Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQNVNGF17X19D6Z22247QZ

Rory jumped at the knock on the door, spilling lukewarm tea on her worn jeans. Ptolemy, curled up on a stack of grimoires, twitched an ear but didn't stir. No one ever knocked on Eva’s flat door. People usually just yelled up from the street, or, in Eva's case, materialized with a blast of wind and the scent of ozone. She padded across the cluttered living room, a faint sense of unease prickling her skin. The three deadbolts made a satisfying series of thunks as she unfastened them. Pulling the door open, she braced herself for… what, exactly? A wrong delivery? Eva's latest arcane disaster? It wasn't either. “Evening, *mon chou*.” Lucien Moreau stood on the landing, framed by the pale glow of the stairwell light. His platinum blond hair was slicked back, gleaming, and he wore a charcoal suit that looked like it had been poured onto him. The ivory-handled cane rested in his grasp, a familiar, unsettling presence. One amber eye met her bright blue, the other a fathomless black. No hint of surprise crossed his aristocratic features, only that maddeningly knowing smirk. Rory’s breath hitched. Four months. Four months since she’d seen him, since she’d felt the burn of his touch, since she’d walked away from the complicated, dangerous game they were playing. Her heart, a traitorous thing, pounded against her ribs. “Lucien.” Her voice was flat, betraying none of the chaos swirling inside her. “What are you doing here?” He leaned against the doorframe, radiating an arrogant ease that made her want to slam the door in his face. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?” His gaze lingered on her, slow and deliberate, and she felt a blush creep up her neck. Had he always looked at her like that? Like he saw straight through her carefully constructed defenses? “We’re not friends,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended. She remembered the nights they’d spent tangled together, the whispered secrets, the undeniable heat. Friends didn’t share that kind of intimacy. Friends didn’t leave each other feeling gutted and confused. His smile widened, a flash of white in the dim light. “Perhaps ‘acquaintances with a shared history’ is more accurate, then.” He pushed off the frame, taking a step closer, and the faint scent of expensive cologne and something subtly… demonic… reached her. It was a familiar scent, one that had haunted her dreams for weeks. She held her ground, arms crossed over her chest. “Whatever you want to call it, it doesn’t explain why you’re on Eva’s doorstep.” “Ah, Eva.” He glanced pointedly at the stacks of books and scrolls visible behind her. “Always the curator of the occult, our dear Eva. Tell me, is Ptolemy still shedding on the *Cochranes*?” The casual mention of Eva’s cat and specific texts was a deliberate jab, a reminder of how intimately he knew her life, her friends, her safe spaces. It rankled. “She’s not here,” Rory said, ignoring the question. “And neither, I imagine, is whatever you’re looking for.” Lucien raised an eyebrow. “Such hostility, *chérie*. Did I offend you with my absence?” The directness of the question, the casual way he suggested her hurt, struck a nerve. Rory clenched her jaw. “You left, Lucien. You didn’t disappear. You made a choice.” “And you, Aurora, made yours. We both have our reasons.” He paused, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly. “Though I admit, I found myself… longing for your quick wit.” It was flattery, pure and simple, and it shouldn’t have affected her. But it did. The memory of their sharp, exhilarating banter, their arguments that always ended in laughter or something far more intense, flooded her. “Don’t,” she warned, her voice low. “Don’t try to charm your way in, Lucien. It won’t work.” “It has before,” he murmured, his eyes twinkling. He took another step, closing the distance between them. He was so close she could feel the faint warmth radiating from him, see the flecks of gold in his amber eye. “And I assure you, charm is not my primary objective tonight.” “Then what is?” She didn't back away. A part of her, the reckless part, craved this proximity, this dangerous dance. The small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a childhood souvenir, felt a phantom throb, a quiet echo of past pains, past mistakes. She wasn't going to make another. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial tone. “I require your unique set of skills, Aurora Carter. It would seem certain… individuals… are under the impression that you are, in fact, still working for me.” Rory stared at him, bewildered. “What? No. I haven’t heard from you in months. I haven’t done anything for you.” “Precisely.” He straightened up, a hint of exasperation in his elegant features. “Which has caused a rather… unfortunate misunderstanding. A group of particularly dim-witted warlocks believes you absconded with a rather valuable artifact they commissioned me to retrieve. An artifact, I might add, that I *did* retrieve, and which is currently in their possession.” “And they think I stole it from them?” Rory scoffed. “That’s ridiculous. Even for warlocks.” “Indeed.” Lucien sighed, a theatrical gesture. “They suspect I used you as a distraction, a scapegoat, to keep it for myself. And they are, shall we say, rather *unpleasant* when they feel cheated.” “So what does this have to do with me? Tell them you didn’t.” “I have. Repeatedly. They remain unconvinced. They want proof. They want to see you, alive and well, ideally with the phantom artifact in your hands, explaining that you never had it in the first place.” Rory pinched the bridge of her nose. This was just like him, dragging her into his messy supernatural world without a second thought. “You want me to lie for you?” “A white lie, for the sake of international magical relations. And your continued well-being. These gentlemen are not known for their patience. Or their mercy.” “And if I say no?” He smiled, a chilling edge to it this time. “Then I will, of course, inform them of your unfortunate demise. A tragic accident, perhaps. And I will mourn you appropriately.” His eyes, amber and black, gleamed with genuine conviction, or a very good imitation of it. Rory knew he wasn't entirely bluffing. He wouldn’t *kill* her, she didn't think, but he wouldn’t hesitate to toss her into a complicated and dangerous situation if it suited his purposes. And she’d hate to be on the wrong side of his “mourning.” Besides, the idea of being falsely accused, even by idiotic warlocks, chafed at her innate sense of fairness. “Fine,” she bit out. “But this is a one-time thing, Lucien. And you owe me.” “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Aurora.” He pushed past her, stepping into the flat, and her senses were immediately overwhelmed by his presence. The subtle scent, the confident stride, the sheer *force* of him. Ptolemy, startled by the intrusion, finally uncurled himself from the books, stretching languidly before fixing Lucien with a baleful glare. Lucien paused, offering the tabby a small bow. “Ptolemy, my old adversary. Still guarding the secrets of the ancients, I see.” Rory watched him, a knot tightening in her stomach. He was here. In Eva’s flat. In her space. And the familiar ache of unresolved feelings, of attraction and resentment, pulsed beneath her skin. This was going to be a long night.