Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQEYCPP9CSNTFV82RZ5DJ8

The door swung open before Rory could even knock, the chain still rattling against the frame. Eva stood there, barefoot in an oversized sweater, her dark curls piled messily on top of her head. "Took you long enough," she said, but her smile faltered when she saw who was actually standing in the hallway. Rory’s fingers tightened around the takeaway bag from Golden Empress, the scent of chili oil and soy sauce curling into the damp air between them. "I—" she started, but the words died in her throat. Because it wasn’t Eva who had opened the door. Lucien Moreau leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, his ivory-handled cane propped beside him, the blade inside it hidden but no less present in Rory’s memory. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—locked onto hers, unreadable. The flat’s dim light caught the sharp angle of his jaw, the way his platinum hair was slicked back just a little too perfectly, as if he’d been expecting someone else entirely. "Well," he said, voice smooth as aged whiskey. "This is a surprise." Rory’s pulse jumped. She hadn’t seen him in months. Not since that night in the alley behind Silas’ bar, when his blade had been pressed to her throat and his mouth had been—*no*. She cut the thought off before it could take root. "Where’s Eva?" Lucien pushed off the doorframe, straightening to his full height. "Out. She’ll be back." A pause. "You’re welcome to wait inside." Rory hesitated. The last time she’d been in this flat, she’d been bleeding from a knife wound, Lucien’s hands steady as he stitched her up while Eva paced like a caged animal. The memory of his fingers against her skin was still too sharp, too *real*. "I can come back." Lucien’s lips quirked. "Or you could stop being stubborn and come in. It’s cold." It *was* cold. The November wind had a bite to it, and the takeaway bag was already growing damp in her grip. She exhaled through her nose, then stepped inside, brushing past him. The scent of his cologne—something dark and spiced—lingered in the air, and she told herself the shiver that ran down her spine was just the temperature change. The flat was exactly as she remembered: cramped, cluttered, every surface buried under books and scrolls. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby cat, was curled on the back of the sofa, tail flicking as he watched her with lazy disdain. Rory set the takeaway bag on the coffee table, careful not to disturb the stack of yellowed papers beneath it. "You’re still here, then." Lucien shut the door behind her, the deadbolts clicking into place with finality. "Eva’s research is… extensive." Rory turned to face him, arms crossed. "You mean she’s still digging into the Avaros thing." His expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his black eye. "Among other things." She should have left it at that. Should have made small talk, asked about the weather, anything to fill the silence that stretched between them like a live wire. But Rory had never been good at leaving things alone. "You never told me why you were really in London." Lucien’s fingers tapped once against the head of his cane. "I thought that was obvious. Business." "Bullshit." A beat of silence. Then, quietly: "You always did have a talent for seeing through things." Rory’s chest tightened. She remembered the way he’d looked at her that night in the alley, the way his voice had dropped when he’d said her name. *Aurora.* Like it was something sacred. Like she was something sacred. And then he’d walked away. She swallowed. "Eva said you were helping her. That you owed her a favor." Lucien’s jaw tightened. "Eva talks too much." "She’s worried about you." "That’s her problem." Rory exhaled sharply. "You’re impossible." "And yet, here you are." He gestured to the takeaway bag. "Bringing food. How domestic." She ignored the jab. "I wasn’t expecting *you* to answer the door." "No?" His voice was light, but there was an edge to it. "Who were you expecting, then?" Rory didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. They both knew. Lucien’s gaze darkened. "He’s not here." "I know." "Do you?" She met his eyes, unflinching. "I’m not stupid, Lucien." "No," he agreed, voice low. "You’re not." The air between them thickened, charged with something unspoken. Rory broke first, turning away to busy herself with the takeaway bag. She pulled out the containers—sweet and sour pork, chow mein, a side of prawn crackers—and set them on the coffee table. "Eva’s favorite." Lucien didn’t move. "You remember." "Of course I remember." She kept her back to him, her fingers trembling just slightly as she pried open the lid of the chow mein. The steam rose between them, a fragile barrier. "I remember *everything*." Silence. Then, softly: "So do I." Rory’s breath hitched. She didn’t turn around. Didn’t trust herself to. Lucien’s cane tapped against the floor as he moved closer. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that she could feel the heat of him at her back. "You left," he said. She closed her eyes. "You let me." A beat. Then, quieter: "I didn’t have a choice." Rory turned then, her bright blue eyes flashing. "There’s always a choice." His heterochromatic gaze held hers, unyielding. "Not for me." She wanted to argue. Wanted to scream at him, to demand answers, to make him *feel* the way she had when he’d walked away. But the words died in her throat because she saw it then—the way his fingers tightened around his cane, the way his jaw was set, the way his black eye seemed to swallow the light. He was afraid. The realization hit her like a physical blow. Lucien Moreau, half-demon fixer with a blade hidden in his cane and a reputation that made even the most hardened supernatural criminals think twice, was *afraid*. Of what, she didn’t know. But she knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that it had something to do with her. She exhaled, the fight draining out of her. "Lucien—" The door burst open. Eva stumbled in, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her arms laden with grocery bags. "Rory! You’re here—oh." She froze, her dark eyes darting between them. "I, uh. Didn’t realize you two were… catching up." Rory stepped back, putting distance between herself and Lucien. "We weren’t." Eva’s eyebrows shot up. "Right. Sure." She dumped the groceries onto the kitchen counter, then turned to face them, hands on her hips. "Well. This is awkward." Lucien cleared his throat. "I should go." Rory’s stomach twisted. "You don’t have to—" "I do." His voice was firm, but his eyes betrayed him. For a second, she thought she saw regret. Then it was gone, buried beneath that infuriatingly calm mask of his. He nodded to Eva. "I’ll be in touch." Eva watched him go, her expression unreadable. The door clicked shut behind him, the deadbolts sliding into place with a finality that made Rory’s chest ache. Eva turned to her, arms crossed. "You want to tell me what that was about?" Rory sank onto the sofa, suddenly exhausted. "I don’t even know where to start." Eva sat beside her, nudging the takeaway containers toward her. "Start with the food. Then we’ll talk." Rory picked at the chow mein, her appetite gone. "He’s scared, Eva." Eva stilled. "Lucien?" Rory nodded. "Of something. Or someone." Eva was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly: "He’s not the only one." Rory looked at her, really looked at her, and saw the shadows under her eyes, the way her fingers trembled just slightly as she reached for a prawn cracker. "What’s going on?" Eva hesitated. Then, in a rush: "I think I found something. In the Avaros texts. Something about a binding." Rory’s blood ran cold. "A binding?" Eva’s voice was barely above a whisper. "A way to trap a demon. Permanently." Rory’s mind raced. "You think that’s what he’s afraid of." Eva met her eyes. "I think it’s what *we’re* all afraid of." The flat felt suddenly too small, the air too thick. Rory stood, pacing the length of the room. "We need to find him." Eva didn’t argue. "I know." Rory stopped in front of the window, her reflection staring back at her in the glass. Outside, the streets of Brick Lane were alive with the hum of traffic, the distant laughter of strangers. Somewhere out there, Lucien was walking away from her. Again. She turned to Eva, her voice steady. "Then let’s go get him."