Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQRPWHN5G6N4WR3SM9SVNN

The knock was not a knock. It was three precise, rhythmic taps against the timber of Eva’s front door—*thud, pause, thud*—followed by a silence that stretched uncomfortably long. Rory recognized the cadence immediately, a language she hadn’t spoken in months but had spent every night dreaming in. She stood frozen in the center of the living room, the spine of a heavy textbook between her palms. The air in the flat was stale, heavy with the lingering scent of dust and the ghostly aroma of cardamom from the curry house below. She looked around the cramped, book-strewn room. Every surface was claimed. The sofa was a fortress of down pillows; the coffee table was a barricade of scrolls and research notes. She felt naked here, without Evan, without the routine of her old life, and suddenly, terribly exposed. She looked at the peephole, her breath hitching in her throat. A film of condensation blurred the view, but she pressed her eye against the glass regardless. Lucien Moreau. Standing there, shoulders squared against the unrelenting London rain, looking less like a man out for a walk and more like a predator stalking a particularly agreeable gazelle. He was a vision of impenetrable gray in a city of slate and steel, his tailored charcoal suit perfectly dry. Rory didn’t breathe. For a long moment, she debated chain-locking the deadbolts, pretending she wasn't home, retreating deeper into the stacks of Eva’s encyclopedias. But she knew him. She knew the way he held himself, the way he never entered a room without intending to stay until the sun rose. With a trembling hand, she undid the first of the three deadbolts. Then the second. The metal grinding gave her a strange sort of satisfaction, a slow release of tension she hadn't known she was holding. She opened the door just an inch. Lucien didn't shift his weight. His heterochromatic eyes—one a burning, molten amber, the other a deep, void black—instantly locked onto hers. "Rory." His voice was a low rumble, velvety and familiar in a way that twisted her insides. He wasn't wearing a coat, yet he smelled of ozone and expensive French cologne, a scent that had once felt like a warm blanket around her shoulders and now felt like a potential collar. "Lucien," she managed, keeping her hand on the wood. "It’s late." "Is it?" The corner of his mouth twitched, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He reached into his jacket pocket, his movement fluid and predatory. Rory’s heart hammered against her ribs. *The cane,* she thought. *He always carries that cane.* "Or is it simply that you have been avoiding my calls?" "You know I have a job in the morning." "And a hatred of dark chocolate and silence." He stepped closer, invading her personal space with the terrifying elegance of a wave breaking on a shore. The door clicked shut behind him with a final, locking sound. "I don't suppose Ptolemy is awake to scare me off." The tabby cat, who had been asleep on the armchair, opened one eye, twitched a tail, and went back to sleep. Rory stared at Lucien, her hand still gripping the doorframe. "How did you get in? I didn't leave a window unlocked." "The window," he said lightly, though his smile didn't reach his eyes either. "is actually quite drafty for a flat above a curry house, wouldn't you agree? It implies the latch needs attention. Since I am an expert in all things needing attention." "You climbed three floors?" She stepped back, her spine hitting the wall. The flat was small, and he filled it, radiating a heat that had nothing to do with the radiator. "I am much more than I appear on paper, Carter." His gaze dropped to her left wrist, where the fabric of her sleep shirt had pulled back to reveal the small, crescent-shaped scar. He watched it for a second—a flash of recognition and something darker, possessive. Then his eyes lifted back to hers, intense and searching. "Are you alright?" "Am I?" She laughed, a short, brittle sound. "I'm living above a restaurant in Brick Lane, Lucien. I haven't been 'alright' since I left Marseille." She turned away, walking past him into the cramped kitchenette. She needed space, a cup of tea, a reason for this absurd apparition. "What do you want? You didn't come all this way to discuss the plumbing." He followed her, the soft click of his shoes the only sound on the hardwood floor. He stood by the narrow counter, watching her with a patience that unnerved her. "I came to see if you were alive." The words were blunt, stripped of the smooth polish that usually cloaked his intellect. Rory froze, her hand hovering over the kettle. "That’s a bold claim for someone who broke my heart." The memory washed over her—Evan’s face, the anger, the fear—but it was Lucien’s face that haunted her dreams now. His betrayal, or rather, his lie-by-omission. He had known about Evan. He had known about the danger, and he had let her walk into it. "Your heart?" He took a slow step toward her. "I broke no heart, Rory. I chose not to interfere in a game I could not win." "And the next time I needed saving, I saved myself." She turned to face him, her breath hitching. "Until you showed up. Then I was right back to being the damsel in distress." "You were never a damsel." His voice dropped, becoming harsher, rougher. He leaned against the counter, forcing her to look up at him. He was so tall, looming over her, blocking out the dim glow of the streetlamp outside. His platinum hair was slicked back, a stark contrast to the chaotic dark curls of her own hair, though they both shared a similar set of features. He was her mirror, made of darker stuff. "I am sorry I didn't come sooner. It haunts me more than you know." The damper in Rory’s chest gave way. It was the only place for the water to go. She looked at his hands—long fingers, strong, resting lightly on the edge of the counter. "You should have come." "I had to ensure you were safe before I risked putting my face in the crosshairs." He reached out, his gaze locking onto her. "But I see now that safety was never the point." "No," she whispered. The admission tasted like ash on her tongue. She wanted to step away, to put physical distance between them, but her legs felt rooted to the floor. "The point was always *you*." Lucien closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, a shutter dropping over the amber light of his left eye. When he opened them again, the gentleness was gone, replaced by a fierce, simmering intensity. "And now that you’ve said it," he said, "I cannot leave. Not until I know for certain that you won't walk back into the fire." "You think I’ll do it again?" "I know you," he said simply. He reached out, his fingers brushing the hair back from her face. His touch was cool, dry, and electric. He didn't touch the scar, though his fingers lingered near the pulse at her neck. "You are smart, Rory. You are brave. But you are also drawn to the beautiful tragedies." "That’s a terrible way to describe me." "It is the truth." He stepped closer, his hips nearly brushing hers. The threat of the cane was a constant undercurrent in his posture, but the heat radiating from him was overwhelming. He lowered his voice, and the entire room seemed to shrink, contracting around the two of them. "And you are lonely." "Lucien—" She tried to step back, but he caught her chin with his thumb, halting her retreat. His grip wasn't painful, but it was absolute. "I can smell the dust on your clothes," he murmured. "I can smell the fear on you. And I can smell the forgiveness you are dying to offer me." "Does the Frenchman have a crystal ball?" She challenged him, her voice trembling. "Only the eyes of a demon," he replied. "They see everything." He leaned in then, his mouth hovering inches from hers. It wasn't a question. It was a proposition cloaked in historical baggage. Rory looked into the black abyss of his right eye and the molten gold of his left, searching for a trap, a lie, a reason to run. She found only a desperate need that mirrored her own. She closed her eyes, tilting her head just enough to accept what he offered. His lips were rough, tasting of rain and chocolate, and they were the only sound she could hear over the drumming of her own heart. He didn't kiss her softly; he kissed her like a man who had been starving for a decade, a clash of teeth and tongues that promised a world of chaos and passion. Outside, a siren wailed in the distance, a distant reminder of the London streets, but in this tiny room above the curry house, there was only the weight of his body, the sharp scent of his cologne, and the bitter-sweet certainty that they were both broken, and that they were exactly what the other needed to feel whole again.