Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMN2Y5SKYPRGXK064F2RGPN

The door swung open before Rory could turn the last deadbolt, and there he stood—Lucien Moreau, leaning against the frame like he owned the place, one platinum eyebrow arched in that infuriating way of his. The scent of bergamot and something darker, something like smoke and old parchment, curled into the flat before he did. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, darted between his polished Oxfords and vanished into the labyrinth of bookshelves. Rory’s fingers tightened around the edge of the door. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Lucien’s heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—flickered over her, slow and deliberate, from the messy bun holding her black hair in place to the flour dusting her jeans. “Bonjour, *chérie*. You look… domestic.” She didn’t move. “What are you doing here?” “Can’t a man visit an old friend?” He straightened, tapping his ivory-handled cane against the threshold. The blade inside whispered against the wood, a sound only she would recognize. “Cut the act. We’re not friends.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “No? Then what are we, *ma belle*?” The question hung between them, heavy with everything they’d left unsaid. Rory stepped back, letting the door swing wider. “Get in before the whole street hears you.” Lucien smirked, but there was no humor in it. He stepped inside, his tailored charcoal suit brushing against the stacks of books and scrolls that cluttered every available surface. The flat smelled of chai and old paper, of Eva’s incense and the faint metallic tang of Rory’s own frustration. She shut the door, engaging all three deadbolts with sharp, precise clicks. “Eva’s not here.” “I know.” He turned, his cane resting against the back of the sofa. “I came to see you.” Rory crossed her arms. “Why?” “Because you’ve been avoiding me.” “I’ve been busy.” “Busy delivering dumplings?” His gaze flicked to the Golden Empress logo on her shirt. “It’s honest work.” “And you’re an honest woman. How… quaint.” He picked up a scroll from the coffee table, unrolling it with a flick of his wrist. His fingers stilled when he saw the sigils inked across the parchment. “Eva’s been researching again.” “She’s thorough.” “She’s reckless.” He set the scroll down with more force than necessary. “And so are you, if you’re helping her.” Rory snatched the scroll away, rolling it up with sharp, jerky motions. “I don’t need a lecture from you.” “No? Then what do you need, Rory?” His voice dropped, low and rough. “Because I’ve spent the last three months wondering why you walked away without a word.” Her breath hitched. “You know why.” “Do I?” He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the faint scar along his jawline, the one he’d gotten the night they met. “Or do I just think I do?” Rory’s pulse hammered in her throat. She could lie. She could tell him she’d moved on, that she didn’t care, that she’d never cared. But the words died on her tongue. Lucien’s amber eye burned into her. “You left because of what I am.” “No.” The denial was automatic, but it sounded weak even to her own ears. “Then why?” His hand lifted, fingers brushing the crescent-shaped scar on her wrist—the one from the night Evan had grabbed her too hard, the night Lucien had found her bleeding in that alley behind Silas’ bar. His touch was gentle, but his voice was steel. “Was it the blood? The fire? The fact that I’m not human?” Rory jerked her hand away. “It was the secrets, Lucien. The lies. The way you looked at me like I was something fragile, something you had to protect.” “Because you *were* fragile!” The words exploded out of him, raw and unguarded. “You still are, whether you want to admit it or not.” She laughed, sharp and bitter. “That’s rich, coming from you. The great Lucien Moreau, who never lets anyone see the cracks.” His expression shuttered. “You saw them.” “And then you pushed me away.” Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Lucien’s jaw worked, like he was chewing on words he couldn’t bring himself to say. Finally, he exhaled, long and slow. “I didn’t push you away. I let you go.” “Same thing.” “No.” His voice was quiet now, almost lost beneath the hum of the fridge and the distant wail of a siren outside. “It’s not.” Rory’s chest ached. She wanted to scream. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to press her mouth to his and pretend none of it mattered. Instead, she turned away, busying herself with straightening the already-straight stacks of books on the table. “Why are you here, Lucien? Really?” He didn’t answer right away. When she finally glanced back, he was watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. “Because I need your help.” She stilled. “With what?” “There’s a job. A big one.” He reached into his jacket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. “And I can’t do it without you.” Rory didn’t take the paper. “You have a whole network of people at your disposal. Why me?” “Because you’re the only one who’s ever told me no.” His lips quirked, but there was no humor in it. “And because you’re the only one I trust.” She wanted to refuse. She wanted to throw him out and slam the door and pretend she’d never seen him again. But the way he was looking at her—like she was the only thing in the room that mattered—made her heart stutter. “What’s the job?” she asked, hating herself a little for the way her voice wavered. Lucien’s smile was slow, triumphant. “I’ll tell you over dinner.” Rory opened her mouth to protest, but he was already moving toward the door, his cane tapping against the floorboards. “I’ll pick you up at eight. Wear something nice.” “Lucien—” He glanced back, his heterochromatic eyes gleaming. “Don’t keep me waiting, *chérie*.” And then he was gone, leaving Rory standing in the middle of Eva’s cluttered flat, her pulse roaring in her ears and the taste of bergamot lingering on her tongue.