Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQR3ZPYR0PFGSYX2QDFD0A

The door swung open on the third deadbolt, and Rory found herself staring up at Lucien Moreau. He stood framed in the doorway of Eva's flat, one hand resting on the ivory handle of his cane, the other still on the door itself. His heterochromatic eyes — that unnerving amber-and-black combination — swept over her face with the same careful assessment she remembered from six months ago. His platinum hair was slicked back as always, not a strand out of place despite the late hour. The charcoal suit he wore looked like it cost more than her entire wardrobe. "Aurora." His voice carried that faint French lilt that made her name sound like something precious. "What are you doing here?" The words came out sharper than she intended. She'd been running deliveries for the Golden Empress all evening and was exhausted, her feet aching, her delivery bag still slung across her chest. The last thing she'd expected was to come back to Eva's place to find Lucien bloody Moreau waiting for her. "May I come in?" He gestured with his cane toward the interior of the flat. "You're already in." She pushed past him, deliberately brushing his shoulder as she moved into the cramped space. Books and scrolls covered every available surface — the coffee table, the kitchen counter, even stacked in precarious towers along the baseboards. Ptolemy, Eva's tabby cat, watched them both from his perch atop a stack of grimoires. She heard the door close behind her. The sound of all three deadbolts sliding home echoed in the small space. "Where's Eva?" Lucien asked. Rory dropped her delivery bag onto the only clear spot on the couch and turned to face him. "Research trip. Cambridge. She'll be back Sunday." She crossed her arms. "You didn't answer my question." "I came to see you." "That's not an answer either." A muscle twitched in his jaw. It was the only sign that her hostility was landing. Lucien Moreau, the information broker, the fixer, the man who moved through London's supernatural underworld like he owned it — he never showed more than he wanted to show. Except for that one night. Except for those few hours when they'd both let their guards down and— No. She wasn't going there. "You have been avoiding my calls," he said. "I haven't been avoiding anything. I've been busy." "For six months?" "Yes." He took a step closer. In the cramped flat, it brought him near enough that she could smell his cologne — something expensive and woodsy that reminded her of dark forests and dangerous promises. "Do not insult my intelligence, chérie. I know avoidance when I see it." "Don't call me that." The endearment stung more than it should have. She turned away, busying herself with removing her jacket. Her hands were steady, at least. That was something. "Look, whatever you need, whatever information you're after, Eva's the one you want to talk to. I'm just the delivery girl who happens to crash here sometimes." "I do not need information." "Everyone needs something from you, Lucien. That's how you operate. That's your whole—" She gestured vaguely with one hand, struggling for words. "Your whole thing." "My thing." His tone was dry, almost amused. She whirled back to face him. "Yes. Your thing. You broker deals, you trade secrets, you show up in people's lives when you want something from them. So what is it? What do you want?" The amusement faded from his face. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, carefully controlled. "An apology." That stopped her cold. "What?" "You left. No explanation, no goodbye. You simply vanished." He moved closer again, and this time she held her ground. His mismatched eyes searched her face. "I searched for you. For weeks, Aurora. I called in favors I could not afford to spend. I thought something had happened to you. I thought—" He stopped himself, jaw tightening. Guilt twisted in her stomach. She'd known he would look for her. Part of her had counted on it. But she hadn't let herself think about what that searching might have cost him. Men like Lucien didn't show weakness, didn't reveal that they cared. In his world, caring was currency that could be used against you. "I needed space," she said finally. "Space." The word came out flat. "Is that truly all you have to say?" "What do you want me to say?" The exhaustion of the evening was catching up with her, mixing with older, more complicated feelings. "That I'm sorry? Fine. I'm sorry. I should have called, I should have—" She dragged a hand through her black hair, disrupting the practical ponytail she'd tied it in for deliveries. "I should have handled it better." "Why did you leave?" Because I was falling for you, she thought. Because for the first time since Evan, I felt something real, and it terrified me. Because you're half-demon and I'm just some girl from Cardiff who barely understands the world you move through. Because I knew I'd get hurt. "It was getting complicated," she said instead. "Complicated." He repeated the word like it was foreign to him. Then, to her surprise, he laughed — a short, bitter sound. "Of course. God forbid things become complicated." "Says the man whose entire life is complicated." "That is different." "How?" "Because I do not run from it." The words were sharp, cutting. They hung in the air between them. Ptolemy meowed from his perch, breaking the tension. Rory looked away first, her bright blue eyes tracking to the window where London's lights blurred in the darkness beyond. The crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist caught the lamplight as she unconsciously rubbed it — an old habit from childhood, a nervous tell Lucien had learned to read months ago. "You're scared," he said, his voice softer now. "I'm not—" "You are." He moved close enough that she could feel the heat of him, though he didn't touch her. His cane clicked softly against the worn floorboards. "And I understand that. After what you told me about your ex, about Evan—" "Don't." The word came out sharp, defensive. "I am not him, Aurora." "I know that." "Do you?" He reached up slowly, giving her time to pull away, and touched her chin with careful fingers, turning her face toward his. Those eyes — amber and black, human and demon — studied her with an intensity that made her breath catch. "Because from where I stand, it seems you have decided I am guilty of crimes I have not committed. You have tried, convicted, and sentenced me without trial." "That's not—" But the words died in her throat because there was truth in what he said. She'd run before he could hurt her, before things could fall apart the way they had with Evan. Preemptive defense. "I miss you," Lucien said quietly. The admission seemed to cost him something. His carefully constructed armor had cracks in it, and through those cracks she could see the truth of what they'd had, what they might still have. "These six months have been — " He paused, searching for words. "Interminable." Her heart hammered against her ribs. She should step back. She should ask him to leave. She should protect herself because that's what survivors did — they learned, they adapted, they built walls. But she was so tired of walls. "Lucien—" "I am not asking for promises," he interrupted. "I am not asking for anything you are not ready to give. But I am asking — no, I am begging — do not simply vanish again. If you truly want nothing to do with me, tell me so. I will accept it. But give me that much, at least. Give me the truth." She looked up at him, at this impossible man who was half-demon and half-human and somehow completely himself. She thought about six months of deliberate silence, of unanswered calls, of convincing herself that forgetting was better than feeling. "I don't want nothing to do with you," she whispered. "That's the problem." Something shifted in his expression — relief, hope, something tender and dangerous all at once. His thumb brushed along her jaw, a question. "Then what do you want, chérie?" This time, she didn't correct him.