Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQTE4GNX914KFHMS0N6HZP

Aurora Carter’s hand hovered on the bolt of her front door. Rain-slicked brick and the low thrum of late-night traffic pressed against the thin wood beyond. She froze, pulse whipping against her ribs. No one ever came here without warning. A quiet click from the other side. Then footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, measured. As if he’d rehearsed each step on purpose. She swallowed, heart clattering. Through the peephole, she saw the glint of platinum hair under the dim entryway lamp, the tailored line of a charcoal suit sleeve, and—just for a breath—two eyes. One amber as old coin, the other darker than spilled ink. Lucien Moreau. Aurora blinked, her bright blue eyes flicking to the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, still warm from where she’d been rubbing it. She drew a breath, unlocked the deadbolt, and cracked the door open. He stood in the narrow hall, cane pressed lightly to the tiled floor. The ivory handle caught the lamplight, carved tendrils swirling around a tiny blade. He tipped his head with that half-smile she remembered too well—amusement and something softer, almost regret. She wanted to slam the door. She wanted to slam him out. But her fingers faltered on the cold wood. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, voice steadier than she felt. He let the door open wider, and Aurora schooled her expression. He stepped inside, closing it against the night with a muted click. The corridor light flickered overhead, painting his face in shifting shadows. “It’s been weeks,” he said, voice low, cultured. “I thought I might find you.” Her throat tightened. “Then you thought wrong.” He took off his gloves, folding them over the handle of his cane. Rain pearled on his sleeves. Aurora caught a faint scent of oud and something darker—smoke, maybe, or a memory she couldn’t place. “This isn’t Cardiff,” he said quietly. “You can’t disappear without trace.” She stabbed a finger at him. “That’s exactly what I did.” His amber eye flicked to the scar peeking from beneath her sleeve cuff. “Are you…?” He hesitated. “Safe?” She stared at her scar as if for the first time. The childhood accident felt miles away. “I’m fine.” He didn’t press. Instead, he cocked his head, footsteps echoing on creaking floorboards as he moved deeper. “You’ve made yourself quite at home. Dinner boxes stacked in the corner, textbooks littering the sofa—” He swept an arm at the clutter. “It’s very you.” Something clenched in her chest. “I work split shifts. I don’t have time to tidy.” He paused by the coffee table, flicked through the scattered pages. “Law school readings?” His heterochromatic gaze softened. “Still pining for the courtroom, then?” She crossed her arms, back against the door. “I quit.” He looked at the open cover of a Pre-Law textbook, spine cracked. “You did?” He lifted the book carefully. “When?” “Months ago.” She dug her heel into the rug. “It’s none of your business.” He closed the book, tucking it under his arm. “I suppose you never liked people telling you what to do.” She blinked. “Do you ever stop?” For a moment he barely moved, watching her. The streetlight slanted through the frosted glass of the front window, sketching diagonal lines across his jaw. Then he smiled—slow and rueful. “Never.” She wanted to turn away, to find some shield against the longing his presence dredged up. She shoved off the wall, stepping between him and the hallway. “You left me,” she said, voice breaking. “You walked out that night and didn’t look back.” His expression shifted. The faint iron scent of something ancient rose from him, not quite demonic but not human either. She’d choked on that sight once before. “I should have stayed,” he whispered. “I knew then I’d made you angry—but I never meant to hurt you.” “Me angry?” Her lip curled. “You lied. You promised me you’d protect me. Then you vanished.” He swallowed, fingers drifting to the cane. He didn’t pick it up. Didn’t reach for it. He just stood there in the cramped living room—walls plastered with framed photos of Silas’s bar, faded postcards of Cardiff—and said: “I’ve been looking for a way back to you ever since.” Her chest constricted. Doors slammed in her mind: forgiveness, fury, desire. She pressed her palm to the scar on her wrist, fingers brushing the crescent indentation. “Why now?” He stepped forward. Rain dripped from his coat onto the wood floor. The light caught in his hair, set it glowing like a halo of frost. “Because I have something for you.” Her pulse spiked. “I don’t need you bringing me things.” He reached inside his coat, withdrew a slim envelope. Cream-colored, sealed with a dark wax emblem she didn’t recognize. He offered it with one gloved hand. “Information.” She stared at it. Tense silence crackled between them, the only sound the slow drip of water from his coat onto the floor. Finally, she took the envelope, fingers trembling. “It’s about Evan,” he said quietly. Her heart lurched. “How—” “I’ve been tracking him,” he continued. “He resurfaced in Paris last month. He’s not alone.” She swallowed. Memories she’d buried—late-night phone calls, bruised arms, the reckless decision to flee London—rose unbidden. “Why do you care?” He met her gaze then, amber catching the light. “Because nothing about you is ever simple. And because I’ve never stopped.” The words shimmered in the lamplight. Aurora’s throat felt raw. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. Instead, she swallowed, crushed the envelope to her chest. “I left to save myself.” He took a careful step closer, close enough that she could see the faint runes etched into the ivory handle of his cane. “Let me help you.” Her breath caught. The harsh edges of her anger softened, revealing something she’d tried to deny. “Why should I trust you?” Lucien’s other eye—the dark one—gleamed. “Because I’m the only one who knows you better than you know yourself.” She closed her eyes. Heard her own heart thundering. Something between them—an unspoken truth—had survived the silence. When she dared to open her eyes again, he was inches away. Every detail came sharply into focus: the way his suit tapered perfectly at the shoulders, the faint smudge of soot on his cuff, the bruise of shadow under his lashes. She stood on instinct, reached out, and brushed a fingertip along the line of his jaw. His breath hitched. He reached up, covered her hand with his. Warm. Solid. “Aurora—” “Don’t,” she whispered, her voice a thread. “You always make me say what I don’t want to admit.” Lucien’s thumb stroked her knuckles. “Then don’t say it.” She blinked, heart in her throat. His voice was softer than she remembered, as if her name was a secret he’d been waiting to say again. She leaned in. The space between them quivered. Then he lowered his forehead to hers. They stood in the hush of the living room, the city’s distant roar muffled by walls and windows, and everything fell away. Minutes passed—long enough for her breath to steady, short enough to leave her wanting more. When his lips brushed hers, it was gentle, a question. She answered, pressing against him, her scar pressing against his coat. He drew back slightly, eyes hooded. “We fix this together?” Her answer was a whisper and a kiss, fierce with relief and regret. “Together.” Outside, the rain eased into a soft patter. Inside, Aurora Carter slipped her hand into Lucien Moreau’s, and for the first time in weeks, she let herself believe she wasn’t alone.