Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR2TD0BAATRK5HN1XMV55H

The scent of turmeric and cumin wafted up from the curry house below as Aurora Carter turned the key in the third deadbolt. Her part-time delivery shift at Golden Empress had left her muscles aching and her mind buzzing with the day's frustrations. The narrow hallway of Eva's flat was dimly lit, the familiar stacks of books and scrolls creating narrow pathways that only someone who knew the space well could navigate without incident. Rory had just set down the bag of takeout when the sharp knock came at the door. Three quick raps, then a pause, followed by two more. Eva's secret knock. But Eva wasn't due back from her conference in Manchester until tomorrow. Frowning, Rory approached the door. Through the peephole, the hallway's distorted view showed nothing but the familiar worn carpet and flickering overhead light. Still, something made her hesitate—a prickle at the back of her neck, the instinctual warning that had saved her more times than she cared to count since discovering London's supernatural underbelly. She unbolted the locks slowly, deliberately, her hand hovering near the kitchen knife she'd started keeping by the door since Evan. When she finally pulled it open, the sight of him sent a jolt through her system—equal parts electric shock and cold dread. Lucien Moreau stood in the hallway, leaning slightly on his ivory-handled cane. His platinum blond hair was slicked back as always, and his tailored charcoal suit was immaculate, as though he hadn't just walked through London's unpredictable weather. But it was his eyes that always caught her off guard—one amber and one black, heterochromatic and impossible to forget. "Rory," he said, his voice that smooth blend of French and British accents that had once disarmed her completely. "May I come in?" Her fingers tightened on the doorframe. "What are you doing here, Lucien?" He offered a small, knowing smile that didn't quite reach his mismatched eyes. "Is that any way to greet an old friend?" "We were never just friends," she countered, her voice sharper than intended. "No, we weren't," he agreed softly. "And I believe that's precisely why I'm here." Rory stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter before she could change her mind. As he limped past her, the faint scent of sandalwood and something metallic—something uniquely him—filled the small entryway. She watched him move through Eva's chaotic flat with a predator's grace despite the cane, his eyes taking in every detail, every ward Eva had painted on the walls and windows. "You haven't been evicted yet, I see," Lucien remarked, running his fingers along a stack of ancient texts that threatened to topple over. "Eva's collection grows more impressive—and more hazardous—by the day." "She'll be back tomorrow," Rory said, closing the door and reengaging only the first deadbolt. A small concession, but one she wasn't sure she should have made. "You shouldn't be here, Lucien. Not after..." "After everything?" he finished, turning to face her. "You're right, of course. But circumstances being what they are, I had little choice." "Circumstances always seem to bring you to my doorstep unannounced," she said, crossing her arms. "One of many things that never changed between us." His expression flickered—just for a moment—but she caught it. Hurt, perhaps. Or something close enough that her heart clenched in response. "I deserve that," he acknowledged. "And more." "Why are you here, Luc?" she asked, her voice softer now. "Really?" He set his cane against the wall and slowly unbuttoned his suit jacket. Underneath, the crisp white shirt was stained with something dark near the shoulder. Blood. Rory's breath caught. "You're hurt." "It's nothing." But when he moved to take off the jacket, he hissed in pain, his hand flying to his side. "Let me see," she demanded, stepping closer before she could stop herself. "I don't want you to feel obligated," he said, his amber eye searching her face while the black one seemed to see right through her. "I don't feel obligated," she lied. "I feel... concerned. Despite my better judgment." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Your judgment has always been questionable where I'm concerned." Rory rolled her eyes but guided him toward the small kitchen table, clearing away a stack of research notes to make space. She retrieved the first aid kit from beneath the sink—the one Eva kept stocked with more than just bandages and antiseptic. "Take off your shirt," she instructed, turning to grab a clean cloth and a bowl of warm water. When she turned back, he had done as she asked, and the sight of him—of the network of scars across his otherwise perfect skin—still had the power to steal her breath. The newest wound was a deep gash across his ribs, still oozing blood that looked too dark, too thick to be entirely human. "What did this?" she asked, gently cleaning the wound. "A demon," he said through gritted teeth. "One who doesn't appreciate my interference in his business." "Since when do you interfere in demon business without backup?" She dabbed at the wound more forcefully than necessary. "Since when do you care?" he retorted, then immediately regretted it. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for." Rory paused, the cloth hovering over his skin. "I never stopped caring, Lucien. That was never the problem." "The problem," he said quietly, "was that I could never give you what you needed. What you deserved." "Which is what? Honesty? Reliability? Someone who doesn't disappear for months without a word?" "All of the above," he admitted. "And more." She finished cleaning the wound and reached for the needle and thread. "This is going to hurt." "I've had worse," he said, but his jaw tightened as she began to stitch. They worked in silence for several minutes, the only sounds the needle piercing his skin and his occasional sharp intake of breath. Rory concentrated on her task, on anything other than the proximity of him—the warmth of his skin under her fingers, the way his muscles tensed and relaxed beneath her touch. "You're good at that," he said finally. "My mother was a teacher," Rory replied. "Always said I should have been a surgeon. Instead, I deliver Chinese food and patch up half-demons who can't stay out of trouble." Lucien caught her hand as she reached for the bandages. His fingers were cool against her skin, his touch sending a shiver down her spine. "I missed you, Rory." "Don't," she whispered, pulling her hand away. "Don't say that." "Why not? It's the truth." "Because truth doesn't erase what happened. It doesn't change the fact that you left without a goodbye, that you vanished when I needed you most." "I was trying to protect you," he insisted. "The demon who did this—Malphas—he's been hunting me for months. Anyone connected to me is in danger." "And you thought leaving me in the dark was the solution?" Her voice rose, years of pent-up hurt bubbling to the surface. "After Evan, after everything I've been through, you really thought I couldn't handle the truth?" "That's not what I—" "No, that's exactly what you thought!" She stood abruptly, knocking over the chair. "You decided for me, just like everyone else in my life has always decided for me. My father with my career, Evan with... with everything, and you with whether or not I deserved to know if my life was in danger." Lucien rose slowly, his hand pressed to his newly stitched side. "You're right. I made a mistake. A terrible one." "Damn right you did." "And if I could go back and change it, I would," he continued, stepping closer. "In a heartbeat. But I can't, Rory. All I can do is try to make it right." "By showing up bleeding on my doorstep?" "By showing up and telling you the truth. All of it. No more secrets, no more disappearances." He reached out, tucking a strand of her black hair behind her ear. "If you'll let me." Rory's breath hitched at his touch, at the sincerity in his mismatched eyes. She had missed him—God, how she had missed him—but the wounds he had left were deeper than the one she had just stitched. "Why now?" she asked softly. "What's changed?" "Everything," he said simply. "And nothing at all. Except that I've realized that being without you is worse than any danger Malphas could pose." The confession hung between them, heavy and fragile. Rory's heart warred with her head, with the memory of every time he had let her down, every time she had forgiven him only to be hurt again. "You should go," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. Lucien's expression didn't change, but she saw the flicker of pain in his eyes. "If that's what you want." "I don't know what I want," she admitted. "That's the problem." He nodded slowly, reaching for his shirt. "I understand. But Rory?" He paused at the door, his hand on the handle. "I'm not leaving London. Not this time. And I'm not giving up on us." Before she could respond, he was gone, leaving only the scent of sandalwood and the memory of his touch behind. Rory sank into the chair he had just vacated, her head in her hands, wondering how she had ever thought she could keep him out of her heart when he had been living there all along.