Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQE6PCXDC0CE0735YHN1FT

The heavy scent of cumin and turmeric drafted up through the floorboards, a permanent atmospheric condition of the flat on Brick Lane. Aurora Carter stood in the center of the cramped living room, staring at the front door. Three deadbolts. Eva had insisted on three deadbolts, not because of the neighborhood, but because of the things that lived in the shadows of the neighborhood. This time, however, the knocking wasn’t the aggressive pound of a baliff or the polite tappings of a delivery driver. It was a rhythmic, three-beat rap. Precise. Arrogant. Rory didn’t move. She brushed a strand of straight, shoulder-length black hair behind her ear, her pulse thumping a traitorous rhythm against her collarbone. She knew that knock. Ptolemy, Eva’s enormous tabby cat, lifted his head from a precarious stack of grimoires on the armchair. He let out a low, guttural growl that vibrated in his chest, his yellow eyes fixed on the peeling white paint of the door. "I know," Rory whispered to the cat. She shouldn't open it. She should retreat to the fire escape, climb down into the alley, and disappear into the East London night. That was the sensible, intelligent move—the move of the girl who had fled Cardiff to escape one disaster only to stumble into a world of demons and magic in London. But curiosity had always been her fatal flaw. She walked to the door, her steps silent on the threadbare rug. Her hand hovered over the locks. With a sharp intake of breath, she threw the latches—*clack, clack, clack*—and yanked the door open. Lucien Moreau stood in the dim, flickering light of the hallway. He looked infuriatingly untouched by the chaos of the last three months. He wore a charcoal suit tailored so sharply it could have cut glass, the fabric absorbing the hallway’s grime rather than reflecting it. His platinum blond hair was slicked back, severe and elegant, exposing the sharp angles of a face that had haunted her sleep more often than she cared to admit. He leaned lightly on his ivory-handled cane. "Hello, Aurora," he said. His voice was liquid smoke, smooth and damaging. "Get out," she said. She moved to slam the door, but theferrule of his cane moved faster than human reflexes allowed. It slotted into the gap between the door and the frame—not forcefully, just an immovable objection. Lucien tilted his head. His eyes caught the light, and even after all this time, the sight of them sent a shiver down her spine. One iris was a warm, human amber. The other was a void of solid, endless black—the mark of his father’s bloodline, the Avaros heritage he wore like a challenge. "I did not come to fight," he said softly. "You never come to fight, Lucien. You come to manipulate. There’s a difference." "May I come in? The hallway smells of damp wool and regret." "No." He sighed, a sound of exaggerated patience. "I am not a vampire, *chérie*. I do not require an invitation, merely your forgiveness. Or, at the very least, your tolerance for five minutes." Rory gripped the edge of the door until her knuckles turned white. The crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a souvenir from a childhood tumbledown, seemed to ache in his presence. She looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the crack in the veneer. There was a tightness around his mouth, a shadow beneath the amber eye. He looked tired. Not human tired—something deeper. Soul-weary. She stepped back, leaving the door open. "Five minutes. Then I call the police. or Eva. And trust me, you’d prefer the police." Lucien stepped over the threshold, bringing with him the scent of ozone, expensive leather, and winter air. It instantly warred with the curry fumes rising from the restaurant below. He closed the door behind him, the latch clicking with a finality that made the small room feel suddenly smaller. He surveyed the flat. It was a disaster zone of intellect; every surface was buried under Eva’s research. Scrolls on the lay lines of London covered the dining table; stacks of leather-bound books acted as coasters for half-finished mugs of tea. "Charming," Lucien murmured, poking a precarious pile of parchment with the tip of his cane. "It appears Eva has not discovered the concept of a filing cabinet." "What do you want, Lucien?" Rory crossed her arms over her chest, creating a barricade. "And don't tell me it's a social call. You don't make social calls. You make transactions." He turned to face her, leaning his weight on the cane. The movement drew her eyes to his hands—long fingers, manicured, lethal. She remembered how those hands had felt on her waist in the back of a black cab speeding away from the British Museum, the adrenaline high of a heist crash-landing into something softer, darker. She remembered how he had pulled away first. "I needed to see you," he said. "That's a lie." "Is it?" He took a step toward her. The space between them famously lacked oxygen. "I checked the bar. Silas said you hadn’t been downstairs in two days. I went to the restaurant. Yu-Fei threatened to butcher me with a cleaver if I didn’t leave. This was the only other place." "You could have called," Rory said, though she knew she wouldn't have answered. "I prefer to see the person I am negotiating with." "Negotiating," she repeated, a bitter laugh escaping her throat. "There it is. What’s the job? Someone stole a cursed artifact? Another demon prince needs a lawyer? I’m retired, Lucien. I deliver noodles now. I have a life." "Do you?" The question was quiet, stripped of his usual mockery. He stepped closer, invading her personal space with the ease of water filling a crack. "I see a woman hiding in a flat that isn't hers, babysitting a cat that looks like it wants to consume my soul, staring at the door waiting for... what?" "For you to leave," she snapped, backing up until her hips hit the edge of the table. A scroll rattled, dust motes dancing in the air. Lucien stopped. He was close enough now that she could see the flecks of gold in his amber eye and the frightening depth of the black one. He reached out, his hand hovering near her face, but he didn't touch her. He pulled back, adjusting the cuff of his suit instead. "I didn't leave you at the museum to hurt you, Aurora," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "You just left," she countered, her voice shaking despite her best efforts to remain cool-headed. "You walked out the back exit while I was giving the statement to the wardens. You vanished for three months. No text. No word." "It was dangerous. My father's associates were... attentive that night. If I had stayed, if I had taken you with me, you would have been a target." "I can handle myself. I’m not some porcelain doll you need to put on a high shelf." "I know." His gaze dropped to her mouth, then snapped back to her eyes. "God, do I know. You are brilliant, Aurora. You are sharp and terrifying and entirely too brave. That is exactly why you would have gotten yourself killed trying to protect me." The admission hung in the air, heavy and wet. Rory felt the anger in her chest begin to fragment, replaced by that dangerous, magnetic pull that had drawn her to him in the first place. He had left to protect her. It was a cliché, a stupid, noble, demonic cliché. "You're an idiot," she whispered. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "I have been called worse. Usually by you." He shifted his grip on the cane, the ivory handle gleaming. "The factions are moving, Aurora. Something is coming to London. Something older than the filth I usually deal with. I cannot navigate it alone. I need someone who can see the patterns I miss. Someone who thinks outside the box." "You want me for my brain." "I want you for all of it," he said, the words rushing out before his filter could catch them. The silence that followed was electric. Ptolemy hopped down from the chair with a thud and slinked between them, rubbing his flank against Lucien’s suit trousers, leaving a streak of grey fur on the charcoal wool. Lucien didn’t even flinch. Rory looked up at him, her bright blue eyes searching his face for the deception she was used to finding. She saw hesitation. Fear, even. "You can't just show up here," she said, her voice softer now. "You can't just walk in, looking like that, smelling like *that*, and expect me to drop everything." "I don't expect it," Lucien said. He raised his hand slowly, telegraphing the movement, giving her time to pull away. When she didn't, he brushed his knuckles against her cheekbone. His skin was cool, contrasting with the heat flushing her face. "I am begging, Aurora. I am not a creature who begs. I am not good at it. But I am asking you." Rory leaned into his touch, just a fraction of an inch, before she caught herself. Her logic was screaming at her—he was trouble, he was half-monster, he was a walking heartbreak in a three-piece suit. But the flat was cold, and the isolation of the last few months had carved a hollow space in her chest that he seemed to fit into perfectly. She reached up, her fingers encircling his wrist, feeling the steady, powerful thrum of his pulse beneath the cuff. "If you leave again," she said, her voice steel, "if you disappear without a word, I will find you. And I will use that cane to break your nose." Lucien’s smile widened, genuine this time, transforming his face from severe to devastating. "I would expect nothing less, *ma chère*." "Don't call me that." "As you wish." He didn't pull his hand away. "Does this mean you are in?" Rory looked at the scrolls on the table, the deadbolts on the door, and then back at the man who stood between her and a safe, boring life. She thought of her Pre-Law books gathering dust, the mindless rhythm of deliveries, the safety of mediocrity. Then she looked at the heterochromatic eyes that promised danger and ruined nights. She exhaled a long breath. "Tea," she said. Lucien blinked. "Pardon?" "If you want me to listen to your pitch about ancient evils and faction wars, you’re going to make tea. Earl Grey. The mugs are under the stack of books on the counter. And don't use magic to boil the water. Use the kettle." Lucien laughed, a low, rumble that seemed to settle in her bones. He stepped back, bowing his head slightly. "Understood," he said, moving toward the tiny kitchenette with the grace of a predator stalking its prey. "Tea first. The apocalypse second." Rory watched him go, rubbing the scar on her wrist. She was definitely going to regret this. But as he turned on the tap, looking utterly ridiculous in his bespoke suit against the battered cabinets, she knew she wouldn't have it any other way.