Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQJC19P64ZTW1X9YPDK818

Rory unlatched the third deadbolt, the click echoing loud in the quiet stairwell, and pulled the door open. Lucien Moreau stood on the landing, framed by the dim light of the hallway. He leaned against the doorframe, his platinum blond hair slicked back as always, one amber eye and one black fixed on her. The ivory-handled cane rested in his gloved hands. He wore one of his tailored charcoal suits, impeccable despite the miserable drizzle that she knew was falling outside. “Are you going to invite me in, *cherie*?” he asked, his voice a low rumble, the French accent thicker than usual. Rory’s breath hitched. She hadn't seen him since… well, since everything fell apart. Her small crescent scar on her left wrist throbbed, a phantom ache. She gripped the edge of the door, knuckles white. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby cat, wound around her ankles, purring loudly, oblivious to the sudden tension that had filled the air. “What are you doing here, Lucien?” she managed, her voice steadier than she felt. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat. She narrowed her bright blue eyes, trying to read the unreadable expression on his face. He pushed off the frame, the movement fluid, predatory. He stepped across the threshold without an invitation, and Rory instinctively backed away, bumping into the overflowing bookshelf that lined the wall. Books teetered. Ptolemy, startled, darted under the sofa. Lucien took in the cramped flat, his gaze sweeping over the piles of scrolls, the open books on every surface, the jumble of Eva’s research notes. He always looked out of place here, too polished, too dangerous for the cozy chaos of Eva’s home above the curry house on Brick Lane. “I came to see you, Aurora,” he said, his eyes finally settling back on her. The directness of his stare made heat rise in her cheeks. He hadn’t called her Aurora in years. It was always Rory, or Laila when they’d played that twisted game of theirs. “I think you made that clear,” she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest defensively. “But *why*? We don’t exactly move in the same circles anymore, do we?” He took another step closer, and Rory held her ground, refusing to retreat further. She wouldn’t show weakness, not to him. Not now. “Circumstances have a way of bringing people together, Aurora.” “Or tearing them apart,” she countered, the words sharp, laced with old hurt. She remembered the last time they were this close, the feel of his hand in her hair, the scent of his expensive cologne, the taste of his lips. She pushed the memory down, hard. A flicker of something—regret? — crossed his face before it smoothed into that carefully blank mask he wore so well. “Indeed.” He gestured vaguely at the stacks of books. “Eva is not here, I presume?” “She’s out. Working.” Rory didn’t offer any more information. He didn’t need to know where Eva was, or what she was doing. He didn’t need to know anything about their lives anymore. Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words and unresolved feelings. The aroma of curry from the restaurant downstairs wafted up, a familiar comfort that suddenly felt alien in Lucien’s imposing presence. Rory wished she could just shut the door on him, pretend he’d never come, but his sheer presence in her space was a disruption she couldn’t ignore. “You look… tired,” he observed, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly as he took in her appearance: her shoulder-length black hair probably more dishevelled than usual, her bright blue eyes likely shadowed from lack of sleep. Delivery shifts for the Golden Empress had been long lately. “And you look exactly the same,” she shot back, a hint of bitterness in her tone. “Untouched by the world.” He inclined his head slightly. “Some of us have better ways of weathering the storms, Aurora.” “Or better ways of creating them, then disappearing when the lightning strikes.” The words were out before she could stop them, raw and cutting. It was a direct hit to the heart of their complicated past, to the way he had left her, wounded and alone, when she needed him most. Lucien flinched, a subtle tightening around his eyes, a ripple in his carefully composed facade. He reached out, his hand hovering near her arm, then dropped it. “That’s not fair, *cherie*.” “Oh? So me almost dying wasn’t fair either? Or you vanishing for months without a word when I was lost and terrified?” She kept her voice low, but the anger simmered beneath the surface, threatening to boil over. “Tell me, Lucien, what *is* fair in your world?” He took a deep breath, his chest expanding under the tailored suit. “I had my reasons, Aurora. Reasons I couldn’t explain then. Reasons that kept you safe.” “Safe?” she scoffed, a short, humorless laugh escaping her lips. “I nearly bled out in an alley, Lucien. Is that your version of safe?” The image of her own blood on the grimy pavement, the terror, the pain—it all flashed before her eyes. His black eye seemed to darken further, his amber one glinted. “I thought you were dead. I received… misinformation.” “And you didn’t bother to verify it?” she challenged, her voice rising now. “Just assumed the worst and washed your hands of me?” The accusation hung heavy in the air, a physical weight between them. “I was compromised. Watched. Any contact would have put you in more danger,” he insisted, his voice hardening, losing some of its earlier softness. “It was necessary.” “Necessary for whom?” she flung back, her arms falling to her sides. “Certainly not for me. I was alone, Lucien. Totally, completely alone. And I thought you were gone too.” The thought still sent a chill down her spine, a profound sense of abandonment that had taken months to overcome. He took another step, closing the distance between them until they were only inches apart. She could smell the familiar, subtle spice of his cologne, entwined with something else—something distinctly otherworldly, a faint scent of ozone and something ancient. Her body, despite her fury, inexplicably yearned towards him. “I never stopped looking for you, Aurora,” he murmured, his voice a low, raspy confession that sent shivers down her spine. “Not really. I had people. Watching. Keeping tabs. Ensuring you were truly safe, truly out of the mess I was dealing with.” She searched his eyes, trying to gauge the sincerity behind his words. Could she believe him? Could she trust him again, after everything? The thought was terrifying and alluring in equal measure. Her quick-thinking mind, usually so sharp, felt muddled, overwhelmed by his proximity. “It wasn’t enough,” she whispered, the anger draining out of her, replaced by a profound weariness. “It wasn’t enough, Lucien.” He raised his hand again, and this time, she didn’t flinch away as his fingers lightly grazed her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw. His touch was electric, a jolt that went straight through her, igniting old flames she’d tried so hard to extinguish. The small crescent scar on her left wrist burned, a connection to a past full of both pain and intoxicating passion. “I know,” he said, his voice raw, suddenly vulnerable. “And I am… truly sorry, Aurora. Genuinely sorry for the pain I caused you.” His thumb brushed over her lips, a feather-light touch that sent a shiver through her. Her breath hitched. She leaned into his touch, involuntarily, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment. The apology felt like a balm, a long-awaited acknowledgment of her suffering. But could an apology erase the scars? Could it mend what was broken? She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. “Why now, Lucien? After all this time, why come back now?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. He lowered his hand, though his eyes never left hers. “Because I need your help, Aurora.” The confession, stark and unexpected, hung in the air. Rory blinked. He needed *her* help? Lucien Moreau, the unshakeable fixer of London’s supernatural underworld, needed *her*? The thought was almost laughable, if not for the intense seriousness in his heterochromatic gaze. “My help?” she repeated, disbelief colouring her tone. “For what?” He stepped back then, breaking the intimate bubble they had created. The air immediately felt colder. “There are things… events converging. Things that require a certain kind of mind. A mind that thinks outside the prescribed lines.” He paused, looking around at the cluttered flat again, his gaze lingering on a particularly obscure tome Eva had left open. “A mind like yours, Aurora. Quick-witted. Resourceful. Unique.” The praise, even from him, felt hollow in the face of the hurt. “So, you abandon me, only to reappear when you need a problem solved? Is that what this is, Lucien? Am I just a tool to you now?” She felt the anger sparking again, hot and righteous. He shook his head slowly. “No, Aurora. Never a tool. You were… are… more than that. But this is urgent. Dangerous. And I genuinely believe you are the only one who can help me navigate it.” He watched her intently, his gaze unwavering, as if he could peel back the layers of her anger and see the part of her that still remembered their shared past, the thrill of working with him, the dangerous dance they used to do. He remembered her from when she’d been Laila, after all. He knew what she was capable of. Rory looked away, her gaze falling on Ptolemy, who had finally emerged from under the sofa and was now rubbing against Lucien’s expensive suit trousers, purring loudly. Even the cat, it seemed, was swayed by his charm. She took a deep breath, trying to clear her head. He was asking for her help. The thought of getting entangled in his world again sent a surge of both dread and a strange, undeniable excitement through her. The pre-law degree she’d abandoned, the quiet life she’d built for herself post-Evan—it all felt incredibly dull compared to the thrilling, terrifying chaos Lucien invariably brought. “I don’t know, Lucien,” she finally said, her voice soft but firm. “A lot has happened. I’m not that person anymore.” “Perhaps you are, Aurora,” he countered, a slight, knowing curve to his lips. “Perhaps you just needed the right catalyst to remember.” He extended his hand, palm up, an invitation. “What do you say? One last dance?” Rory looked at his hand, then back up at his expectant face, her heart thumping a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The temptation was strong, a siren song calling to the adventurous, thrill-seeking part of her she thought she’d buried. The part that thrived on danger and quick thinking. The part that had, against all odds, fallen for him. She considered the alternatives: more delivery shifts, more quiet nights above Silas’s bar, more trying to forget him. And then she looked at Lucien, standing there, a complex puzzle of a man, dangerous and compelling. And for the first time in a long time, the world felt a little less dull. Her gaze flickered to his heterochromatic eyes, then back to his outstretched hand. The small crescent scar on her wrist pulsed. She knew this was a mistake. She knew it would probably end in heartbreak or worse. But god, it was a tempting mistake. Slowly, inexorably, Rory reached out and placed her hand in his. His grip was firm, warm, and utterly familiar. The world tilted on its axis.