Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQS28CQ001ABKZ36DG7R2E

Aurora Carter’s fingers hovered above the chipped brass latch of Eva’s front door, the late-afternoon light slanting through the single dusty pane and illuminating motes that danced like motes of memory in her mind. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby cat, slunk beneath her legs, tail twitching, as if warning her of the intruder before she even heard the knock—a single, firm rap that vibrated through the three deadbolts on the oak door. She stared at the spot where shadow pooled, her heart ticking faster than it had in months. She glanced back at the cluttered hallway: stacks of leather-bound journals, scrawled maps curling at the edges, candles half-burned in iron holders. In the narrow vestibule, a rolled parchment spilled onto the floor like a secret she’d been too afraid to open. She’d come here to help Eva catalog arcane texts, to flee the memory of another flat, another man pushing too hard, too fast. She’d thought London was her fresh start. She heard the knock again, more insistent. Something in the quickness of it made her chest tighten. Her thumb brushed the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist as she took a breath, as though touching the memory of that childhood accident could steel her now. She undid the top bolt, then the middle. Ptolemy’s eyes, wide pale gold disks, followed her every movement. She waited an extra heartbeat—half a prayer—then turned the knob and pushed. The door swung inward. The hallway filled with the scent of damp pavement and something faintly exotic—bitter-wood smoke and a metallic undertone. He stood there in the gloom, lean as a coiled reed: slicked-back platinum hair gleaming like moonlight on steel, tailored charcoal suit fitted so precisely it might have been woven to his shape. He held an ivory-handled cane in his left hand, tipping it casually so the slender blade concealed within it caught the light. One eye, amber and liquid in its warmth, studied her through a veil of calm; the other, deep obsidian, reflected the dwindling day. Lucien Moreau. Aurora’s heart lurched. She’d half-frozen—an echo of every moment they’d shared and every moment he’d walked away. Beneath the doorway, the storm of memory thrashed against her ribs, each beat a warning: Don’t let him in. He tilted his head, his lips curving in a faint, rueful smile. “Rory.” His voice was silk and shadows, familiar and yet sharpened in the months they’d been apart. He stepped forward, and the door’s frame held him like a picture come to life. Ptolemy hissed low in her throat, hair on end, as Lucien’s amber eye narrowed, acknowledging the cat’s distrust. Aurora swallowed. “You shouldn’t be here.” His hand dropped from the cane’s handle. He held up empty palms, a gesture of truce. “I know. But I had to see you.” She pressed her shoulder against the door, just enough to remind him he wasn’t welcome. “You had a damned good reason last time.” He lifted his chin. “I was wrong. It wasn’t—” He faltered, as if the apology lodged in his throat. “I never meant to hurt you.” A slow tightness coiled in her belly at those words. Hurt was exactly the word. She’d felt it in the hollow between her ribs, cold and relentless. She glanced down at her wrist, at the ghost of that childhood scar, as if it bound her to vulnerability she despised. “Then why are you here now?” He met her gaze, amber and black flashing with urgency. “I need your help.” That simple confession cracked the door further. She shook her head, flicked her hair back. Black strands swung like dark confessions. “Your kind of help always comes with strings attached.” He exhaled, a sound like regret spilling out. “Not this time. There’s something coming through the Veil. Something I can’t handle alone.” He paused, then added softly, “And I can’t do any of it without you.” She bristled. “Why not me? Because I’m human and mortal?” The candlelight in the hallway flickered, casting grotesque shadows over his sharp cheekbones. “Because you’re brilliant. You see things I miss. And you care when others don’t.” Care. That word sounded like a confession. Aurora’s pulse hammered. She pressed her lips together. The instinct to slam the door was desperate—but the promise in his gaze, the raw vulnerability he’d barely let show, unsettled her more than anger. She could smell the faint trace of expensive aftershave—bergamot and something darker, ancient. It made her dizzy. Before she could find the words to refuse, Ptolemy brushed around her ankles and wound between Lucien’s legs. The cat’s purring thrummed against his cane. Lucien crouched, one careful step, hand extended. “Easy, Ptolemy.” The cat sniffed him and then, with feline indifference, rubbed his head against Lucien’s palm. Lucien looked up at Aurora, that odd pair of eyes caressing her with equal parts relief and apology. She opened the door wider. She hated herself for it, hated the way her breath caught. “Fine,” she said, voice tight. “You can come in. But I’m not making coffee.” He nodded once, a soldier acknowledging impossible orders, then stepped over the threshold. The door swung fully open, and she snagged it against a stopper. She leaned her shoulder into the frame, hands crossed over her chest, as if to ward off any more of his needs. Inside, sunlight slanted across overflowing shelves, glinting off a half-melted stub of blue candle. Scrolls perched precariously atop leather tomes inscribed with runes. Every surface bore the weight of Eva’s relentless research. Ptolemy leapt onto a stack of books by the door, tail flicking, watching Lucien with cautious green eyes. Lucien set his cane against the wall and turned to her, the hem of his coat brushing a pile of vellum. “I’m sorry I disappeared.” His amber eye darkened. “I should have told you what was happening in Marseille—about my father, about Avaros.” A tremor slid through Aurora. The realm of Avaros. She had heard the rumors—demons, bargains, half-breeds with deals carved into their flesh. She crossed her arms tighter. “You made a choice without me.” His gaze cast downward, shoulders tightening. “I panicked. I thought I could keep that side of my life separate from you. But when it collapsed…” He sucked in a breath, then met her eyes. “I lost more than distance. I lost you.” Pain, bright and unyielding, flared in her chest. “You never gave me a chance to decide.” He stepped forward, the seam of his jacket moving with him. Aurora almost stumbled back, heart racing. He paused a breath away, fingers curled as if to reach out, then drew them back. She saw the struggle in his face—half-demon caught between pride and need. “I’m here now. I’m asking.” She closed her eyes, blinked back a wave of memory: his warm hand cradling her wrist after a cut, his slow French whispers in the dark, the amber eye watching her in moonlight. She felt the scar beneath her sleeve, fingertip brushing that sliver of flesh. Hurt and longing tangled in her chest so tightly she thought she might suffocate. “What if I say no?” she murmured, voice barely steady. Lucien’s heterochromatic gaze softened. “Then I’ll leave,” he said quietly. “But I’ll never forgive myself for not trying.” The resolve in his tone cut through her anger. She took a step back, bumped against the doorjamb, and slid down until she sat on the bottom step, shoulders curled around her knees. She stared at the floor, the threads of her resolve unspooling. “You know this isn’t just me saying no,” she whispered. “Magic, demons… I have a life here. A flat above Silas’s bar. A job at the Golden Empress. I can’t throw all that away.” Lucien lowered himself beside her, leaning his cane against the step. “I’m not asking you to throw it away.” He reached out cautiously, thumb brushing her scar. She flinched, then didn’t pull away. His touch was cool, comforting, and she felt the tension in her arm ease. “Just… a few nights. Look into what’s crossing the Veil. You’re the only one with the mind and the courage to track it.” She looked up, dark hair tumbling forward, shielding her eyes. His gaze held her there, amber and inky black. “Why me, Lucien? Why not one of your contacts in the supernatural community?” He brushed a stray lock from her face. Dust motes danced in the stray beam of light, marking his shadow on the wall behind him. “Because they’d gamble with lives. You won’t.” Silence stretched between them, taut and trembling. She met his gaze—saw in that dual-colored stare the depth of his need, the promise he’d never broken before. She felt a single, decisive shift in her chest: part resentment, part something softer, a cautious hope. “Alright,” she whispered at last. Her voice echoed in the cluttered hallway. “But after this, we settle things—once and for all.” He exhaled, relief flaring in his amber eye, and offered her a small, genuine smile. When his fingers closed around hers, the touch was a vow, an apology, and a beginning. Ptolemy meowed, leapt down, and wound around their feet, as though sealing the fragile new accord beneath ancient tomes and flickering candlelight. Outside, the curry house below groaned as a customer slipped the door open. But in Eva’s flat, between tomes and secrets and half-demon confessions, Aurora Carter and Lucien Moreau sat side by side on the doorstep of the unknown, two hearts bound by hurt and hope, ready to face whatever waited beyond the Veil—together.