Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQW3T6T8JXH543YNYP3JX3

The third deadbolt clicked open with a heavy, metallic thud that seemed to echo in the narrow stairwell. Aurora gripped the edge of the door, her knuckles white against the peeling paint of the frame. She had been expecting a delivery from Yu-Fei, or perhaps Eva returning early from her shift at the university, but the figure standing on the landing was neither. Lucien Moreau filled the doorway, blocking the spill of amber light from the hallway lamp. He looked exactly as he had three years ago, and yet entirely different. The tailored charcoal suit hugged his frames with the same impeccable precision, the fabric expensive and seemingly impervious to the grime of Brick Lane. His platinum hair was slicked back, revealing the sharp, aristocratic line of his jaw. But it was his eyes that caught her breath and held it there, one amber and one void-black, watching her with an intensity that felt physical, like a hand pressing against her chest. "Rory," he said. His voice was smooth, carrying that faint, unplaceable accent that had once made her lean in closer just to hear him speak. Aurora's heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She instinctively tucked her left hand behind her back, hiding the small crescent scar on her wrist, a nervous tic she hadn't broken since the accident that had nearly taken her hand as a child. "Lucien," she managed, her voice cooler than she felt. "You're trespassing." "Technically, I haven't crossed the threshold yet," Lucien replied, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. It didn't reach his eyes. "May I come in? Or shall we conduct this conversation while Ptolemy stares at me from behind your legs?" Aurora glanced down. The tabby cat was indeed weaving figure-eights around her ankles, his tail twitching with agitation. Cats usually loved Lucien, or at least tolerated him with a strange, supernatural deference. Ptolemy's hostility was a bad sign. She stepped back, swinging the door wide enough for him to pass, then immediately closed it, engaging the first two bolts before turning to face him. The flat was a chaotic sanctuary of her current life. Stacks of legal textbooks she rarely opened were piled next to scrolls Eva had brought home from her research. The air smelled of turmeric from the curry house below and the stale coffee Aurora had been nursing all morning. In the center of this domestic clutter, Lucien looked like a diamond dropped in a mud puddle. He leaned lightly on his ivory-handled cane, the only sound in the room the soft tap of the tip against the floorboards. "You look well," he said, his gaze sweeping over her. He took in her straight, shoulder-length black hair, the bright blue eyes that were currently narrowed in suspicion, and the oversized sweater she wore over her delivery uniform. "London agrees with you." "London is loud and smells like fried oil," Aurora countered, crossing her arms. "And you look like you're about to close a merger, not visit an old friend." "We were never just friends, Rory. We both know that." The air in the cramped one-bedroom seemed to vanish. The history between them hung heavy, a tapestry of late nights in hidden libraries, whispered secrets in four different languages, and the abrupt, jagged end that had sent her fleeing Cardiff for the anonymity of the capital. She had left Evan, her abusive ex, only to run straight into Lucien's orbit, and then run from him too when the complications of his heritage became too much to bear. A half-demon fixer was not a safe harbor for a girl trying to rebuild a shattered life. "Why are you here, Lucien?" she asked, forcing her voice to remain steady. "If this is about Eva, she's not here." "This isn't about Eva." Lucien took a step forward, navigating the maze of books on the floor with an ease that suggested he had mapped the room the moment he entered. "It's about you. And the fact that you've been ignoring my messages for six months." "I've been busy," she lied. She worked part-time delivering noodles for the Golden Empress and trying to forget that a man with heterochromatic eyes could make her feel both perfectly safe and utterly terrified. "I have a life. A real one." "A life that involves running away?" He stopped just out of arm's reach. The scent of him drifted toward her—sandalwood, rain, and something darker, like ozone before a storm. It triggered a memory of a night in Marseille, standing on a balcony overlooking the harbor, his hand resting on hers. She pulled her mental focus back sharply. "I didn't run," she said, her chin lifting. "I chose. There's a difference." "Is there?" Lucien tilted his head, the light catching the sharp angle of his cheekbone. "Because from where I stand, you ran from your father's expectations, you ran from Evan, and then you ran from me. You seem to be quite accomplished at fleeing, Aurora." The use of her full name struck a nerve. Only he and her father called her that. "I ran from Evan because he was hurting me. I ran from my father because he wanted a barrister, not a daughter. And I left you..." She trailed off, the words sticking in her throat. "You left me because you were afraid," Lucien finished softly. He wasn't mocking her; his tone was laced with a sadness that mirrored her own. "Afraid of what I am. Afraid of what we could be." "I'm not afraid of you, Lucien." "Aren't you?" He gestured with his free hand, the movement elegant and controlled. "You have three deadbolts on your door. You keep your hand behind your back when you're nervous. And you haven't invited me to sit down in the two minutes I've been standing here." Aurora realized with a jolt that she was still shielding her scarred wrist. She forced her hand out, letting it fall to her side, though the instinct to cover it remained. "Sit," she said abruptly, gesturing to the small, battered armchair in the corner. "Before you knock over Eva's notes." Lucien moved to the chair but didn't sit immediately. He rested the tip of his cane against the floor and looked at her, really looked at her, in a way that stripped away the defenses she had spent years building. "I didn't come here to rehash the past, Rory. Not entirely." "Then why?" "Because there are things moving in the shadow of this city that you need to know about," he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its polish and gaining an edge of steel. "Things that connect to your father's old cases. To Evan. To the reason you really left Cardiff." Aurora felt a chill that had nothing to do with the drafty window. "What are you talking about?" "Evan wasn't just a brute, Aurora. He was a pawn. And the people who moved him are starting to look for the piece that got away." Lucien's mismatched eyes locked onto hers, intense and unwavering. "I tried to protect you by staying away. I thought if I removed myself from your life, you'd be invisible to them. I was wrong." He took another step, closing the distance until she could see the flecks of gold in his amber eye, the depth of the black in the other. "I can't protect you from afar anymore. And I won't watch you get hurt again because I was too proud to admit that I couldn't let you go." The silence stretched between them, thick with the unsaid words of three years. The attraction was still there, a live wire humming beneath the surface of their argument, but it was tangled with hurt and fear. Aurora looked at him, this impossible man who walked between worlds, and saw the tension in his jaw, the slight tremor in the hand gripping the ivory cane. He wasn't just the cool-headed fixer of London's underworld; he was Lucien, the man who had held her when she cried over her father's disappointment, the man who had taught her how to spot a lie in three languages. "You shouldn't have come," she whispered, though she didn't move away. "No," Lucien agreed, his voice rough. "I probably shouldn't have. But here I am." He reached out, slowly, giving her every chance to pull back. His fingers brushed against her wrist, not covering the scar, but tracing the air just above it. The touch sent a shockwave through her, grounding her even as it made her knees weak. "I'm not leaving this time, Rory," he said, his gaze dropping to her lips before returning to her eyes. "Not unless you tell me to leave, and mean it. Really mean it." Aurora looked at the door, with its three deadbolts meant to keep the world out. Then she looked at Lucien, who had walked through them as if they were made of paper. The cool-headed intelligence that usually guided her decisions scrambled, overturned by the sheer force of his presence. She thought of the dark things he mentioned, the dangers lurking in the shadows, and the terrifying realization that she didn't want to face them alone. She didn't tell him to leave. Instead, she turned her hand over, palm up, and let her fingers graze his. "You're blocking the light," she said, her voice trembling slightly. Lucien's smile finally reached his eyes, transforming his face from striking to breathtaking. "Then move over, Rory. Let me in."