Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMPD9WSZJ678Y2BMAEGVF29

The knock came just as Rory was settling in for the evening, the rhythmic rap of knuckles against wood making her jump. She froze, mug of tea halfway to her lips, and stared at the door. It was after ten — too late for a friendly visit, and she wasn’t expecting anyone. Not unless Eva had forgotten her keys again, but her friend usually texted first. Setting the mug down on the cluttered coffee table — next to a stack of Eva’s research notes — Rory padded to the door, her bare feet silent against the worn wood floor. The cat, Ptolemy, lounged on the windowsill, ignoring her. She peered through the peephole and her breath caught. Lucien Moreau stood on the other side, his lean frame silhouetted by the dim hall light. He looked as impeccable as ever, his platinum hair slicked back, a tailored charcoal suit hugging his broad shoulders. One hand rested on the ivory handle of his cane, the other tucked casually into his pocket. Even through the distorted fisheye lens of the peephole, his mismatched eyes — one amber, one black — seemed to pierce right through her. Rory’s stomach twisted. It had been six months since she’d last seen him, six months since their abrupt parting in the aftermath of the Blackwell case. She still remembered the way he’d looked at her that night, his expression unreadable as he’d turned and walked away without a word. She hadn’t reached out. Neither had he. Her fingers hovered over the deadbolts. She could pretend she wasn’t home. It wasn’t like Lucien to make unannounced visits — he was meticulous, calculating. If he was here, it meant something was wrong. Or he wanted something. The knock came again, sharper this time. “Aurora,” he called, his voice smooth and low, the French accent faint but unmistakable. “I know you’re in there.” She exhaled sharply and unlocked the door, pulling it open just wide enough to peer out at him. “Lucien,” she said, her tone carefully neutral. “This is a surprise.” He raised an eyebrow. “May I come in?” She hesitated, her gaze darting over his shoulder to check for unseen threats before she stepped back. “Fine.” He crossed the threshold with the grace of a predator, his polished shoes clicking softly against the floor. The faint scent of bergamot and sandalwood followed him, familiar and unsettling. Rory shut the door behind him, re-engaging the deadbolts as he surveyed the flat with a faintly amused expression. “Charming,” he remarked, his gaze lingering on the overflowing bookshelves and the precarious stacks of papers. Ptolemy perked up at the newcomer, his tail twitching as he watched Lucien with curious eyes. “What do you want, Lucien?” Rory crossed her arms, her tone sharper than she intended. “If this is about work—” “It’s not,” he interrupted smoothly, turning to face her. Those mismatched eyes locked onto hers, and she felt the weight of his scrutiny like a physical thing. “I need your help.” She snorted. “Right. Because you’re so helpless.” His lips quirked in a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “You wound me, *ma chère*. But this isn’t about me. It’s about Eva.” Rory’s stomach dropped. “What about Eva?” “She’s in trouble,” Lucien said, his tone grave now. “She’s been asking questions about things she shouldn’t be poking her nose into. You know how she gets.” Rory did know. Eva was brilliant but reckless, fueled by an insatiable curiosity that often led her into danger. “What kind of things?” she asked, already dreading the answer. Lucien’s expression darkened. “The Blackwell case reopened some old wounds in the supernatural community. Eva stumbled onto something — or someone — connected to it. Now they’re after her.” Panic surged through Rory. “Where is she?” “Safe,” Lucien assured her quickly. “For now. But she won’t stay that way unless we intervene.” “We?” Rory echoed, her voice tinged with bitterness. “You mean you need me to clean up your mess again?” Lucien’s jaw tightened, a flicker of emotion breaking through his usual composure. “This isn’t about me,” he repeated quietly. “It’s about keeping Eva alive.” Rory studied him, searching for deception in his mismatched eyes. There was none — only a quiet intensity that made her chest ache. She hated this, hated how easily he could still get under her skin. “Fine,” she said at last, exhaling sharply. “Tell me what you know.” Lucien nodded, his expression softening slightly. “Thank you.” She motioned toward the couch. “Sit. I’ll make tea.” As she moved to the small kitchenette, she felt his gaze follow her, heavy and unrelenting. She busied herself with the kettle, her hands trembling slightly as she measured out loose-leaf tea. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words. “You’ve been avoiding me,” Lucien said at last, his voice low. “I haven’t,” Rory replied without turning around. She knew it was a lie but couldn’t bring herself to admit the truth. Seeing him now, being this close to him, was like reopening a wound she’d thought had healed. “If you say so,” he murmured. There was a pause, then the soft creak of the couch as he sat. Ptolemy leapt down from the windowsill and padded over to investigate, rubbing against Lucien’s leg with a soft purr. Lucien scratched the cat behind the ears, his expression softening further. Rory carried the tea back to the living area, setting the tray down on the coffee table before sinking into the armchair across from him. She handed him a cup, their fingers brushing briefly, and the contact sent a jolt through her. “Talk,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. Lucien sipped his tea, his gaze never leaving hers. “Eva was researching a group called the Obsidian Veil,” he began. “They’re a secretive faction within the supernatural underworld, rumored to have ties to Avaros.” Rory stiffened. Avaros — Lucien’s father’s realm. “What does this have to do with Eva?” “She uncovered evidence linking them to the Blackwell case,” Lucien explained. “Specifically, to the artifacts that went missing after we closed it. She started digging deeper, asking questions she shouldn’t have. Now they’re after her.” Rory cursed under her breath. “Why didn’t she tell me?” “Because she knew you’d try to stop her,” Lucien said wryly. “And she was right, wasn’t she?” Rory didn’t answer, her mind racing. Eva was in way over her head, and Lucien’s presence only confirmed how serious this was. “What do we do?” “We find her,” Lucien said simply. “Before they do.” Rory studied him, searching for any hint of ulterior motive. “Why are you involved in this?” Lucien’s expression darkened. “Because they’ve been watching me too. They think I know more than I do.” “Do you?” He hesitated, then nodded. “Enough to be a threat to them.” Rory exhaled sharply, frustration bubbling up. “You always have to be so cryptic, don’t you?” “It’s part of my charm,” he replied with a faint smile. She shook her head, setting her tea down with a clatter. “Fine. We’ll find Eva. But don’t think this changes anything between us.” Lucien’s smile faded, replaced by a look of quiet intensity. “What if I want it to?” Her breath caught, her heart skipping a beat. “Lucien—” “I made a mistake,” he said softly, his gaze fixed on hers. “Walking away was the worst decision I’ve ever made.” Rory swallowed hard, her chest tightening. “You don’t get to just show up and say that.” “I know,” he admitted. “But I’m saying it anyway. I regret it, Aurora. Every day.” She looked away, her throat constricting. “It’s too late.” “Is it?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. She didn’t answer, couldn’t trust herself to speak. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken emotions. Ptolemy leapt onto the arm of her chair, nudging her hand with his head until she absently stroked his fur. “We should focus on Eva,” she said at last, her voice strained. “Nothing else matters.” Lucien nodded, though the look in his eyes said otherwise. “Agreed.” But as they sat there, the space between them felt impossibly small, and Rory wasn’t sure she could keep her defenses intact for much longer.