Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQFY6R452XACWRQQ35N3XW

The scent of cumin and turmeric was thick enough to chew, rising from the curry house downstairs to permeate the floorboards of the cramped flat on Brick Lane. Aurora Carter sat cross-legged on a velvet armchair that had seen better decades, nursing a mug of tea that had gone lukewarm twenty minutes ago. It was raining in East London—a relentless, grey drizzle that smeared the streetlights into oily blurs against the windowpane. Inside, the only light came from a sputtering radiator and a single brass lamp that illuminated the chaotic landscape of Eva’s living space. Every horizontal surface groaned under the weight of books, scrolls, and loose leaf research notes. To navigate the room was to play a high-stakes game of hopscotch, where the penalty for tripping was an avalanche of occult theory. Ptolemy, Eva’s heavyset tabby, was currently asleep on a stack of grimoires that Rory had intended to read. She stared at the cat’s rhythmic breathing, trying to quiet the hum of anxiety that had been her constant companion since she’d left Cardiff. A sharp rap on the door shattered the quiet. Rory froze. The knock was precise—three distinct, rhythmic strikes. It wasn’t the heavy-handed pound of a neighbor complaining about the plumbing, nor the hesitant tap of a delivery driver lost in the labyrinth of the stairwell. It was a knock that demanded an answer. She set the mug down on a precarious tower of encyclopedias. Eva was in Glastonbury for the weekend, chasing ley lines, which meant no one should be knocking. Rory moved silently, her socks sliding over the worn rug. She reached the door and pressed her eye to the peephole, but the hallway bulb had burned out days ago. All she saw was a shadow. Her hand hovered over the first of the three deadbolts. "I know you are inside, Aurora," a voice came through the wood. Smooth, low, warm like expensive brandy, and just as capable of leaving a burn. Rory’s stomach dropped, a sensation akin to missing a step on a staircase. She knew that voice. She had spent the last three weeks trying to scrub it from her memory, along with the memory of the way his hand had felt against the small of her back in that warehouse in Shoreditch. "Go away, Lucien," she said, her voice steady despite the spike in her pulse. "We need to talk." "I seem to recall you doing enough talking for both of us last time." "Aurora, please. It is raining, and this suit is Italian wool." She hesitated. She gripped the cold metal of the lock, her thumb tracing the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist—a nervous tic she hadn't managed to kick since childhood. Logic dictated she keep the door shut. Lucien Moreau was a fixer, a half-demon information broker who traded secrets like currency. He was dangerous, manipulative, and he had lied to her. But the memory of his eyes—that impossible, jarring asymmetry—flashed in her mind. With a sigh that was more growl than resignation, Rory threw the bolts. *One. Two. Three.* She yanked the door open. Lucien stood in the dim hallway, looking like he had just stepped out of a high-end fashion editorial rather than the grime of East London. His charcoal suit was tailored to within an inch of its life, the cut emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders. His platinum hair, slicked back, caught the meager light from the street below. He leaned lightly on his ivory-handled cane, the one she knew concealed a needle-thin blade. He looked impeccable. It was infuriating. "You look terrible," he said. Rory folded her arms, leaning against the doorframe to block his entry. She was wearing oversized sweatpants and one of Eva’s vintage band t-shirts. "Charm isn't going to work, Lucien. What do you want?" Lucien’s gaze traveled over her face, lingering on her eyes. The heterochromia that marked his heritage was striking up close—one eye a warm, melted amber, the other a void of solid black. It gave his stare an intensity that made most people look away. Rory didn't. She held his gaze, channeling every ounce of the cool-headed stubbornness that had gotten her through three years of law school before she’d bolted. "May I come in?" he asked softy. "The hallway smells of cabbage and regret." "Fitting," Rory shot back. She didn't move. Lucien sighed, shifting his weight. He looked tired, she realized. The imperious mask was there, but the lines around his eyes were deeper than she remembered. "I am not here to fight, Aurora. I came to apologize." The word hung in the damp air between them. Lucien Moreau did not apologize. He negotiated. He leveraged. He did not say *sorry*. Rory stepped aside. He glided past her, bringing the scent of rain, ozone, and sandalwood into the musty flat. She closed the door and re-locked all three bolts before turning to face him. He was standing in the center of the room, looking utterly out of place amidst Eva’s chaotic hoarding. He used the tip of his cane to gently move a stack of papers from the armchair opposite hers before sitting down with a grace that made the battered furniture look like a throne. "Eva’s organizational skills remain... abstract," he commented, glancing at the wall of books. "It works for her," Rory said, staying standing. She wanted the height advantage. "You didn't come here to critique the interior design. Why are you here, Lucien? Really." Lucien rested his hands on the ivory handle of his cane. "The job in Shoreditch. I did not tell you the artifact was cursed because I knew you would not take the contract if you knew." "You used me as bait," Rory said, the anger flaring up, hot and bright. "You let me walk into a nest of vampires with nothing but a fake sigil and a prayer because you knew they’d hesitate to attack a human." "I was never more than ten feet away," he said, his voice dropping an octave. The amber eye flared. "I would not have let them touch you." "That's not the point!" Rory paced a short circle, stepping over a pile of handwritten star charts. "Choices, Lucien. It’s about choices. You took mine away. Just like everyone else in my life seems to love doing." The silence that followed was heavy. Ptolemy, disturbed by the raised voices, lifted his head. The cat blinked his yellow eyes, stretched, and then, with traitorous affection, hopped down and rubbed his cheek against Lucien’s polished shoe. Lucien reached down, scratching the cat behind the ears with long, pale fingers. "You are right," he said quietly. Rory stopped pacing. "What?" He looked up at her, and the vulnerability in his expression knocked the wind out of her sails. "You are right. I am accustomed to moving pieces on a board. I forgot that you are not a pawn, Aurora. You are the Queen, and I was foolish to treat you otherwise." Rory felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She looked away, focusing on the rain lashing against the window. "Don't say things like that." "Why not? It is the truth." "Because you say whatever gets you what you want." Lucien stood up then. He moved silently, closing the distance between them until he was standing just outside her personal space. She could feel the heat radiating from him, a subtle warmth that was distinctly inherent to his bloodline. He towered over her, his presence encompassing. "And what do you think I want?" he asked. Rory looked up. He was close enough that she could see the faint flecks of gold in his amber eye. She remembered the adrenaline of the fight in the warehouse, the way he had pulled her behind him when the fighting started, the roar of infernal fire he’d unleashed to clear their path. She remembered the way he’d looked at her in the car afterwards—like he was checking for cracks. "I think you want forgiveness so you can hire me for another job," she whispered. Lucien let out a short, dry laugh. He raised a hand, hesitating for a fraction of a second before tucking a loose strand of her black hair behind her ear. His fingers grazed her jawline—a touch so light it made her skin prickle. "I have plenty of mercenaries, Aurora. I do not lack for muscle or magic." His thumb brushed her cheekbone. "I lack... company that does not bore me to tears. I lack someone who sees the world as clearly as you do." Rory’s breath hitched. She should step back. She should tell him to get out. But her feet felt rooted to the floor. The attraction she had buried under layers of resentment was clawing its way back to the surface. It was a dangerous thing, bright and sharp. "You lied to me," she said, but the bite was gone from her voice. "I did," he admitted. His hand lingered on her face, his thumb tracing the line of her lip. "And I will likely keep secrets from you in the future. It is my nature. But I will never again use you as bait. On my name, and my father’s name." That was a heavy oath. For a half-demon, invoking the name of a sire from Avaros was binding in ways human contracts weren't. Rory looked at his mismatched eyes, seeing the conflict there. He was a creature of the underworld, bred for deception, trying to navigate something as honest as an apology. "I don't trust you," she said. "Good," Lucien murmured, leaning in closer. His scent—rain and spice—filled her senses. " trusting me is a survival flaw. But perhaps you can tolerate me?" "I haven't decided yet." "Then I will have to be persuasive." He lowered his head. For a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her, and her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She didn't pull away. She tilted her chin up, her eyelids fluttering shut. But he didn't kiss her. instead, he pressed his forehead against hers, a gesture of intimacy that felt shockingly domestic for a man who wore three-piece suits to dive bars. "I brought you something," he whispered against her skin. Rory opened her eyes, blinking. He pulled back, reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket. He produced a small, leather-bound book. It was old, the cover cracked, but she recognized the symbol embossed on the front. "Eva’s been looking for a copy of the *Codex Umbra* for three years," Rory said, stunned. "I know. I found it in a private collection in Prague this morning." He pressed the book into her hands. "A peace offering. For the rent you are saving by staying here." Rory looked from the book to him. "You went to Prague? Today?" "Portals are convenient, if nauseating." He picked up his cane, adjusting his cuffs. The mask of the cool, detached fixer was sliding back into place, but his eyes remained warm. "I should go. I have a meeting with a warlock in Soho who owes me money, and I prefer not to be late." He moved toward the door. Rory stood holding the book, the spot on her cheek where he had touched her still tingling. "Lucien?" He paused at the door, hand on the deadbolt. "Yes, chérie?" "Don't think a book buys you forgiveness," she said, though a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Lucien glanced back, a wicked, dazzling grin spreading across his face. "Of course not. But it buys me a second chance. And that is all I require." He unlocked the door. "Lock it behind me, Aurora. Three times." Then he was gone, slipping back into the London rain, leaving Rory alone with a priceless grimoire, a judgmental cat, and the lingering knowing that she was already forgiven him long before he'd knocked.