Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMN62CMWCF3PZBPA74MATJY

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 hand tucked into the pocket of his charcoal suit, the other resting on the ivory handle of his cane. The scent of bergamot and something darker, something like smoke, curled into the flat before he did. Rory’s breath hitched. She hadn’t seen him in three months. Not since that night in the alley behind *The Black Stag*, when she’d walked away without a word, her knuckles still stinging from the punch she’d thrown at his jaw. The bruise had faded, but the memory hadn’t. “Bonjour, *chérie*,” he said, his voice smooth as aged whiskey, the French rolling off his tongue like he’d never left Marseille. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—raked over her, slow and deliberate, from the messy black hair tumbling over her shoulders to the oversized Cardiff University sweatshirt she’d stolen from her ex’s closet years ago and never returned. His gaze lingered on the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, then flicked back up to her face. “You look terrible.” Rory’s fingers tightened around the edge of the door. “And you look like you’ve got a death wish, showing up here unannounced.” She didn’t step aside. Didn’t invite him in. The flat was a mess—scrolls unrolled across the coffee table, Ptolemy the tabby glaring at Lucien from his perch on the back of the sofa, his tail twitching like a metronome counting down to violence. Lucien smirked, unfazed. “I brought wine.” He lifted a bottle of something dark and expensive-looking, the label written in looping script. “A 1982 Bordeaux. Your favorite, if memory serves.” “Memory’s a fickle thing,” Rory said, but her traitorous stomach growled at the thought of alcohol. She’d been living on instant noodles and leftover dumplings from the Golden Empress for days. Lucien’s smirk deepened. “May I come in, or shall we have this conversation in the hallway like civilized people?” “Civilized,” Rory scoffed. “That’s rich, coming from you.” Still, she stepped back, letting the door swing wider. Lucien moved past her, his shoulder brushing hers, and the contact sent a jolt through her like static. He smelled the same—expensive cologne, leather, and that underlying scent of something other, something not quite human. It made her skin prickle. Ptolemy hissed as Lucien approached, arching his back. “Charming,” Lucien murmured, eyeing the cat. “Does he do that to everyone, or am I special?” “You’re special,” Rory said dryly, shutting the door and engaging all three deadbolts with more force than necessary. The flat was small enough that she could feel Lucien’s presence like a physical weight, pressing against her from across the room. She crossed her arms. “What do you want, Lucien?” He set the wine bottle on the cluttered kitchen counter and turned to face her, leaning back against the edge. The pose was casual, but his knuckles were white where they gripped the countertop. “Straight to business, then. No small talk. No catching up.” “Small talk’s for people who like each other.” “And we don’t?” Rory’s laugh was sharp. “You have a funny way of showing it.” Lucien’s jaw tightened. For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and Ptolemy’s low, disgruntled growl. Then Lucien pushed off the counter and took a step toward her. “I didn’t come here to fight, Rory.” “Then why *did* you come?” Her voice was steadier than she felt. She could see the pulse jumping in his throat, the way his fingers flexed at his sides like he was fighting the urge to reach for her. Lucien exhaled through his nose, a sound that was almost a laugh. “Because I need your help.” Rory blinked. That wasn’t what she’d expected. “My help.” “Yes.” “With what?” “A job.” She stared at him. “You’re joking.” “I’m not.” “You have *got* to be kidding me.” Rory threw her hands up. “After everything, you waltz in here like nothing happened and ask me for a *favor*?” Lucien’s expression darkened. “I didn’t say it was a favor. I said it was a job. You’ll be paid.” “Oh, well, in that case.” Rory’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “How much?” “Five thousand pounds.” She froze. That was more than she made in six months at the Golden Empress. More than enough to cover rent, to get her out of this cramped flat, to— No. She wasn’t that desperate. Not for *him*. “No.” Lucien’s eyebrows shot up. “No?” “You heard me.” “Rory.” He said her name like a warning. “This isn’t some petty theft or back-alley deal. This is important.” “So was the last thing you asked me to do,” she snapped. “And look how that turned out.” Lucien flinched. Just for a second, but she saw it—the way his eyes flickered, the way his mouth pressed into a thin line. Then it was gone, replaced by that infuriating mask of his. “That was different.” “Was it?” Rory stepped closer, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his amber eye, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve got a habit of using people when it suits you.” Lucien’s breath hitched. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then snapped back up to her eyes. “Is that what you think of me?” “It’s what I *know*.” For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then Lucien’s hand shot out, gripping her wrist—not hard, but firm enough that she couldn’t pull away. His thumb brushed over the crescent-shaped scar, and Rory’s pulse jumped beneath his touch. “Let go,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction. Lucien didn’t. Instead, he stepped even closer, until their chests were nearly touching, until she could feel the steady beat of his heart—or whatever passed for a heart in a half-demon. “You’re wrong about me,” he murmured. “And you’re wrong about us.” Rory’s breath came faster. “There is no *us*.” “Isn’t there?” His free hand came up, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck, tilting her head back. His breath was warm against her lips. “Then tell me to leave.” She should. She *should*. But the words stuck in her throat, and all she could manage was a whispered, “Lucien—” His mouth crashed into hers. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was teeth and heat and three months of pent-up frustration, of hurt and want and things left unsaid. Rory gasped against his lips, her hands flying to his shoulders—whether to push him away or pull him closer, she wasn’t sure. Lucien groaned, his grip on her wrist tightening as he backed her up against the wall, his body pressing into hers. Ptolemy yowled and leapt off the sofa, bolting into the bedroom and slamming the door behind him. Rory broke the kiss with a gasp, her lips swollen, her heart hammering. “This doesn’t change anything,” she said, but her voice was breathless. Lucien’s laugh was low, dark. “It changes *everything*, *chérie*.” His thumb traced her bottom lip, his heterochromatic eyes burning into hers. “But if you want to pretend otherwise, be my guest.” Rory swallowed hard. She should push him away. Should tell him to get out, to never come back. But the truth was, she’d missed him. Missed this. Missed the way he looked at her like she was the only thing in the room that mattered. And that terrified her more than anything else.