Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQKAW66TQJMJVEFGD4QD37

The knocking wasn’t the polite rap of a neighbor or the tentative shuffle of a delivery driver. It was a precise, rhythmic percussion—three sharp strikes, a pause, then two more. It was the sound of an authority that didn't yet exist in this hallway. Rory froze, her hand hovering over the spread of archival documents scattered across Eva’s kitchen table. The flat above the curry house on Brick Lane usually smelled of cumin and old paper, but tonight, the air felt thin, charged with a static that made the hair on her arms stand up. She looked at Ptolemy. The tabby cat, usually a lump of indifferent fur atop a stack of magical theory textbooks, was sitting bolt upright, ears swiveled toward the door, pupils blown wide into black saucers. "Alright," Rory muttered, forcing her breathing to steady. She checked the reflex hammer she kept tucked into her back pocket—habit, not practicality—and moved to the door. There were three deadbolts. Eva was paranoid, a trait Rory usually found endearing unless she was the one standing in the hallway while her heart hammered against her ribs. She slid back the top lock. Then the middle. Then the bottom. The metal groaned, a harsh sound in the quiet flat. She pulled the door open. The hallway was dim, lit only by the flickering fluorescent strip at the far end. Standing in the gloom, looking as if he’d just stepped out of a high-end tailor on Savile Row rather than the damp streets of East London, was Lucien. He wore a charcoal suit that was cut so perfectly it seemed to repel the wrinkles of the world. His platinum blond hair was slicked back, highlighting the sharp, angular architecture of his face. And then there were his eyes. The mismatched gaze—one warm amber, one void-like black—fixed on her with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. He didn’t smile. He held his ivory-handled cane loosely in his right hand, the silver ferrule catching the light. "Rory," he said. His voice was a low, melodic rumble that managed to vibrate in her chest even across the threshold. She gripped the edge of the door, her knuckles turning white. She forced her expression into something resembling cool indifference, though she knew he could hear the frantic rhythm of her pulse. A half-demon’s senses were annoyingly precise. "Lucien," she replied, her voice steadier than she felt. "If you’re looking for Eva, she’s out." "I am not looking for Eva." He shifted his weight, the movement fluid and predatory. He smelled like ozone and expensive cologne, a scent that dragged up memories she’d spent months trying to bury. Late nights in safe houses. The brush of a hand against her cheek. The sharp, stinging betrayal of him walking away without a backward glance. "Then you’re wasting your time," she started to close the door. He stopped it with the tip of his cane. The ivory handle pressed against the wood, an immovable object. He didn’t push; he just held it there, a silent request for entry. "Please," he said softly. The word sat heavily in the air. Lucien Moreau did not say 'please.' He brokered deals, he manipulated kings of the supernatural underworld, and he killed when necessary. He didn't beg for entry into a cramped flat above a curry house. Rory stared at the hand on the cane. Long, pale fingers. She remembered how those fingers felt intertwined with hers. She looked down at her own left wrist, hidden beneath the sleeve of her jumper, tracing the small crescent scar there with her thumb. She stepped back and opened the door wider. Lucien entered, bringing the cold London night with him. The moment he cleared the threshold, the already small flat seemed to shrink. He took up space, not just physically but with the gravitational pull of his presence. He closed the door behind him, clicking the latch with a deliberate precision. "Nice of you to drop in," Rory said, leaning back against the kitchen counter and crossing her arms. "No call, no text. Just breaking and entering." "I didn't break anything," Lucien said. He scanned the room, his eyes lingering on the towering piles of books and scrolls that threatened to topple over. "You haven't changed. Still burying yourself in work to avoid the real world." "And you’re still insufferable," she countered. "What do you want, Lucien? If Silas sent you—" "Silas doesn't know I'm here." He turned his attention back to her. The amber eye studied her face with a heat that made her skin flush, while the black eye seemed to strip away her defenses, looking right down to the bone. Ptolemy, deciding the intruder was not a threat, jumped down from the table and wound his way through Lucien’s legs. Lucien looked down, and for a fraction of a second, the hard line of his mouth softened. He crouched, the expensive fabric of his trousers stretching over his knees, and scratched the cat behind the ears. "You’re good with animals," Rory noted, watching him. "I always thought that was a trick. A demon thing." "Half-demon," he corrected gently, standing up. "And animals have the luxury of knowing exactly who they are. They don't lie to themselves." The double meaning hung in the air, sharp and jagged. Rory pushed off the counter. She walked over to the small kettle and filled it, needing something to do with her hands. "I’m not lying to myself. I’m living my life. Delivering takeout. Studying. Avoiding people who stab me in the back." "I didn't stab you," Lucien said. He was closer now, standing just near the small table cluttered with Eva’s research. "I left. There is a difference." "It felt the same," she said, slamming the kettle down a little too hard. "You didn't trust me. You decided what was best for me without asking. That’s not a partnership, Lucien. That’s management." He was silent for a moment. The sound of rain drumming against the windowpane filled the silence, along with the muffled bass of music from the bar down the street. "You were in danger," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "You are in danger. Being near me paints a target on your back. You know what I am. You know what my father’s realm would do to you if they thought you were a weakness." "I’m not a weakness," she snapped, turning to face him. "I’m the person who pulled your ass out of a fae circle in Mayfair. I’m the one who figured out the triangulation spell when your 'expert' contacts couldn't. I am not a damsel, and I am not your property to protect." She walked toward him, closing the distance. She had to look up to meet his eyes; he was five inches taller, but she refused to let him loom over her. She stood her ground, her chin lifted. "I know that," he said, his gaze locked on hers. The amber eye swirled with something that looked dangerously like regret. "That is why it was so difficult to leave." The confession knocked the breath out of her. Rory stared at him, searching for the lie, the manipulation, the angle. She saw nothing but the raw honesty etched into the lines of his face. He looked tired. It was a rare expression for Lucien Moreau. "Why are you here?" she asked again, the anger draining out of her, leaving only a hollow ache. Lucien sighed. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook. He placed it on the table among the chaos. "A collector in Soho came into possession of an artifact," he said. "A ledger. It predates the current treaties. It contains names. Old names. Including yours." Rory frowned. "Mine? I’m nobody. I’m a delivery girl from Cardiff." "Your mother’s line," Lucien corrected. "The Ellis bloodline. It’s older than you know, Rory. And it’s listed in this book as a debt unpaid. The collector is holding a private auction tomorrow night. If the wrong people buy that ledger, they won't see a delivery girl. They will see a leverage point. A way to control the ley lines of South Wales." Rory felt the blood drain from her face. She wrapped her arms around herself. "And you just happened to find this?" "I have contacts," he said evasively. "I bought the ledger." "You bought it?" "I bought it," he confirmed. "And I burned it." Rory blinked. "You burned an ancient supernatural ledger?" "Yes. But copies have already been made. The rumor is out. Your name is circulating in the underground." She sank down into the overstuffed armchair near the window, her legs suddenly feeling like jelly. "So, I’m back to square one. Running." "No," Lucien said. He moved closer, stopping just in front of her chair. He rested his hands on the curved ivory handle of his cane. "I am here because I intend to ensure that rumor dies. And I am here to tell you that I am not leaving your side until it does." Rory looked up at him. The fluorescent light from the hall caught the sharp angle of his jaw, the streak of platinum in his hair. He looked imposing, dangerous, and utterly, maddeningly beautiful. "You left," she whispered. "You can't just walk back in and play the bodyguard." "I know." He crouched down again, bringing himself to eye level. This close, she could see the tiny differences in his eyes—the gold flecks in the amber iris, the endless depth of the black one. "I cannot undo the last three months. I cannot take back the hurt I caused. But I am asking you to let me stand guard. Not as your owner, and not as your savior. As your ally." He reached out, his hand hovering near hers, but he didn't touch her. He waited. It was a tentative offering, a bridge across the chasm he had created. Rory looked at his hand, then at the crescent scar on her wrist. She remembered the night she got it—a clumsy fall off a wall as a child, but it felt symbolic now. Healing took time. It left marks. But eventually, you could use the hand again. "I work tomorrow," she said, her voice raspy. "Lunch shift at the Golden Empress. If you’re going to shadow me, you’re going to carry the heavy bags. And you’re going to pay for your own lunch." A corner of his mouth lifted, a genuine, crooked smile that transformed his face from austere to breathtaking. "I believe I can manage that, Ms. Carter." "And Lucien?" "Yes?" "Next time you visit," she said, leaning forward slightly, her knees brushing against his thigh, "don't use the cane to stop the door. It's rude." "Understood." The air in the flat was still thick with the past, with the weight of things unsaid and wounds not yet healed. But as the rain continued to fall outside, battering the windows of Brick Lane, the silence between them was no longer empty. It was full of the possibility of a beginning.