Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQE6NWP0DJGG35FHKV06GW

The knock on the door was sharp, deliberate, and entirely out of place. It cut through the muffled hum of Brick Lane and the gentle rustle of book pages. Rory, curled on Eva’s overstuffed armchair with a scroll spread across her lap, frowned. It wasn’t Eva’s frantic, multi-knuckled scramble, nor the hesitant tap of a delivery person. This was a command. Ptolemy, the tabby cat sprawled over a stack of occult texts, lifted his head with a lazy chirp, his tail giving a single flick. “Alright, I’m coming,” Rory muttered, though the person on the other side couldn’t hear her. She carefully rolled the scroll, her fingers tracing the brittle vellum, and set it aside. The curry-scented air from the restaurant below was thick and comforting, a familiar blanket she’d wrapped herself in for months. This knock felt like a pinprick. She padded to the door, the old floorboards groaning under her feet. Her hand went to the first of three deadbolts. The heavy *thunk* echoed in the small flat. Then the second, a higher-pitched *snick*. The third was a stiff, brass knob that turned with a reluctant groan. Eva was paranoid, but after what Rory had been through, the three locks felt like a sensible precaution. She pulled the door inward, the chain sliding taut for a moment before she unhooked it. And her breath caught in her throat. He stood in the dim, grime-filmed hallway like a figure from a different, cleaner world. A slash of charcoal-grey suit against the peeling paint, his platinum blond hair slicked back from his face, catching the single bare bulb’s light. In one hand, he held an ivory-handled cane, its tip resting on the worn linoleum. But it was his eyes that always stopped her heart—one the color of warm, liquid amber, the other a flat, fathomless black. “Lucien,” she said. Her voice was flat, betraying none of the sudden, chaotic storm inside her. Cool-headed, that’s what she was. Intelligent. Quick-thinking. She clung to those labels like a shield. “Aurora,” he replied. His voice was a low, smooth baritone, laced with the faint, elegant rasp of his French accent. He used her full name, a weapon he knew how to wield. It was a reminder of everything they had been, and everything they weren’t anymore. “I was hoping I’d find you here.” “You shouldn’t have.” Her grip on the doorframe tightened. “How did you know I was at Eva’s?” A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. “I’m an information broker, *chérie*. It’s what I do. Besides, your flat above the bar is dreadfully loud on a Friday night. This seemed a more likely sanctuary.” His gaze drifted past her, into the cluttered warmth of the flat. It swept over the teetering towers of books, the maps tacked to the walls, the faint shimmer of protective runes Eva had drawn in chalk on the windowsills. “Still drowning in paper, I see. Some things never change.” “Some things do,” she shot back, her voice low and hard. The hurt was a physical thing, a dull ache behind her ribs. It had been three months since the docks. Three months since he’d made a choice that had saved her life but had shattered the fragile trust between them. He hadn’t said goodbye. He’d just… disappeared, leaving her with a cryptic note and a deeper understanding of the world’s sharp edges. He let out a soft sigh, the sound barely disturbing the air. “May I come in? The hallway is… uninspiring.” Rory hesitated. Every instinct screamed at her to slam the door, to throw the bolts, to retreat into the safety of the curry-scented air and Eva’s research. But she couldn’t. She saw the tension in the line of his shoulders, a subtle crack in his usual impeccable composure. Lucien Moreau never looked anything less than perfectly in control. If he was here, showing up unannounced like this, it was serious. She stepped back, a silent, reluctant invitation. He moved into the flat with a fluid grace that seemed impossible in the cramped space. He didn’t just walk; he flowed. The scent of his cologne—something expensive and clean, like bergamot and old leather—immediately began to displace the familiar smell of spices and paper. He tapped his cane lightly on the floor, and Ptolemy, who had been watching with wide, wary eyes, stood up, arched his back, and tentatively approached. Lucien glanced down at the cat, his mismatched eyes softening for a fraction of a second. He crouched, extending a hand. Ptolemy sniffed his fingers, then rubbed his cheek against them, purring rumbling in his chest. “Traitor,” Rory murmured, closing the door. She didn’t bother with the chain, but she slid all three deadbolts home. The sound was final, a lock turning not just on the outside world, but on her own escape. “He has good taste,” Lucien said, straightening up. He was closer now, close enough for her to see the faint silver threads woven into his suit, the way the amber eye seemed to hold a light of its own. “Unlike some people I know.” “What do you want, Lucien?” She crossed her arms, a defensive barrier. She wouldn’t let him charm her, wouldn’t let him back behind her walls so easily. “I’m not in that business anymore.” “Are you sure?” He gestured vaguely at the scroll on the table. “Looks to me like you’re just neck-deep in a different part of it. Eva’s business, I assume.” “It’s research. It’s not the same.” “Isn’t it?” He took another step, and she was forced to back up against the door. He wasn’t threatening, not physically, but his presence was overwhelming. It filled the small room, crowded her thoughts. “You’re still looking for answers, Rory. You’re still trying to make sense of the things that go bump in the night. That’s all I ever did.” “You used people,” she accused, her voice barely a whisper. “You used me.” His expression faltered. The charming mask slipped, and for a moment, she saw the man beneath—the half-demon, the fixer, the one who carried the weight of a thousand secrets. “I did what I had to do. To keep you safe. It seems I failed in that, as well.” The words hit her with the force of a physical blow. He was admitting it. Not the betrayal, but the reason behind it. It didn’t erase the hurt, but it shifted it, changed its shape. “What’s happened?” she asked, her arms dropping to her sides. The fight was draining out of her, replaced by a cold dread. He didn’t answer right away. He reached out, his fingers hovering just above the small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. He didn’t touch her, but she felt the heat of his hand all the same. She remembered the night he’d first seen it, the way his thumb had traced its shape, his eyes dark with a mixture of pity and something else she hadn’t dared to name. “They’re back,” he said finally, his voice grim. “The ones from the docks. The Avarosian cabal I sent running. They didn’t stay scattered for long.” Rory’s blood ran cold. She remembered the docks—the rain, the stench of salt and rot, the searing pain of a wound that should have killed her, and the inhuman, chittering language of the creatures Lucien had been fighting. He had pushed her into a cargo container, told her to stay hidden no matter what she heard. She had listened. And when she’d finally emerged, he was gone, and the only thing left was blood on the concrete and his ivory cane, broken in two. “They’re looking for me,” Lucien continued, his black eye seeming to absorb all the light in the room. “But they’re also looking for the human who got away. The one who saw their true faces. They don’t like loose ends, Rory.” She stared at him, the implications crashing down around her. Her quiet life, the delivery job, the evenings spent translating Sumerian glyphs for Eva—it was all a fragile illusion. And Lucien, with his expensive suit and his dangerous eyes, had just shattered it. “Why come to me?” she asked, a tremor in her voice she couldn’t suppress. “I can’t help you.” “Yes,” he said, his gaze locking with hers. The amber eye was intense, pleading. “You can. They don’t know you’re with me. They don’t know where you are. For now, this flat”—he gestured around them—“is the safest place in London. But not for long. I need your help, Aurora. I need you to be my eyes and ears on the ground. And I need to keep you alive.” The air in the flat, thick with spice and memory, suddenly felt too thin to breathe. He was here, not just to apologize, not just to explain. He was here because he needed her. And because she was in danger. The complicated history between them didn’t matter anymore. The only thing that mattered was the threat at the door.