Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR5CAWYW7Z0MAP8WZ5XN1R

The deadbolts clicked open one by one, each metallic snap echoing in the narrow hallway. Rory paused with her hand on the doorknob, the scent of spices from the curry house below wafting up through the floorboards. She'd just finished her delivery shift at the Golden Empress, and her muscles ached with the kind of exhaustion that settled deep in her bones. "Coming, Ptolemy," she called out to the tabby cat who had been meowing insistently for the last ten minutes. "Some of us have to work for a living." Rory swung the door open and stopped dead. The cat meowed again, weaving between her legs, but Rory barely registered it. Standing in the dimly lit hallway of her Brick Lane flat was the last person she expected to see—Lucien Moreau, leaning against the doorframe as if he belonged there, his ivory-handled cane resting against his thigh. He was dressed in his usual tailored charcoal suit, the platinum blond hair slicked back from his face, revealing those unsettling eyes—one amber, one black—that seemed to see right through her. They had been good once, better than good, until everything had fallen apart spectacularly three months ago. "Lucien," she said, her voice flat despite the sudden acceleration of her heart rate. "What are you doing here?" "Is that any way to greet an old friend?" he replied, his accent a smooth blend of French and something older, something that didn't quite belong in this world. "We're not friends," she countered, her hand tightening on the doorknob. "And you can't just show up here unannounced. I have three deadbolts for a reason." "Curiosity killed the cat," Lucien said, his gaze dropping to Ptolemy, who had stopped meowing and was now staring at him with unusual intensity. "Or so they say. May I come in? We have matters to discuss." Rory hesitated, every instinct screaming at her to slam the door in his face. But the part of her that had always been drawn to him—to the danger he represented, to the secrets he kept—won out. She stepped aside, allowing him to enter the cramped flat that was overflowing with books, scrolls, and research notes. Lucien moved with an unnatural grace that belied the cane he carried, his eyes scanning every detail of the space. "Still drowning in paperwork, I see. You really should consider a proper filing system." "We're not here to discuss my organizational skills," she said, closing the door and engaging all three deadbolts. The sound was louder this time, a clear boundary between them and the outside world. "What do you want, Lucien?" He turned to face her, and for a moment, the facade of the cool, collected information broker slipped. She saw something else in his eyes—pain, perhaps, or regret. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by his usual guarded expression. "I heard about what happened with Evan," he said, his voice softer than she expected. "I'm sorry I wasn't there." Rory tensed, the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist tingling as if in memory. "You made your choices, Lucien. Just like I made mine." "Did you?" he challenged, taking a step closer. The air between them crackled with unspoken words and unresolved tension. "Or did you run away like you always do when things get complicated?" "I didn't run," she shot back, though even to her own ears, the protest sounded weak. "I made a strategic withdrawal. There's a difference." "Is that what you call hiding in this tiny flat above a curry house, working deliveries and pretending your life isn't falling apart?" His words were cruel, but there was an edge of desperation to them, as if he was trying to provoke a reaction from her. "My life is none of your business anymore," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "You made that perfectly clear when you chose your loyalty to your demonic heritage over whatever this was between us." The words hung in the air between them, sharp and painful. Three months ago, Lucien had been forced to choose between standing with Rory against a threat from his father's realm or maintaining his position in London's supernatural underworld. He had chosen the latter, and Rory had been left to deal with the consequences alone. "I had no choice," he said quietly, the amber eye seeming to glow in the dim light of the flat. "You don't understand what my father is capable of." "I understand enough," she replied, turning away to busy herself with straightening a pile of books that didn't need straightening. "I understand that when it came down to it, I wasn't worth risking your position for." "That's not true," he said, his voice suddenly fierce. "That's never been true." Rory turned back to find him standing directly in front of her, having crossed the small space without her noticing. She could see the fine lines around his eyes now, the tension in his jaw. He looked tired, she realized, and something in her softened despite herself. "Then why are you here, Lucien?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Why now?" "Because I can't stop thinking about you," he admitted, his gaze dropping to her lips before meeting her eyes again. "Because I made a mistake, and unlike you, I don't run from my mistakes." Rory swallowed hard, the years of history between them—the attraction, the hurt, the things left unsaid—pressing down on her. She had never been able to resist him, not really. Not when they had first met in Silas' bar, not when he had shown her the hidden world that existed beneath London's streets, and certainly not now, when he was standing in her flat looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered. "Three months, Lucien," she said, her voice shaking. "Three months of silence, of wondering if you were even alive, of dealing with everything on my own." "I know," he said, reaching out to touch her face, his fingers cool against her skin. "And I would endure a thousand times that if it meant I could see you again." Rory closed her eyes, leaning into his touch despite her better judgment. She had always been cool-headed, intelligent, capable of quick out-of-the-box thinking—but when it came to Lucien, all of that went out the window. He was her weakness, her blind spot, the one person who could make her forget all the reasons she should stay away. "I missed you," she whispered, the confession tearing itself from her throat. "I hated myself for it, but I did." Lucien's expression softened, the guarded mask finally slipping away completely. "I missed you too, Rory. Every single day." He leaned in slowly, giving her time to pull away, but she didn't. She met him halfway, her lips pressing against his in a kiss that was both familiar and new, filled with all the longing and regret of the past three months. His arms came around her, pulling her close, and for the first time in months, Rory felt like she was home. When they finally broke apart, breathless, Lucien rested his forehead against hers. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "For everything." "I know," she replied, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "But sorry doesn't fix everything." "Then let me make it up to you," he said, his voice serious. "Let me show you that I can be the man you need me to be." Rory looked into his heterochromatic eyes, searching for sincerity, for any sign that this time might be different. She found it there, along with the love that had never truly died between them, no matter how much they had tried to kill it. "One chance," she said finally, her heart pounding. "That's all I'm offering, Lucien. One chance to get it right." He smiled then, a genuine smile that transformed his face from dangerously handsome to breathtakingly beautiful. "One chance is all I need." And as they stood there in the cramped flat above the curry house, surrounded by books and scrolls and the weight of their shared history, Rory allowed herself to hope that maybe, just maybe, they could find their way back to each other.