Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQNS7AADMTDVA8BTYCCTC9

The deadbolts clicked open one by one, each metallic sound echoing in the narrow hallway. Aurora Carter paused, her hand resting on the doorknob, taking a steadying breath before pulling it open. The familiar scent of old books, takeaway curry, and something distinctly Eva—jasmine tea and lavender—wafted out to greet her. But it wasn't Eva standing in the doorway. Rory's breath caught, her fingers tightening around the brown paper bag containing leftover dumplings from the Golden Empress. Lucien Moreau leaned against the doorframe of her best friend's flat, looking as out of place as a crow in a dovecote yet somehow entirely at home. His tailored charcoal suit was immaculate, the ivory handle of his cane glinting in the dim hallway light. One eye, the color of polished amber, regarded her with mild amusement; the other, deep black, held something more complicated. "Miss Carter," he drawled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated somewhere in her chest. "Or should I call you Aurora today?" "Rory," she corrected automatically, her voice sharper than intended. "What are you doing here, Lucien? Eva's not home." His lips curved into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm aware. I was waiting for you." The audacity of it made her straighten her shoulders. She'd avoided him for three months—three months of carefully planned routes, of declining invitations Eva swore weren't from him, of pretending the memory of his hands on her skin didn't still wake her in the middle of the night. And here he was, casually occupying her best friend's space like he belonged there. "Waiting for me?" Rory's bright blue eyes narrowed. "How did you even know I'd be here?" Lucien tilted his head, his platinum-blond hair catching the light. "I know many things, Rory. It's rather my profession." He stepped aside, gesturing with his free hand for her to enter. "Shall we? I'd rather not have this conversation in the hallway where Mrs. Sharma can hear every word from two doors down." Reluctantly, Rory stepped past him into the familiar chaos of Eva's flat. Books teetered in precarious towers on every available surface, scrolls half-unrolled across the coffee table, and research notes covered the floor as if Eva had been conducting some elaborate ritual. Ptolemy, Eva's tabby cat, lifted his head from where he'd been sleeping on a stack of ancient-looking texts, his green eyes narrowing at Lucien before dismissing him entirely and focusing on Rory with a demanding meow. "Hello, Ptol," she murmured, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. The cat arched into her touch, purring loudly. Lucien closed the door, the three deadbolts sliding home with finality that made Rory's stomach clench. "Eva's cat always did have better taste than its owner." Rory straightened up, turning to face him fully. "Why are you here, Lucien? Really?" The amusement faded from his expression, replaced by something more intense. "We need to talk." "We talked plenty three months ago," she countered, setting the dumplings on the only clear corner of the kitchen counter. "Or have you forgotten how that conversation ended?" "I haven't forgotten anything about that night, Rory," he said, his voice dropping lower. He moved closer, the sound of his cane on the floorboards the only thing breaking the silence in the flat. "Unlike you, who seems to have perfected the art of avoidance." "I wasn't avoiding you," she lied, crossing her arms over her chest. "I've been busy. Work, you know. Delivering takeout doesn't pay itself." Lucien's heterochromatic eyes fixed on her, seeing right through the pretense. "Yes, your noble profession as a delivery person. Tell me, is that why you moved out of your flat above Silas' bar without a word? Or why you refuse to answer my calls?" Rory flinched at the bitterness in his tone. She hadn't realized he'd known about her move. "It wasn't about you." "Wasn't it?" He took another step closer, invading her personal space. The familiar scent of him—sandalwood and something darker, wilder—made her head swim. "Three months, Rory. Three months without a word. After everything." "After you used me for information about the demon clans operating in London," she shot back, the hurt she'd been carrying bubbling to the surface. "After you pretended to care about me just to get what you needed." "I didn't pretend anything," he said, his voice roughening. "The information was a bonus, not the objective." "Then what was the objective?" she challenged, looking up at him. "A quick fling with someone you consider amusingly mortal? Something to pass the time between your supernatural dealings?" Lucien's jaw tightened. "You know that's not true." "Do I?" Rory's voice cracked despite her efforts to keep it steady. "Because all I know is that I woke up alone after you got what you wanted, and suddenly you were too busy to return my calls." He reached for her then, his fingers closing around her wrist. Rory flinched, but didn't pull away. The small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist seemed to tingle where his skin met hers. "I had business," he said, his voice softer now. "Business that couldn't wait. Business that could have gotten you killed if you'd been involved." "And keeping me in the dark was better?" she demanded. "Treating me like I'm too fragile to handle your world?" Lucien's thumb stroked the inside of her wrist, sending unwelcome shivers up her arm. "I was trying to protect you, Rory. Something I seem to fail at repeatedly where you're concerned." The vulnerability in his expression disarmed her. For a moment, she saw past the carefully constructed facade of the information broker, the fixer, the half-demon who moved through London's supernatural underworld like he owned it. She saw the man who had held her when she woke crying from nightmares about her ex, who had listened patiently as she raged against her father's expectations, who had made her laugh until her sides hurt. "Protect me or protect yourself?" she whispered. "Both," he admitted, his amber eye blazing with emotion while his black one seemed to see right through to her soul. "I have enemies, Rory. Dangerous enemies who wouldn't hesitate to use you to get to me." Rory looked down at where his hand still held her wrist. "I can take care of myself." "I know," he said, his voice barely above a murmur. "That's what makes this so impossible." When she looked up again, his face was closer than she'd realized. She could see the faint lines around his eyes, the slight tremor in his hand that he tried so hard to hide. The attraction that had drawn them together in the first place sparked to life again, undeniable and dangerous. "Don't," she whispered, but she wasn't sure if she was telling him or herself. Lucien leaned in, his lips hovering just inches from hers. "Don't what, Rory? Don't remind you how much you want this? How much you want me?" She should push him away. She should tell him to leave and never come back. She should protect herself the way he claimed he was trying to protect her. Instead, she closed the distance between them, her lips meeting his in a collision of hunger, hurt, and longing. His hand slid from her wrist to the small of her back, pulling her flush against him as the kiss deepened. Three months of separation melted away in the heat of that moment, leaving only the raw need that had been simmering beneath the surface all along. When they finally broke apart, breathless, Lucien rested his forehead against hers. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "For how I left things. For not explaining." Rory closed her eyes, absorbing the warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his breathing. "You could have trusted me." "I do trust you," he said, pulling back slightly to look at her. "More than anyone. That's precisely why I stayed away." She reached up, tracing the line of his jaw with her fingertips. "What changed?" "Everything." He caught her hand in his, pressing a kiss to her palm. "Nothing. I couldn't stay away any longer." In the corner of the room, Ptolemy the cat meowed loudly, as if reminding them of their audience. Rory laughed, the sound breaking the tension that had been hanging between them. "Eva's going to kill us if she comes home and finds you here," she said, though she made no move to step away from him. Lucien smiled, a genuine smile that transformed his face. "Then I suppose I'll have to make myself scarce before she returns." He paused, his expression growing serious again. "But this conversation isn't over, Rory." "I know," she said softly. "But maybe next time we could have it somewhere with fewer ancient texts and curious cats?" "Anywhere you want," he promised, leaning in for one more brief kiss. "Just as long as you don't disappear on me again." Rory considered this, the logical part of her brain screaming that this was a terrible idea, that getting involved with a half-demon information broker was asking for trouble. But as she looked into his mismatched eyes, she saw something worth the risk. "Next time," she agreed, and for the first time in three months, the possibility felt less like a threat and more like a promise.