Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR19GY05ZNF1C3AQVM2PXF

The smell of turmeric and cumin was a permanent fixture in the hallway, seeping up through the floorboards of the curry house below, but tonight it hung heavier than usual, thick enough to taste. It clung to the piles of parchment books stacked in teetering towers on the floor of Eva’s flat, a chaotic landscape of paper that Rory had been navigating for the past three hours. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby cat, was currently draped across the kitchen table, tail twitching as he watched her with half-lidded judgment. Rory rubbed at her eyes, smearing the ink from her notes onto her cheek. She was tired, her brain buzzing with the dry syntax of Welsh translation and the dull ache of a headache that had been threatening since noon. She just wanted tea, silence, and perhaps four hours of unconsciousness. The knock at the door shattered that wish. It wasn’t the frantic, rhythmic pounding of Eva returning late, nor the hesitant tap of a neighbor complaining about noise. It was three, precise raps. Controlled. Measured. Rory froze, her hand hovering over the kettle. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, a primal warning system that had nothing to do with the supernatural and everything to do with memory. She knew that rhythm. She knew the heavy silence that followed it. She walked slowly to the door, her socks silent on the worn floorboards. The three deadbolts were locked, a shiny new trio of brass fixtures Eva had insisted on after the incident in the spring. Rory’s fingers closed around the top lock. She peered through the peephole, her breath hitching in her throat. The hallway light was flickering, casting long, jagged shadows, but the man standing there was perfectly still. He wore a charcoal suit that looked like it cost more than the entire building, tailored to within an inch of his life. His platinum blond hair was slicked back, severe and elegant, and in his right hand, he leaned casually on an ivory-handled cane. Lucien Moreau. The Frenchman. The fixer. The betrayal in a three-piece suit. Rory stepped back, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She shouldn’t open it. She should chain the door, tell him to go to hell, and go back to her translations. But her body moved on its own, muscle memory overriding common sense. She slid back the first bolt. Then the second. The third clicked with a sound like a gunshot in the quiet room. She pulled the door open just a few inches, keeping the chain in place—a flimsy barrier against a half-demon, but a necessary psychological one. "What are you doing here, Lucien?" Her voice was steady, which surprised her. Inside, she was a riot of static. Lucien smiled. It was a practiced expression, the kind that didn't reach his eyes. Those eyes—mismatched and arresting, one amber and one void-black—stared through the gap in the door, stripping her defenses layer by layer. The amber eye caught the hallway light, glowing with a predatory warmth. "Is that any way to greet an old friend, *ma chérie*?" His voice was a low rumble, accented and smooth, like velvet over gravel. "We aren't friends," Rory said, her grip tightening on the doorknob. "Friends don't ghost each other for six months in the middle of a crisis." "A misunderstanding," he said, raising a hand in a placating gesture. The movement shifted his jacket cuff, revealing the hint of a silver watch. "One I intend to rectify. May I come in? It is damp out here, and frankly, the smell of your neighbor’s vindaloo is clinging to my wool." "It's Brick Lane, Lucien. It smells of curry and despair. You knew that when you came here." He chuckled, a dark, rich sound. "I did. Yet, here I am." Rory stared at him for a long moment. She wanted to slam the door. She wanted to scream at him. Mostly, she wanted to know why he looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing, even after he’d left without a backward glance. With a sigh of defeat, she unhooked the chain and swung the door open. "Five minutes," she said, turning her back on him and walking into the flat. "And don't touch the scrolls." "I wouldn't dream of it." He stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. The presence of him filled the small, cramped space instantly. The flat, usually a sanctuary of cluttered academia, suddenly felt too small, too intimate. Lucien moved with an eerie grace, his cane tapping lightly against the floorboards. He paused by the table, offering a gloved hand to Ptolemy. The tabby cat, usually friendly to anyone with a pulse, hissed and scrambled under the sofa. Lucien withdrew his hand, feigning a look of wounded pride. "The beast remembers me." "Animals sense predators," Rory said, leaning against the kitchen counter and crossing her arms. She felt the small crescent scar on her left wrist tingle, a phantom itch from a childhood fall, but it felt like a warning now. "What do you want?" Lucien turned his attention from the hiding cat to her. He leaned his hip against the table, surveying her. He took in her oversized sweater, the ink-stained fingers, the messy bun of black hair that was already coming loose. He looked at her as if he were memorizing the details all over again. "You look tired, Rory," he said, the teasing tone dropping, replaced by something that sounded dangerously like concern. "I'm working. Eva’s research. Not that you’d care about that. You’re busy being... you." "Being me is exhausting," he admitted. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a silver cigarette case, but thought better of it and put it away. "I heard about Evan." The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Rory straightened up, her eyes narrowing. "Evan? What about him?" "That you finally dealt with the problem." Lucien tilted his head. "I would have handled it for you. You know that. A word in the right ear, a visit in the night... it would have been done." "I didn't need a hitman, Lucien. I needed a life. Which is why I left. Which is why *you* left." "I left because I had to," he said, his voice sharpening. The amber eye flared. "There were... complications in Avaros. My father’s kin are not fond of half-breeds who meddle in human affairs. I had to go to ground to keep them off your scent." Rory let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Off my scent? I’m a delivery girl who translates old texts for a neurotic Welsh witch. I am hardly on the radar of demon lords." "You are when you are with me," he said, pushing off the table and closing the distance between them. The kitchen was narrow. When he stopped, he was barely two feet away. The scent of him hit her—sandalwood, expensive cologne, and the faint, metallic tang of ozone that always clung to him, a remnant of the otherness in his blood. It was intoxicating and infuriating all at once. Rory forced herself to hold his gaze. "So you what? Played the noble martyr? Vanished into the smoke without a text, a call, a note? That’s your version of protection?" "Survival is ugly, Aurora. I did what was necessary to ensure that when I looked at you again, you would still be breathing." He reached out, his gloved hand moving toward her face. Rory flinched, but she didn't pull away. His fingers grazed her jawline, the leather cool against her flushed skin. He tilted her chin up, forcing her to look into the impossible dichotomy of his eyes. "I missed you," he said softly. The confession hung in the air, heavy and fragile. Rory’s throat tightened. She had missed him too, in the quiet moments when the city was too loud and the loneliness of her new life felt like a physical weight. She had missed his dry wit, the way he could outsmart anyone in the room, and the way he looked at her like she was a puzzle he had finally solved. But the hurt was a wall she couldn't easily scale. "You left," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I needed you, and you weren't there." "I am here now." "Because you choose to be. Until the next time your father calls or the underworld gets too hot." Lucien’s hand dropped from her face to her hand. He gently turned her palm upward, his thumb tracing the small, white crescent scar on her left wrist. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over the raised tissue, a sensation that sent a shiver down her spine. "I cannot change my nature, Rory," he said, his eyes dropping to their joined hands. "I am a creature of chaos and contracts. But my allegiance to you... that is the only contract I have never broken, and I do not intend to start now." He looked up, the black eye seeming to swallow the light, the amber one burning with intensity. "I have information on the artifact Eva is looking for. The one in the Codex. I know where it is." Rory stiffened, her practical mind warring with her emotional turmoil. "You’re selling information now? I thought you were just visiting." "I am giving it to you," he corrected. "A peace offering." "Why?" "Because," Lucien said, stepping closer, invading her personal space until she had to tilt her head back to hold his gaze. "I find I do not like sleeping alone in London. And I know for a fact that your sofa is more comfortable than mine." Rory huffed, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite herself. "Eva will kill you if you wake Ptolemy up again." "Ptolemy and I will come to an understanding." He was close enough now that she could feel the heat radiating from him. The tension that had been pulling at her for months—the grief, the anger, the attraction—snapped tight like a bowstring. "You are impossible," she breathed. "And yet," Lucien murmured, leaning down, his lips hovering inches from hers. "Here I am." Rory closed the final gap. She grabbed the lapels of his charcoal suit and pulled him down, crashing her mouth against his. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a collision of frustration and relief, tasting of mint and old hurts. Lucien responded instantly, his arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her flush against him as the cane clattered to the floor. For a moment, the smell of curry and the dust of old scrolls faded, replaced by the scent of ozone and sandalwood, and the overwhelming, terrifying realization that he was back, and she wasn't nearly as angry as she should be. When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Lucien rested his forehead against hers. He picked up his cane with one hand, the other still firmly planted on her hip. "So," he whispered, a smirk playing on his lips. "Do I get to stay, or must I brave the vindaloo hallway?" Rory looked at him—at the messy hair, the crooked tie, the eyes that held too many secrets—and sighed, resting her head against his chest. "You can stay," she muttered. "But you're sleeping on the floor. And Lucien? If you disappear again, I will use that cane for firewood." "Understood," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "I’ll just have to make sure I’m too indispensable to leave."