Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR1WSBVCFYTN68A2JF3A78

The knocking didn’t start polite. It wasn’t the tentative rap of a neighbor needing sugar or the apologetic tap of a courier with a package. It was heavy, rhythmic, and insistent, vibrating through the floorboards of the cramped flat. Rory looked up from her scroll, her eyes straining in the low light of the single floor lamp. The flat above the curry house on Brick Lane smelled faintly of cardamom and old paper, a scent that had soaked into the walls and the mountains of books stacked on every available surface. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby cat, lifted his head from his spot on a pile of dissertations regarding demonic sigils, let out a chirp of annoyance, and went back to sleep. The knocking came again, louder this time. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Eva was out at the archives until late, and Silas never came this far east unless there was a blood feud brewing. She checked the time on her phone. Just past ten. Pushing out of the armchair, she padded to the door in her socks. The floorboards creaked, a familiar symphony of the building's age. She didn't look through the peephole. The three deadbolts were all thrown, a habit she couldn’t shake, not even after months of distance from the life she’d fled in Cardiff. Her hand hovered over the first lock, a cold prickle of instinct walking down her spine. It wasn’t fear, exactly; it was a recognition. A frequency she hadn’t tuned into in a long time. She undid the locks one by one. *Click. Slide. Thunk.* She pulled the door open, leaving the security chain in place just to be safe. "Lucien." The name felt like a stone dropping into a deep well. She hadn’t said it aloud in months. He stood in the dim hallway, the yellow glow of the overhead bulb washing out the sharp lines of his charcoal suit. He looked impeccable, as always. The tailoring was flawless, the fabric expensive enough that it looked wrong against the peeling paint of the hallway. His platinum blond hair was slicked back, exposing the harsh, elegant angle of his jawline. He held his ivory-handled cane loosely in one hand, his thumb brushing the head. He smelled of expensive cologne, ozone, and something underneath that was distinctly him—rain on hot asphalt. "Rory," he said. His voice was a low, smooth rumble, accented with the husky cadence of Marseille. "You’re going to let me stand in the hallway smelling like turmeric and despair?" "It’s Brick Lane, Lucien. Turmeric is the local oxygen." She didn't move to take the chain off. Her heart was hammering a rhythm against her ribs that had nothing to do with surprise and everything to do with the sight of his eyes. One amber, one bottomless black. They were fixed on her, intense and unblinking. "I need to talk to you." "I’m busy. Eva’s place is a mess, I’m translating—" "It’s important." "It always is with you." He stepped closer, just an inch. The chain pulled tight against the frame. "Please." The word hung in the air between them. Lucien Moreau didn’t say *please*. He negotiated, he bargained, he threatened. He didn’t beg. Rory stared at him, taking in the tension in his shoulders, the way his grip on the cane was white-knuckled. Whatever had brought him here, it wasn't business. Not just business. She sighed, the fight leaving her all at once, and slipped the chain off. She opened the door wide and stepped back. He walked in, his presence instantly expanding to fill the small room. He dwarfed the space, not just because of his height, but because of the sheer energy he radiated. He was a half-demon, a fixer, a creature of the Avaros realm, and standing in a flat filled with third-edition grimoires and takeout containers felt like trapping a tiger in a dollhouse. Ptolemy, abandoning his dignity, trotted over and wound himself around Lucien’s legs, purring loudly. "Traitor," Rory muttered. Lucien looked down, a flicker of a genuine smile touching his mouth. He nudged the cat with the toe of his polished oxford. "At least someone has taste." "I didn't peg you for a cat person. I thought you preferred things that hiss back." "I appreciate loyalty." Lucien straightened, looking around the cluttered room. His gaze lingered on the stack of legal textbooks in the corner—the remnants of the life she’d abandoned. The pre-law degree, the barrister father, the safe path. "It looks... lived in." "It’s Eva's. I just crash here when I’m not at the flat above Silas's." "Silas told me you took the delivery run for Golden Empress." Rory stiffened, crossing her arms over her chest. "Is that what this is? You checking up on my employment? I’m fine, Lucien. I’m safe. Evan isn't going to find me here." "I know." Lucien turned his back to her, looking at the books. "It wasn't Evan who sent me." "Oh?" The sarcasm was a shield, thick and heavy. "Then who? The demon council? The fae court? Who wants a piece of the half-demon fixer tonight?" "You." The single syllable dropped the temperature in the room by ten degrees. Rory scoffed, turning away to busy herself with the kettle on the hot plate. "Right. You want something. Information? A conduit? Because I’m fresh out of favors for the man who ghosted me three months ago without so much as a text." "I didn't ghost you, Rory." "You disappeared." She slammed the kettle down harder than she intended. "One minute we were—you know—and the next, you were gone. Cold. No explanation. Just a note saying 'stay safe.' That’s not a breakup, Lucien. That’s a disappearance act." "I had to." The weariness in his voice made her pause. She turned around. He was standing by the window, looking out at the rain-slicked street below. The amber eye seemed to catch the streetlights, glowing like a dying ember. "Explain it to me," she demanded. He turned slowly. "My father. The Avaros realm. They felt... instability. My heritage was becoming too prominent. I was becoming too attached to this plane. To people here." He looked right at her when he said *people*, but the word hung heavy with singular intent. "So you what? Went back to hell to cool off?" Rory regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. It was a cheap shot, and they both knew it. Lucien’s relationship with his heritage was a jagged scar; he wore his humanity like a suit that was slowly shrinking. "It wasn't a vacation." He walked toward her, closing the small distance between the kitchenette and the living area. "The balance of power in the underworld is shifting, Rory. Things are waking up. Old things. And when the currents change, those of us with split blood... we are the first to feel the tide pull." He stopped just in front of her. Up close, he was overwhelming. The scent of him wrapped around her, triggering a flood of memories she’d tried to bury. The way his hands felt on her waist, the way he looked at her like she was the only anchor in a stormy sea. "Why come to me now?" she whispered, her throat tight. "Because," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. He reached out, his fingers hovering near her hand. He didn't touch her, but the heat radiating from his skin was palpable. "Because in the three months I was gone, trying to sever my ties to this world to keep it safe, the only thing that kept me sane was the thought of your blue eyes." Rory’s breath hitched. She looked down at his hand, then up to his mismatched gaze. The anger, the hurt—it was all still there, a dull ache beneath her ribs. But over it, layered on top of it like a bruise, was the attraction. It was magnetic, undeniable. "You hurt me," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "I thought you were dead. Or worse, that I didn't matter." "You matter more than you should." His hand finally moved, his thumb brushing the small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. It was a gentle, intimate touch, one that sent a shiver racing up her arm. "I tried to stay away. I told myself that if I didn't come back, you would be safe. You would have a normal life. Deliveries. University. Peace." "I don't want peace," she said, the lie tasting like ash. "I want the truth." "The truth," he said, stepping closer, their bodies almost touching, "is that I am selfish. I tried to do the noble thing, but I am my father's son. I couldn't stay away." The air between them crackled. It wasn't just the static of the storm outside; it was the friction of two souls that had been pulled apart too soon. "Lucien..." "Tell me to leave," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips. "Tell me to walk out that door and never come back, and I will do it. I will go back to the shadows and you will never see me again. I will protect you from the distance." He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers. The contact was electric. "But if you don't tell me to leave," he breathed, "I’m going to kiss you. And I don't think I’ll be able to stop." Rory closed her eyes. She felt the roughness of his stubble, the coolness of the air contrasting with the furnace of his body. She remembered the loneliness of the last three months, the empty nights in the flat above the bar, the silence that felt like a physical weight. She remembered the fear of the ex who had driven her here, and the way Lucien had made that fear evaporate with just a look. She grabbed the lapels of his charcoal suit, her fingers gripping the expensive fabric tight. She pulled him the final inch forward. "Don't you dare go anywhere," she said. Then his lips were on hers. It wasn't a gentle reunion. It was a collision. It was三个月 of silence and worry exploding in a rush of heat and need. His hands were in her hair, knocking it loose from its tie, tangling in the black strands. Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him down, pulling him closer, trying to eliminate every inch of space between them. The taste of him was intoxicating—like whiskey and smoke and something wild. He backed her up against the edge of the small table, sending a stack of papers fluttering to the floor, but neither of them cared. Ptolemy hissed from the bookshelf and leapt down, stalking into the bedroom to escape the chaos. Lucien pulled back just enough to look at her, his chest heaving, his mismatched eyes burning with a hunger that bordered on predatory. His thumb traced her jawline, his touch reverent. "I missed you, Rory," he said, the raw honesty in his voice breaking something open inside her chest. "God help me, I missed you." She pulled him back down, burying her face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him. "You’re an idiot," she whispered against his skin. "You’re an arrogant, secretive idiot." "I know," he said, wrapping his arms around her waist, lifting her off her feet as if she weighed nothing. "But I’m your idiot." Rory laughed, a wet, broken sound, and held on tight. The world outside was chaotic, dangerous, and full of monsters. But here, in the cluttered, curry-scented flat on Brick Lane, she was exactly where she was meant to be.