Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQK2ZF2F111PJ895FRQ8MF

A sharp rap at the door made Aurora’s heart hiccup in her chest. She froze mid-breath, a half-lunar scar tracing a cool line against her left wrist, as muffled bass thumped from Silas’s bar below. The streetlights painted her narrow hallway in streaks of orange and shadow; every nerve in her body bristled. She hadn’t expected visitors tonight. Not after months of careful distance, not after she’d unpicked their tangled past like a stubborn knot. Not him. She crossed to the door on silent feet, trading the cheap slippers she’d kicked off by the threshold for the thin padding of socks against cold floorboards. Outside, a sliver of tan wool coat and a slender cane handle peeked from the haze of the landing. The handle—a polished ivory skull—felt familiar, ominous. On a heartbeat, she recognized the posture: shoulder angled, weight centered perfectly, the blade inside that cane as concealed as the secrets he’d carried between them. “Rory,” he said, voice low and smooth, his French accent threading through London grit. “Open up.” She pressed a palm flat against the cool wood, leaned in close enough to catch the faint scent of his aftershave—vetiver and something darker, like old leather. Her stomach wound tight. She should ignore him. She should walk away, lock the door, never speak his name again. But her fingers trembled on the latch. The door swung open before she could decide. A tentative spring, and then he was in, stepping across the threshold as if he owned the place. She started to close it, caught the edge of his charcoal suit with her fingertips. He paused, cane softly thudding against the rug. “Give me fifteen minutes,” he said. His amber eye caught the hallway lamp’s gleam; the other—onyx black—remained half-shrouded. “I need your help.” Aurora’s throat went dry. She knew that tone. Calm, polite, utterly relentless. She’d seen it when he brokered deals in smoky rooms, sliding forged documents across tables to demons and warlocks who’d kill to keep those papers buried. She’d glimpsed it when he’d offered her assistance after she’d fled Evan’s violence, monied and indifferent to heartbreak. “No,” she whispered. She tugged the door shut anyway, but his hand blocked it. His cane tip pressed to the wood with a muted click. She blinked up at him, chest fluttering with anger and something older—something raw. “Rory.” His voice cracked, a flicker of unguarded strain. “Please.” Her palm burned where his fingers brushed, but she didn’t pull away. She clicked the deadbolt open and let him in, freeing herself from the sharp clasp of his hand. Air rushed back, scented of spilled ale and the faint singe of a last-minute cigarette from the bar below. He slid his coat off, hanging it on the chair by the door. She watched the linen fall, the charcoal fabric outlining his lean frame. He wore a crisp white shirt, dark trousers, shoes that shone beneath the hallway light. Always immaculate. Always the image of control. She stepped back to create distance. “Talk fast,” she said. “I don’t have time for—” “For old wounds?” He offered a half-smile. His amber eye softened for a brief second. “I’m sorry I left without warning.” The words landed like stones in her stomach. She crossed her arms, fingers grazing the scar on her wrist. The one he’d noticed months ago, when he’d brushed aside her sleeve to shake her hand, and she’d flinched at the memory. She hadn’t meant to flinch. She hadn’t meant to hurt. “I didn’t ask why,” he said quietly. “I should have.” She swallowed. She could taste metal in her mouth. “Why now?” He glanced at the battered coffee table, paper-stained and card-crumpled, then back at her. “I need representation,” he said. “Things have gotten… complicated.” She exhaled, harsh and ragged. “Of course they have.” He followed her gaze into the living room—over the narrow couch, the half-empty pizza box on the floor, the stack of law journals tossed on the windowsill where she studied by night. The electric hum from Silas’s bar seemed to pulse through the thin ceiling, like a heartbeat made of bass. He took a step forward. “I’ve… gotten in over my head,” he admitted, voice dropping. He set his cane against the wall and ran a hand through his platinum-blond hair. Strands fell across his forehead, and his contrasting eyes burned into hers. “A court case. Human court. Stakes are high.” Aurora’s pulse flipped. She’d left Pre-Law at Cardiff with a grade-A average, convinced she’d never use it. But she’d carried every textbook with her, a silent promise to keep the part of herself Evan hadn’t broken. Her mind ticked through filing deadlines, statute revisions, procedural steps. Her jaw worked. “Why me?” she asked. He held her gaze, amber and black both recruiting her. “Because you’re brilliant,” he said. “And because—because I trust you. Rory.” Her breath stuttered. She forced her arms down. The air between them thickened, charged with memories of stolen afternoons in café backrooms, of whispered jokes in street shadows. She remembered the night he’d kissed her wrist, tracing that scar with a fingertip, promising to protect her. She remembered when he’d disappeared before dawn, leaving a note that said he had no choice. “He sounded angry when he left,” she said, voice quiet. “You didn’t—” He winced, a flicker of guilt. “I was protecting you.” “By vanishing without a word?” He closed the distance between them until their shoulders almost met. His gaze dropped to her scar. “I never meant to scare you.” Her heart thudded against her ribs. “Then why did you?” He reached out, brushing his knuckles along the crescent line. The contact sent a jolt through her. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she turned her palm so his thumb could rest against the smooth skin. She saw something vulnerable in his black eye, as if the demon blood in his veins trembled at this gentle touch. “I made mistakes,” he said. “But I need you now. More than anything.” Silence spread, thick as velvet. The bar’s music throbbed below. Aurora closed her eyes for a moment, tasting the electricity in the air. She should shut the door on him. She should refuse. He’d left once. He could do it again. But she remembered the way she’d lain awake nights, tracing the shape of his cane in dreams, wishing she’d held on tighter. She remembered the ache in her chest when she realized she still loved him. She opened her eyes. He was watching her, hope shining in one eye, regret in the other. The scar on her wrist tingled under his touch. She slipped her hand free, stepping backward to lean against the arm of the sofa. “I’ll help,” she said, voice trembling. “But after this, you need to explain everything.” His relief was almost luminous. He offered her a crooked grin—half­ charm, half­ vulnerability. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a slim file. “Come sit,” he said. “And listen to the whole story.” She braced both hands on her hips, studying him in the muted glow of the lamplight. Every inch of her told her to run. But every part of her heart tightened at the sight of him here, standing in her hallway, a living promise of danger and desire. “All right, Frenchman,” she said, pushing off the sofa and gesturing to the battered armchair. “Tell me.” He sank into the chair, folded his cane across his lap, and looked up at her with that fracturing mix of confidence and need. In the hush of her flat, with her books and law tomes stacked like silent witnesses, Aurora Carter felt every old ache and spark flicker back to life. As he began to speak, she sat forward, fingers on her notepad, mind already racing through legal codes—but beneath it all, deep in her chest, something shifted. She was tangled in him again, but this time she wouldn’t let go so easily. And for the first time since he’d walked away, she didn’t want to.