Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR5PAXSFXV40F2YK9NH0WX

The knock came just as Aurora managed to convince Ptolemy not to eat her notes. The tabby’s paw froze mid-swipe over a stack of Eva’s printouts, ears flicking toward the door. The sound wasn’t the hesitant tap of a neighbor or the heavy, impatient pounding of a delivery driver. Three steady raps. Knuckles, not fist. Deliberate. Rory froze with one hand buried in warm fur, heart tripping. It was late for visitors. Too late. And Eva was on night shift at the hospital, her last text an hour ago: Don’t wait up. Don’t let Ptolemy con you into a second dinner. The knocks came again—same rhythm, same calm insistence. “Brilliant,” Rory muttered. She eased away from the coffee table, stepping over drifts of notebooks and a teetering tower of library books. The air in the cramped flat was thick with spices from the curry house below, cardamom and frying oil clinging to the walls. A draft crept under the door, smelling of rain on Brick Lane and exhaust fumes. Ptolemy leapt lightly onto the arm of the sagging sofa, tail twitching, golden eyes narrowed at the door. Guard cat mode. Rory slid the chain, fingers brushing the first deadbolt out of habit. Eva’s paranoia had rubbed off; growing up with three locks would do that. She peered through the peephole. Her stomach dropped, then clenched so hard she felt a flicker of nausea. Of all the doorways in London, he had chosen this one. Lucien stood in the dim stairwell light like the corridor belonged to him. He always had a way of doing that—inhabiting spaces rather than simply standing in them. Tailored charcoal suit, pressed to within an inch of its life; platinum blond hair slicked back from his angular face, a single rebellious strand curling near his temple. His ivory-handled cane rested lightly against his palm, not because he needed it, but because he liked what it did for a first impression. He was looking straight at the peephole. Of course he was. Rory stepped back, heart now pounding too loud for her liking. Heat rose to her cheeks, absurd, unjustifiable. Six months. No calls, no texts, no chance encounters in Adelaide’s bar, no whispers in back alleys. Just a very careful, very deliberate absence. And now he was on the other side of her best friend’s door. He knocked a third time—lighter now, almost amused. She could pretend not to be in. She could let him stand out there until he got bored and slunk back to whatever shadowed corner he’d carved out these days. But Lucien Moreau didn’t knock on doors unannounced for casual visits. If he was here, something had already gone wrong. “Bloody hell,” Rory breathed, and began undoing the locks. The three deadbolts gave way with a series of heavy clicks. She hesitated on the last one, fingers curled around cold metal. Memory pressed against her ribs—the last time she’d seen him, the taste of cheap bourbon and copper on her tongue, adrenaline still surging as she realized what he’d done. What he hadn’t told her. You knew he was here. And you watched me walk in blind. She turned the last lock. The door opened on a wash of damp air and sodium-orange light. Lucien filled the frame, broad shoulders lining up neatly with the scuffed doorjamb. Up close, the scent of rain on wool and something darker, indefinably sharp, cut through the curry-house fug. “Aurora,” he said, and the name in his French-warmed voice landed somewhere inconvenient just under her sternum. Nobody called her Aurora. Not anymore. Not unless they wanted something. “Lucien,” she replied, cool as she could manage. “You’re lost. The expensive end of town is that way.” She nodded past him toward the street. Sarcasm—it steadied her, like gripping a familiar blade. One corner of his mouth lifted. “I haven’t been lost since I was eight years old and left in a Carrefour in Toulon. Your geography, however, continues to disappoint.” His eyes—one amber, one bottomless black—scanned her face, sharp and searching. There was the barest pause, as if he were cataloguing the changes. Or making sure she was still in one piece. “May I come in?” he added, almost as an afterthought. She should say no. She knew that as clearly as she knew the pattern of cracks along Eva’s ceiling. Letting Lucien into any space, physical or otherwise, had never ended cleanly. “What do you want?” she said instead. Behind her, Ptolemy released a questioning mrrp. Lucien’s gaze flicked past her, softening infinitesimally at the sight of the cat, then returned to her. “To avoid a very public and very tedious altercation on Brick Lane,” he said. “Your stairwell has more witnesses than you’d think. One of them carries blessed salt. Rather unimaginative, but inconvenient.” Her pulse skipped. Trouble, then. The half-demon kind. She should slam the door. Call Silas. Call Eva. Call anyone but him. She stepped back. “Fine. Two minutes.” She widened the door just enough to let him brush past. “Don’t lean on anything. It might collapse under the weight of your ego.” Lucien’s smile was quick and fleeting, like it surprised him. He moved inside with that fluid, unhurried grace she’d always been annoyingly aware of, cane tapping once against the worn floorboards. The flat closed around him, all bookshelves and low ceilings and the faint hum of the curry-house extractor fan. He didn’t belong here; he was all clean lines and expensive fabric in a space full of coffee rings and clutter. Ptolemy hopped down to sniff at his shoes. Lucien paused, lowering the cane slightly. “Bonjour, mon roi,” he murmured without looking away from Rory. Ptolemy, shameless traitor, purred. She folded her arms over her chest. “You didn’t answer my question.” Lucien took in the chaotic living room with a single sweep of his gaze—the maps pinned haphazardly above the sofa, the candles burned down to nubs on every available surface, Eva’s notebooks spilling half-open on the table. His attention snagged briefly on the mug by the sink, the steam still rising from it. “Chamomile,” he observed. “Nervous?” “Insomnia,” she shot back. “Try being human sometime, it’s full of fun surprises.” His eyes flickered, the black one swallowing light in that way that always made her think of deep water. She could almost feel the moment he decided not to rise to the bait. “I didn’t come to fight,” he said quietly. “Not with you.” “That’s new,” she said. “Personal growth?” “Desperation,” he corrected, dry. That word tightened her spine. Desperation in his world wasn’t a melodramatic flourish. It was a symptom. Rory exhaled through her nose, trying—not entirely successfully—to steady herself. She moved deeper into the room, putting the battered coffee table between them, needing the barrier. The lamplight caught on the small crescent scar on her left wrist as she pushed a stack of papers aside. Lucien’s gaze dipped to it, lingered. Heat prickled along the skin there, memory unhelpfully rising of his hand closing around that exact spot the night she’d walked away. “You have one minute,” she lied. “Use small words.” He set the cane upright, resting both hands over the ivory handle. The gesture looked easy, but she’d learned to read him. White knuckles against pale bone. “Evan is back in London,” Lucien said. “And he’s not alone.” The name leaked into the room like a toxin. The walls seemed to press in by an inch. Rory’s throat went dry. Of all the reasons she’d imagined for his return—none of them pleasant—this one managed to be worse. “Eva told you?” she asked. He shook his head once. “Eva tried very hard not to. She has an admirable poker face for a scientist. But no. This came from other sources.” “Your demon daddy’s little helpers?” Her voice came out thinner than she’d intended. “Or is this from the same network that forgot to mention he was in Soho last spring?” Something flickered across his expression. Guilt, maybe. Or irritation at being reminded he could feel it. “I deserved that,” he said quietly. She hated that he wasn’t arguing. Rory turned away long enough to busy herself with pointless motion—stacking books, straightening an already-straight pile of printouts. Heat puddled under her skin, anger and fear crashing into each other, indistinguishable. “You knew he was here,” she said, not looking at him. “Last time. You let me walk right into it.” “I didn’t let you do anything.” The edge crept back into his tone. “You made a choice, as you always do.” Her laugh was short and sharp. “That’s rich, coming from someone who orchestrates choices three steps in advance.” Silence stretched taut between them. Ptolemy, oblivious to the human minefield, sprang onto the windowsill and started washing a paw. Lucien spoke first. “I knew he was in London,” he admitted. The words landed heavy. “I did not know he’d find you that night. I miscalculated his fixation.” Rory spun to face him. “My trauma is not a rounding error, Lucien.” Color rose along his cheekbones, faint but unmistakable. She’d seen him negotiate with things that weren’t entirely human without his heartbeat changing. To get that reaction now sent a dark, reckless thrill through her. “I know,” he said. “And if we audit past sins, we’ll be here all night. Unfortunately, that luxury aside, the situation has—evolved.” He reached into his inner jacket pocket with unhurried care, as if wary of startling her. She watched his hands, not his eyes, every muscle tensed. He produced a folded slip of thick paper and set it on the table between them. Her name stared up at her in neat, looping script. Aurora Carter. Beneath it, a sigil she recognized from Eva’s demonology notes, drawn with someone’s expensive fountain pen. “You’re on a list,” he said. “More accurately, a ledger. Evan’s new associates collect debts. They think you owe them something, by extension of him.” A bitter taste rose at the back of her throat. “He’s trading on my name now? That’s pathetic even for him.” “It’s more dangerous than pathetic.” Lucien’s gaze cut into hers. “I intercepted this at the Docklands. It was en route to a broker who works both sides—mortal and otherwise. Once your name circulates in those channels...” He let the thought trail off. He didn’t need to finish it. She’d seen what happened to people whose names became commodities. Fear pressed cold fingers along her spine, but underneath it, something else burned. Not quite gratitude that he’d found this. Not yet. Something like the shape gratitude might take, if she ever allowed it. “And what?” she asked. “You just happened to stumble on it? Or was this another miscalculation finally catching up with you?” “I was looking for it,” he said simply. That threw her. “For me,” she translated. “Yes.” The room seemed very small all of a sudden. The radiator clicked in the corner. Somewhere below, someone shouted in Bengali; a car horn answered. She picked up the paper carefully, as if it might go off in her hands. Her name felt heavier in ink than it did in her mouth. “I told myself,” she said slowly, “that you only cared because I was useful to you. That it was all just…good business. Information in, favors out.” He watched her, expression unreadable. “That would have been a very sensible assessment.” “And is it?” She forced the question out before she could swallow it. “Am I just a badly managed portfolio coming back to bite you?” Something in his posture shifted—small, almost imperceptible. His shoulders eased, not in relaxation but in surrender. “You are,” Lucien said, “an unmitigated disaster for my professional reputation.” Her eyes narrowed. “You are impulsive, you argue with everything, you owe at least four unsavory parties money for various reasons, and you have an alarming tendency to put yourself between vulnerable people and whatever hell is coming for them.” His gaze didn’t leave her face. “You are also the only person in this city who has ever hung up on me. Twice.” “That was three times,” she muttered. His mouth twitched. “My mistake. Three.” He let a beat pass, the humor draining away, leaving something rawer behind. “And you are,” he said, quieter now, “not just useful.” The words slid into the room and lodged there, awkward and unadorned. He looked almost uncomfortable with them, as if sincerity were a suit that didn’t quite fit. Her chest tightened. “We’re not doing this,” she said automatically. Reflex. Defense. “Doing what?” “This.” She gestured between them, hand jerking. “The whole intense eye contact, emotional honesty thing. You don’t get to show up with bad news and…feelings.” He huffed out a breath, almost a laugh. “Feelings,” he repeated. “How appalling.” Silence crept back in, but it was different now—warmer at the edges, prickling. Rory rubbed her thumb over the edge of the paper until it bent. “You’re telling me I’m in danger,” she said. “That Evan’s demons—friends, whatever—have my name on a shopping list. Why come here, Lucien? Why not just send a text? Or better yet, tell Silas and let him handle it.” His gaze dropped to her wrist again, to the pale scar, to the way her fingers trembled almost imperceptibly. “Because you wouldn’t have answered a text from me,” he said, voice low. “And because if I told Silas, he would lock you in a basement somewhere and call it protection. You’d break out within a day and we’d be back to the beginning, except you’d be angry with two of us instead of one.” He had the gall to sound…fond. “And because,” he added, “I owed you the courtesy of saying it to your face. After last time.” A slow, aching anger unfurled in her chest—not the sharp, live-wire kind, but something older, sadder. “You don’t get to decide what you owe me,” she said. It came out softer than she meant. Lucien set the cane aside, propping it against the wall. Without it, he seemed somehow more present, less like a caricature of himself. He took a step closer to the coffee table. “You’re right,” he said. “So. Decide for me.” Her breath hitched. She hadn’t expected that. She’d expected deflection, a clever line, an exit. “I want—” She stopped, because the first word that sprang to mind wasn’t safe. Not here. Not with him. He waited. Patient. Unmoving. The black of his right eye swallowed the light like ink in water. You want him to be safe, she thought suddenly, wildly. You want him to be someone he can’t be. “I want you to stop keeping me in the dark,” she managed. “If I’m in it with you, then I’m in it. No more strategic omissions. No more deciding what I can handle.” His throat worked as he swallowed. “Agreed,” he said. She blinked. “Just like that?” “Just like that.” A beat. “On one condition.” “Of course,” she muttered. “Here we go.” “You don’t disappear again,” he said. “If you’re angry, you tell me. If you’re afraid, you tell me. If you need—” He broke off, jaw flexing. She could see the word he wasn’t saying. Help. Rory’s laugh came out shaky. “You make it sound like we’re in some kind of…relationship.” “Aren’t we?” he asked, and there was something almost reckless in his tone now. “It may be unconventional, and deeply ill-advised, but it exists nonetheless.” Ptolemy chose that moment to jump down and wind himself between Lucien’s legs, demanding attention. Lucien glanced down, then back at her, as if even the cat’s timing were a minor inconvenience. “Stay here tonight,” he added, abruptly, as if he’d been holding the words back. “Eva asked me to—before you assume otherwise. She thought you’d object less if the suggestion came from me instead of her.” Rory stared. “Eva knew you were coming?” “She invited me,” he said. “In her own…direct way. Something about ‘If she sees your stupid face, she might actually listen.’” Despite everything—the fear, the anger, the mess of it—Rory felt an unwilling smile tug at her mouth. “That sounds like her.” “I thought so,” he said. She glanced at the too-narrow sofa, at the miserable excuse for a fold-out chair in the corner. “Where exactly are you planning to sleep? On a bed of open books and cold takeaway containers?” “I’ll manage,” Lucien said. “I’ve slept in worse places.” She believed him. She’d seen some of them. Rory dragged a hand through her straight black hair, feeling the roots catch. The idea of him staying—of breathing the same air all night in this tiny flat, of hearing the soft creak of floorboards as he moved, of knowing he was between her and the door if anything came— Dangerous, her mind supplied. Reckless. Tempting. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” she said finally. “I wouldn’t insult you by assuming so,” he replied. “And we’re talking,” she added. “Tomorrow. Properly. About everything.” A faint warmth touched his features, there and gone. “I look forward to it,” he said, sounding unnervingly like he meant it. She stepped around the table, the space between them shrinking to a breath. Up close, she could see the faint bruise darkening along his jaw, half-hidden beneath impeccable grooming. An ugly, livid mark, stark against his pale skin. “Who hit you?” she asked before she could stop herself. His smile turned wry. “Someone who no longer has all his teeth.” She lifted her hand, almost without thinking, fingers hovering near the bruise. He went very still, that preternatural, predator’s stillness that always reminded her what ran in his veins. She hesitated, then let her fingertips brush his skin, light as dust. Heat radiated from him, unnatural and steady. His eyes slipped half-closed. For one suspended heartbeat, the noise of the street below, the hum of the fan, the world itself blurred at the edges. There was just the worn carpet under bare feet, the sharp smell of rain, the familiar, infuriating, impossible man in front of her. “We’re not doing this,” she murmured, but her hand didn’t move. He opened his eyes. The amber one burned; the black one reflected her back at herself. “We already are,” Lucien said softly. Rory’s pulse thundered in her ears. For one dizzy second, she thought she might close the last inches between them, press her mouth to his and taste all the bad decisions waiting there. Instead, she dropped her hand. “Couch is yours,” she said, voice rough. “Try not to summon anything in your sleep. Eva will kill you if you scorch her thesis.” He inclined his head, a small, formal acknowledgment that felt absurd in this cluttered little flat. “As you wish, Aurora.” She rolled her eyes, turned away, and pretended she didn’t feel the weight of his gaze tracing the line of her shoulders all the way to her bedroom door.