Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR6W03EDM5SHPAKAP7BHJ2

The third deadbolt clicked with a sound like a breaking bone, sharp and final in the narrow hallway. Aurora Carter froze, her hand still hovering over the delivery bag slung across her shoulder. The smell of ginger, star anise, and fried oil clung to her clothes, a persistent haze from her shift at the Golden Empress that no amount of London rain seemed to wash away. She had expected Eva, perhaps, or maybe the landlord coming to complain about the noise from the bar below. She did not expect the man standing on the other side of the threshold. Lucien Moreau filled the doorway, blocking the dim light from the stairwell. He looked exactly as he had three years ago, and yet entirely different. The tailored charcoal suit was sharper, the fabric absorbing the gloom of the corridor rather than reflecting it. His platinum blond hair was slicked back with ruthless precision, not a strand out of place despite the damp London evening. But it was his eyes that pinned her to the spot—the heterochromatic gaze that had once traced the line of her jaw with such devastating intimacy. One iris burned amber, warm and human; the other was a void of pure black, a window to the Avaros realm he tried so hard to keep buried. "Rory," he said. His voice was lower than she remembered, a smooth baritone that carried the faint, melodic lilt of Marseille beneath the London accent. Aurora's breath hitched, a traitorous stutter in her chest. Her bright blue eyes narrowed, instinctively defensive. "Lucien." She didn't move to invite him in. She didn't step back. "How did you find this place?" "Eva is not as discreet as she believes," Lucien replied, his gaze dropping briefly to the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, visible where her sleeve had ridden up. The memory of how he'd once kissed that scar, tracing the childhood accident with a reverence that made her feel sacred, flashed between them like a live wire. "And you are surprisingly easy to track when one knows where to look for the Golden Empress delivery receipts." "You're trespassing," she said, though her voice lacked the steel she intended. The history between them wasn't just words; it was a physical weight, a gravity that pulled at her ribs. They had parted in a storm of shouted accusations and things left unsaid, the kind of rupture that usually sealed a door forever. Yet here he was, leaning on his ivory-handled cane, looking as though he belonged in her cramped, chaotic world. "Am I?" He tilted his head, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. It didn't reach his eyes. "You haven't thrown a pot of tea at me yet. I'm taking that as an invitation." Before she could formulate a retort, Ptolemy, Eva's tabby cat, wove himself between Aurora's ankles and let out a demanding yowl. The spell broke. Aurora stepped back, the motion stiff, and waved a hand toward the interior of the flat. "Don't touch anything. And take your shoes off. Eva just had the rugs cleaned." Lucien complied with an elegance that made the mundane act of removing oxfords look like a ritual. He stepped inside, and immediately the flat seemed to shrink. Every surface was already drowning in Eva's research—stacks of books on Celtic mythology, scrolls detailing warding sigils, and notebooks filled with frantic scribbles covered the coffee table, the floor, and the single armchair. Lucien navigated the minefield of paper without disturbing a single sheet, his movements precise, controlled. "It's... cozy," he offered, his amber eye scanning the clutter. "It's a disaster," Aurora corrected, dropping her delivery bag onto the kitchen counter. The plastic crinkled loudly in the sudden silence. She turned to face him, crossing her arms over her chest. "Why are you here, Lucien? We said everything we needed to say in Paris. Or rather, we screamed everything we needed to say." "We didn't say everything," he countered softly. He moved further into the room, stopping just out of arm's reach. The air between them charged, thick with the unsaid. "I left because I thought it was the only way to keep you safe. My world... it bleeds, Rory. You saw what happened. I couldn't risk you becoming another casualty of my father's lineage." "I wasn't a casualty," she snapped, the old hurt flaring hot and bright. "I was a partner. You decided for me. You made the choice to walk away, to cut me off without a word for two years, and then you show up here, in my friend's flat, looking like you stepped out of a GQ spread, and expect me to just... what? Forgive you?" Lucien's expression tightened. The black pupil in his left eye seemed to dilate, swallowing more of the amber. "I never expected forgiveness. I expected to see you alive. The rumors in the underworld were... concerning. An abusive ex, a sudden flight from Cardiff, working delivery jobs in East London." His voice hardened on the last part, a flicker of anger breaking through his composure. "You deserve better than hiding above a curry house, Rory. You have a mind that could dismantle governments, and you're spending it navigating traffic in the rain." "It's called life, Lucien. It's messy and it's real, unlike your polished little underworld games." She walked past him, needing the distance, and began aggressively straightening a stack of papers on the table. Her hands were shaking. She hated that he could see it. Hated that after all this time, his presence still unraveled her cool-headed demeanor. "It is not a game," he said, his voice close behind her. She hadn't heard him move. "And I am not playing. Someone is asking about you. Not Evan. Someone worse. They know about the incident in Paris. They know you were with me." Aurora stopped moving. The room went very still, save for Ptolemy grooming his tail on the sofa. She slowly turned around. "Who?" "I don't have a name yet. Just a symbol. A mark from Avaros." He tapped the ivory handle of his cane. "I came to warn you. And to offer my protection. Again." "You think I need your protection?" She laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. "I survived Evan. I survived running away with nothing but the clothes on my back. I think I can handle whatever demon is sniffing around." "You survived," Lucien agreed, stepping closer until the heat of him radiated against her skin. "But you shouldn't have to. Not alone." He reached out, his fingers hovering near her wrist, near the scar. He didn't touch her, but the air shimmered where his hand paused. "I made a mistake, Aurora. Leaving you was the hardest thing I have ever done, and every day since has been a lesson in regret. I am not asking you to trust me blindly. I am asking you to let me stand between you and the dark, just for a little while." Aurora looked up into those mismatched eyes. She saw the exhaustion there, masked by the impeccable suit and the stoic posture. She saw the half-demon who had taught her how to pick a lock with a hairpin and how to speak enough French to order wine in a crisis. She remembered the way he used to look at her, as if she were the only source of light in a world made of shadows. The anger was still there, a hard knot in her stomach. But beneath it, the attraction hummed, undeniable and dangerous. The things left unsaid in Paris hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, demanding to be addressed. "If you stay," she said, her voice quiet, "you sleep on the floor. And you don't touch my research. And if you try to 'fix' anything with that hidden blade of yours, I will throw you out myself." A slow, genuine smile spread across Lucien's face, transforming him from the intimidating fixer back into the man she had once loved. "Understood. No fixing. Just guarding." "And Lucien?" "Yes?" "Don't call me Laila," she said, using the alias she'd briefly adopted when they first met, a name that belonged to a version of herself that no longer existed. "I'm Rory now." "Rory," he repeated, testing the name on his tongue like a promise. "It suits you." He stepped back, giving her space, but the tension in the room had shifted. It was no longer just fear or anger; it was the electric, terrifying possibility of a second chance. Outside, the rain battered against the window of the Brick Lane flat, but inside, amidst the chaos of books and scrolls, the silence felt fragile, waiting to be broken by whatever came next.