corner of his mouth lifted in what wasn't quite a smile. "Information is my business, chérie." Of course. The half-demon missed nothing that happened in London's supernatural underbelly. She'd been foolish to think she could hide from him, even inadvertently. "It's late, Lucien." She glanced at her watch—nearly midnight. "Some of us have normal jobs that require sleep. I've got deliveries for Yu-Fei starting at ten." "This can't wait until morning." Something in his tone made her pause. She studied him more carefully, noting the tightness around his eyes, the way his knuckles whitened around his cane. For Lucien Moreau to show even that much strain meant something was very wrong. With a sigh, Aurora stepped aside. "Fine. But I'm not making tea." "I wouldn't dream of imposing," he said, stepping past her into the flat. Aurora closed the door, engaging all three of Eva's deadbolts out of habit. When she turned, she found Lucien observing the chaos of the flat with something like amusement. Eva's tabby cat, Ptolemy, eyed the visitor suspiciously from atop a stack of ancient-looking texts. "Your friend's organizational system remains... unique," he commented, carefully moving aside a pile of scrolls to make room on the sofa. "Says the man whose office filing system is 'piles organized by century.'" The retort came automatically, a reminder of easier times between them. Lucien's mismatched gaze caught hers, and for a moment, the weight of their shared past hung between them. Nights spent tracing the origins of cursed artifacts. The brush of his fingers against hers as they pored over maps of London's supernatural hot spots. The way he'd looked at her that night in his office above Soho, when she'd finally worked up the courage to close the distance between them. And then, of course, the argument that had ended it all. Aurora crossed her arms, suddenly aware she was wearing only an oversized Cardiff University t-shirt and sleep shorts. Her hair was piled messily atop her head, and she knew there were dark circles under her bright blue eyes from too many late nights helping Eva with research. "What's so urgent that it couldn't wait for business hours, Lucien?" He sat on the cleared portion of the sofa, resting his cane against his leg. "Your ex-boyfriend is in London." The words hit her like ice water. "Which one?" she asked, though she already knew the answer. "Evan Hughes. He arrived two days ago, took a room at the Dorchester, and has been making inquiries about your whereabouts." Aurora's hand went unconsciously to her left wrist, thumb brushing over the small crescent-shaped scar—a souvenir from the last time Evan had lost his temper. "How did he find me?" "He hasn't. Not yet." Lucien's gaze tracked her movement, lingering on her wrist. "But he's employed someone who might." "Who?" "Malcolm Thorne." Aurora sank into the chair opposite him, her legs suddenly unsteady. "Shit." Thorne was human, technically speaking, but his talent for locating people bordered on the supernatural. If Evan had hired him, it was only a matter of time. "My thoughts exactly," Lucien agreed. "Which is why I'm here. You need to leave London, at least temporarily." Aurora shook her head. "I can't just leave. I have a job, responsibilities—" "You have a violent ex-partner employing one of the most effective trackers in Europe," Lucien cut in, his accent thickening as his composure slipped. "Responsibilities can be managed. Your safety cannot be replaced." Their eyes locked, and Aurora felt heat rise to her cheeks. This was why she'd kept her distance after their falling out. Lucien Moreau cared too much and too intensely. He saw too much. For a woman who'd spent years building walls, he was a wrecking ball with perfect manners. "I left Cardiff to stop running from him," she said finally. "And I admire your courage. But there's a difference between running and tactical retreat." He leaned forward. "Come to Paris with me. Just for a week or two, until I can ensure Hughes leaves London without finding you." "Paris." Aurora laughed without humor. "With you?" Something flickered in his mismatched eyes—pain, perhaps. "My apartment there has three bedrooms. You'll have your privacy." The memory of the last time they'd been alone together flooded her mind unbidden. His office after hours, rain streaming down the windows. The taste of expensive cognac on his lips. The gentle way his fingers had traced the scar on her wrist before she'd pulled away, afraid of what might come next. "Why are you doing this, Lucien?" she asked quietly. "After everything?" He was silent for a long moment. "Despite what you may believe, I never stopped considering you a friend." "Friends." The word tasted bitter on her tongue. Ptolemy chose that moment to abandon his perch and wind between Lucien's legs, purring loudly. The half-demon reached down, scratching behind the cat's ears with surprising tenderness. "Even your friend's cat has better judgment than you do," he said, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Aurora couldn't help but smile in return. "Ptolemy is a terrible judge of character. He once brought Eva a dead mouse as a 'gift' and left it on her pillow." "Perhaps he sensed she needed protein in her diet." A laugh escaped her before she could stop it, and the tension in the room eased slightly. Lucien's expression grew serious again. "I understand your reluctance. But please consider what I'm saying. Evan Hughes is not a man who gives up easily, and he has resources at his disposal." Aurora sighed, rubbing her temple where a headache was beginning to form. "I need time to think." "Of course." He reached into his jacket and withdrew an envelope, placing it on the coffee table between them. "A ticket to Paris, departing tomorrow evening. And a key to my apartment. Use them or not—your choice." He rose to his feet in one fluid movement, retrieving his cane. "You're leaving?" The question slipped out before she could stop it. Lucien paused, studying her face with an intensity that made her skin warm. "I've said what I came to say. The decision is yours." As he moved toward the door, Aurora found herself following him, unwilling to let him go just yet. "How did you know? About Evan being in London?" He turned to face her, suddenly close enough that she could smell his cologne—sandalwood and something deeper, more primal. "I keep tabs on certain individuals who pose threats to people I... care about." The word hung between them, heavy with implications. "I didn't ask you to do that," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "No, you didn't." His gaze dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second before meeting her eyes again. "Some habits are difficult to break." Aurora's heart hammered against her ribs. She was acutely aware of how close they stood, of the heat radiating from his body, of the subtle tilt of his head that had preceded their first and only kiss months ago. "Lucien, I—" "Don't." His voice was gentle but firm. "Don't say anything you might regret in the morning." He reached past her to unlock the deadbolts, his arm brushing against hers. The contact, brief as it was, sent electricity through her veins. "The choice is yours, Aurora," he said, his hand on the doorknob. "But know this—whatever your decision, whatever happened between us before... I will not let him hurt you again." The door opened, and Lucien stepped into the hallway. He turned back one last time, his mismatched eyes holding hers. "Au revoir, chérie. I hope it's not goodbye." And then he was gone, leaving nothing but the lingering scent of his cologne and an envelope that promised both escape and complication. Aurora closed the door slowly, engaging all three deadbolts. She leaned her forehead against the cool wood, closing her eyes. Paris. With Lucien. She wasn't sure which frightened her more—the prospect of Evan finding her, or spending time alone with the man who'd seen through her defenses so easily. Behind her, Ptolemy meowed impatiently, reminding her that whatever crisis she was facing, his dinner was still the priority. "What would you do?" she asked the cat, who only blinked at her in response. Aurora's eyes drifted to the envelope on the coffee table, to the key that promised safety and complications in equal measure. Tomorrow, she would decide.