Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQVDR7PDH27QTGNTK7QY21

The smell of cumin and coriander had finally settled into the floorboards, overshadowed by the relentless drumming of rain against the single-pane window. It was three in the morning on Brick Lane, and the city refused to sleep, though Aurora Carter wished it would. She sat on the edge of the futon in Eva’s cramped living room, a thick legal textbook open on her lap, though she hadn’t read a word in an hour. She was technically house-sitting while Eva chased down an obscure lead on a ley line in Sussex, but mostly, Rory was hiding. Hiding from the memories of Cardiff that the dreary weather dredged up, hiding from the exhaustion of double shifts at the Golden Empress, and hiding from the ghost of a conversation that had shattered her trust two weeks ago. Ptolemy, Eva’s traitorous tabby, was curled atop a precarious stack of grimoires, his ears twitching like radar dishes. He heard it before she did. A knock. Not the heavy pound of a neighbor complaining about noise, nor the frantic rapping of a delivery driver. This was a precise, rhythmic rap. Three beats. Pause. One beat. Rory froze, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She knew that knock. She considered ignoring it. She considered blowing out the solitary lamp and pretending the flat was empty. But the person on the other side of the door didn't knock for empty rooms. She set the book aside, her movements sharp and deliberate. She smoothed down her oversized t-shirt, catching the reflection of her pale face and straight, shoulder-length black hair in the darkened window. Her bright blue eyes looked tired, shadowed by lack of sleep. She crossed the narrow hallway, stepping over a pile of research notes regarding Sumerian binding rituals. Her hand hovered over the locks. Three deadbolts. Eva was paranoid for good reason, but right now, Rory appreciated the layers of steel. "Go away," she said, her voice low, steady. "Aurora." The sound of her name, spoken in that velvet baritone, sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the drafty building. He pronounced it with a softness that belied the sharpness of the man himself. "I mean it, Lucien. I'm not in the mood for games, and I'm certainly not in the mood to be lied to again." "I am not playing," the voice came through the wood, strained. "Open the door. Please." *Please.* Lucien Moreau, the fixers’ fixer, the man who held court with demons and politicians alike, did not say please. He brokered, he negotiated, he threatened, and he seduced. He did not beg. Rory cursed under her breath, a colorful phrase she’d learned from her Irish father before she’d learned her times tables. Her hand moved of its own accord, snapping back the first bolt. Then the second. Then the third. She opened the door a crack, keeping the chain on. Lucien stood in the dim, flickering light of the hallway. He looked wrecked. His tailored charcoal suit, usually immaculate, was soaked through, the wool clinging to his frame. His platinum blond hair, typically slicked back with severe precision, hung in damp strands across his forehead. But it was his eyes that held her—the heterochromatic stare that had unnerved her the first time they met and haunted her ever since. The left was a deep, void-like black; the right, a burning amber. He leaned heavily on his ivory-handled cane, his knuckles white against the carved bone. "You look like hell," Rory said, though she didn't close the door. "An astute observation," Lucien murmured. His accent, usually a faint, charming lilt from his time in Marseille, was thicker tonight, heavy with fatigue. "May I come in? Or do you intend to leave me in the hallway for the neighbors to ogle?" "The neighbors on this floor deal drugs, Luc. They won't care about a wet Frenchman in a three-piece suit." He winced, a micro-expression that vanished as quickly as it appeared. "Rory. I am bleeding." Her gaze dropped. Beneath the dark fabric of his jacket, just above the hip, a stain was spreading, darker than the charcoal wool. The metallic tang of blood—and something sharper, like ozone—hit her nose, cutting through the scent of curry from the restaurant downstairs. "Damn it." She slammed the door shut to release the chain, then threw it open. "Get in. Don't bleed on the books." Lucien stepped inside, the distinctive *tap* of his cane followed by the heavy drag of his dress shoes. He brought the chill of the London night with him, a cold front that collided with the stagnant warmth of the flat. Rory secured the locks again, purely out of habit, and turned to find him leaning against a bookshelf, displacing a stack of pamphlets on spectral entities. He looked too large for the room. Eva’s flat was a cozy burrow of academia; Lucien was a predator from a much larger, darker ecosystem. "Kitchen," she commanded, pointing toward the kitchenette that was little more than a sink and a table. "Sit." He obeyed without a quip, which alarmed her more than the blood. He collapsed into one of the mismatched wooden chairs. Rory grabbed the first aid kit Eva kept under the sink—a box containing bandages, antiseptic, and holy water. "Jacket off," she said, washing her hands. Lucien hissed through his teeth as he peeled the wet wool from his shoulders. His dress shirt was ruined, soaked red at the side. He began to undo the buttons, his long, pale fingers trembling slightly. "Let me." Rory batted his hands away. She tried to keep her touch clinical, professional. She was a delivery driver and a law school dropout, not a nurse, but life with Evan had taught her how to patch up a bruise, and life in London’s underground was teaching her the rest. She unbuttoned the shirt, peeling the fabric away from his skin. The wound was a jagged gash, looking less like a knife wound and more like a claw mark. The skin around it bubbled slightly, reacting to some infernal poison. "Avarosian shade-stalker?" she asked, grabbing a bottle of antiseptic. "A disagreement with a former associate," Lucien corrected, staring at the ceiling. "He took issue with my... amended pricing structure." "You got slashed over money?" "I got slashed over information." His mismatched eyes drifted down to her. "Information regarding you." Rory paused, the cotton swab hovering over the wound. Her heart did that traitorous stuttering thing again. "Me? You told me you were done with me. You said I was a liability." "I lied." "You're a half-demon broker, Luc. You lie for a living. You have to be more specific." She pressed the antiseptic to the wound. Lucien snarled, his back arching, the muscles of his abdomen pulling taut. His hand shot out, gripping her wrist to stop the pain. His grip was iron-strong, his skin fever-hot. For a moment, neither of them moved. Rory stared at his hand wrapped around her wrist. His thumb rested perfectly over the small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist—the souvenir from a childhood bike accident in Cardiff. He wasn't hurting her, but the contact was electric, jumping the gap between them and frying her common sense. "I lied," he repeated, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Because keeping you close was dangerous. But keeping you at a distance..." He looked at the wound, then back up at her, his amber eye glowing faintly in the dim kitchen light. "It seems that is dangerous for me." Rory gently twisted her wrist out of his grip. She didn't pull away, though. She resumed cleaning the wound, her touch softer now. "So you pushed me away to protect me? That is the oldest, stupidest line in the book, Lucien. I expected better from you." "I am not a hero, Aurora. I do not make noble sacrifices." He watched her hands, his gaze intense. "I made a calculation. I thought I could operate more efficiently without the distraction of worrying about your safety." "And?" "And I was wrong. I was... careless. Distracted." Rory finished cleaning the cut and began applying a bandage. The silence stretched between them, heavy with the things they weren't saying. She could feel the heat radiating off him. He smelled of rain, expensive cologne, and the copper sharp scent of his own blood. It was intoxicating in a way that terrified her. "You hurt me," she said quietly, taping the gauze down. "You made me feel like I was just another job you were finishing up." "I know." Lucien reached out, his hand hovering near her waist before dropping to the table. He looked at his cane, leaning against the counter—the hidden blade inside it useless against the damage he’d done to her. "I am arrogant. It is my father's blood. I thought I could control the narrative." "You can't control people, Luc. I'm not a contract." "No," he agreed. "You are not." Rory sighed, the anger draining out of her, leaving only a weary ache. She finished the bandaging and stepped back. "It needs stitches, but that will hold for tonight. I'll make tea." "Tea," Lucien repeated, a faint ghost of a smile touching his lips. "How very British of you." "Shut up. It's for shock. And because I don't have any demon-healing ambrosia." She turned to the kettle, feeling his eyes on her back. She filled it, her movements automatic. The familiar domesticity of the action clashed violently with the surreal reality of Lucien Moreau, half-blooded prince of the underworld, sitting half-naked in Eva’s kitchen. "Why did you come here?" she asked, her back to him. "You have safe houses. You have healers on retainer." "I didn't want a healer," he said instantly. Rory gripped the edge of the counter. "I went to your flat above Silas's," he continued. "He told me you were here." "That doesn't answer the question." The chair scraped against the linoleum. Rory turned. Lucien was standing, swaying slightly, but upright. He had ignored his shirt and simply pulled his suit jacket back on over his bare chest. The lapels framed the bandage, the contrast of the dark wool against his pale skin stark and distracting. He closed the distance between them. He didn't need the cane to traverse the three feet of the tiny kitchen. He stopped inches from her, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. "I came here," Lucien said, "because when the blade went in, my first thought was not of revenge, or profit, or survival." He reached out, and this time, he didn't stop. He cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing the line of her jaw. His hand was trembling, just a little. "My first thought was that I had left things broken with you. And if I died in that alley, that would be the only thing that mattered." Rory’s breath hitched. She looked into that mismatched gaze—the abyss and the fire—and saw a vulnerability he never showed the world. He was stripping himself bare, more than the shirt ever could. "You're an idiot," she whispered, her voice shaking. "Undoubtedly." "And you're bleeding on Eva's floor." "She will forgive me. Or I will buy her a darker rug." Rory let out a wet, shaky laugh. She leaned into his touch, her hand coming up to rest on his chest, right over his heart. It beat slowly, powerfully, a heavy thud against her palm. "You can't do that again," she said, clutching his lapel. "You don't get to decide what's best for me. I left a man who tried to control my life. I won't let another one in." Lucien’s expression hardened, fierce and possessive. "I am not him. I would burn this city to ash before I let harm come to you, Aurora. But I will not cage you. I promise." "Good." She stood on her tiptoes, her face inches from his. "Then sit back down before you pass out, or I'll finish the job that shade-stalker started." Lucien chuckled, a low rumble in his chest that she felt through her fingertips. "As you wish, *ma chérie*." He didn't move to sit, though. He lingered, his thumb tracing her cheekbone, the rain still drumming against the window, the world outside wet and cold and dangerous. But in here, amidst the smell of old books and dried tea, the air was warm. "Stay," Rory said. It wasn't a question. "I have nowhere else to be," Lucien replied, and for the first time since she’d known him, she believed him completely.