Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQSWMNXV46GKXJWPHP0XBR

The knock was not a knock. It was a series of sharp, precise raps, a rhythm she knew as well as her own heartbeat. Three quick taps, a pause, then two more. It was a code, a relic from a time when secrets were a currency and trust a luxury they couldn’t afford. Rory’s hand froze on the kettle, the whistle dying on her lips. It was late, past midnight, and the only person who used that signal was supposed to be a thousand miles and a lifetime away. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird in a cage of bone. She ignored it, turning back to the stove, but the silence that followed was heavier than any sound. It was a waiting silence, a patient silence, and it was utterly, terrifyingly Lucien. A second series of raps came, this time harder, more insistent. The wood of the door shuddered in its frame. Ptolemy, her tabby cat, who had been dozing on a pile of ancient tomes, lifted his head, his ears swiveling toward the sound, a low growl rumbling in his chest. The kettle began to scream again, a thin, piercing wail that matched the rising panic in her throat. With a sigh that felt like it was being pulled from the soles of her feet, Rory turned off the burner. The sudden quiet was a vacuum. She walked the few steps to the door, her bare feet silent on the worn floorboards. Her fingers, trembling slightly, traced the familiar, cold metal of the three deadbolts. One by one, she drew them back, the sound of each thud a final, irrevocable step. She pulled the door open. And there he was. Lucien Moreau leaned against the doorframe, an image of effortless, infuriating elegance. A tailored charcoal suit, perfectly cut, clung to his frame, the white of his shirt a stark slash in the dim hallway light. His platinum blond hair was slicked back from his high forehead, not a single strand out of place. He looked exactly as he had the last time she’d seen him, and yet, completely different. There was a new tension in the set of his jaw, a faint shadow of exhaustion beneath his mismatched eyes—one the colour of warm amber, the other a fathomless, starless black. Those eyes found hers, and the air between them crackled, thick with unspoken words and the ghosts of old hurts. “Rory,” he said, his voice a low, smooth baritone that vibrated through the floorboards and up her spine. It was a caress and a summons all at once. She said nothing. She just stood there, one hand on the edge of the door, the other clenched into a fist at her side, the small crescent scar on her wrist a dull, forgotten ache. She could smell him—the faint, expensive scent of bergamot and leather, and something else, something deeper and wilder that was uniquely him, a scent that had once been her greatest comfort and was now her sharpest memory. He took her silence as an invitation, pushing himself off the doorframe and stepping inside. His gaze swept over the flat, taking in the chaotic mountains of books, the precarious stacks of scrolls, the faint scent of old paper and curry that clung to the air. It landed on the hissing cat, who arched his back and bared his teeth. “Still collecting the world’s most dangerous literature, I see,” he remarked, his tone light, but his eyes were serious. He tapped the ivory handle of his cane on the floor, a sharp, authoritative sound. “And you’ve acquired a guard dog. An improvement.” Rory finally found her voice, and it was colder than she intended. “What do you want, Lucien?” He turned his full attention back to her, and the weight of it was immense. It was a look that had once made her feel like the only person in the universe, and now it just made her feel cornered. “Is that any way to greet an old friend? Especially one who has just crossed a continent and the Channel for you.” “I didn’t ask you to,” she shot back, her Welsh lilt sharpening the edges of her words. “The last I heard, you were in Marseille, brokering deals with things that have too many teeth and not enough morals. London is my territory now. You don’t belong here.” A flicker of something—hurt? amusement?—crossed his face, gone as quickly as it appeared. He took another step forward, closing the distance between them until she could feel the warmth radiating from his body. He was so close she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the way the light caught in the amber one. “Territory?” he murmured, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Is that what this is? A cramped flat above a curry house? You, Aurora Carter, hiding in a nest of paper and cat hair, pretending you’re just a normal girl delivering Chinese food for a living?” He reached out, his fingers hovering just above her cheek, not quite touching. “I know you better than that. Better than you know yourself, sometimes.” Rory flinched away from his near-touch, her anger flaring hot and bright. “Don’t,” she warned, her voice low and dangerous. “Don’t you dare presume to know me. You left. You walked away without a word, without a… a damn postcard. You don’t get to show up here after a year and act like nothing happened. You don’t get to comment on my life.” His hand dropped to his side, his expression shuttering. The easy charm vanished, replaced by a grim reality that made him look older, wearier. “I didn’t have a choice, Rory. You know that. The situation in Avaros was… unstable. My father’s enemies were not the sort to offer a clean exit. Leaving you behind was the only way to keep you safe.” “Safe?” she laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. “I was a mess, Lucien. I was looking over my shoulder for months. Every shadow looked like one of your father’s pets. Eva had to talk me down from a panic attack every time a car backfired. Don’t you dress up your cowardice as chivalry.” “It wasn’t cowardice,” he said, his voice losing its softness, gaining an edge of steel. “It was strategy. You were a liability, a weakness they would have exploited without a second thought. I had to cut the tie. It was the only move I had left.” “A liability,” she repeated, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. “Of course. That’s all I ever was to you, wasn’t it? A useful tool, a pleasant distraction. Never a partner.” The accusation hung in the air between them, sharp and undeniable. For a long moment, he just stared at her, his two-coloured eyes unreadable. Then, with a sigh that seemed to drain the last of his composure, he leaned his cane against the wall and ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, dislodging a few strands so they fell across his forehead. It was the most dishevelled she had ever seen him. “You were never just a distraction, Laila,” he said, using the name he’d given her, the one that felt like a secret shared only between them. The sound of it was a physical blow. “You were the only thing that made sense. The only good thing in all the… mess. Leaving you was the hardest thing I have ever done. And I have done some very hard things.” The raw honesty in his voice disarmed her. The anger that had been her shield for the past year began to crack, and the pain she’d kept so carefully buried came flooding back. The memory of his hands on her skin, his voice in her ear, the way he looked at her as if she were the answer to a question he hadn’t known he was asking. It was all there, shimmering in the space between them. “Then why are you here now?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. “What’s changed?” He took a final step, erasing the last inch of space between them. He didn’t touch her, but he raised his hands, cupping them around her face as if holding something infinitely precious. His thumbs brushed gently against her cheekbones, and she had to fight the urge to lean into his touch. “Everything,” he said, his gaze searching hers, pleading. “The situation in Avaros is… resolved. My father’s influence is gone. I am free. And the first thing I did was come here. To you.” He paused, his voice dropping even lower, thick with an emotion she couldn’t quite name. “I came back for you, Rory. If you’ll have me.” Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, hot and unwelcome. She hated him for leaving. She hated him for the pain he’d caused. But looking at him now, seeing the vulnerability in his mismatched eyes, the desperate hope in his posture, she knew a terrible, wonderful truth. A part of her, the deepest, most foolish part, had been waiting for this exact moment. She didn’t answer. Instead, she closed the small distance and pressed her lips to his. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a collision, a desperate, hungry meeting of mouths that spoke of a year’s worth of loneliness and longing. He tasted of coffee and regret and something that was purely, intoxicatingly Lucien. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her flush against him, one hand tangling in her hair, the other pressing firmly against the small of her back. It was a kiss of apology and acceptance, of anger and forgiveness, a promise that everything that had been broken could, perhaps, be mended. When they finally broke apart, breathless, he rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed. “Stay,” she whispered, the word a surrender. “Just… stay.” He opened his eyes, and the amber one seemed to glow with a soft, inner light. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised. And for the first time in a year, Rory felt something like peace begin to settle in her fractured heart.