Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR6WKDZ1T8SPC0AX9JGXNC

The door swung open to reveal Lucien Moreau, immaculate as ever in a charcoal three-piece suit despite the late hour. His mismatched eyes—one amber, one black—met hers with an expression she couldn't quite read. The ivory handle of his cane gleamed in the hallway's fluorescent light. Rory's hand tightened on the doorframe. "You're not Eva." "Your powers of observation remain sharp." His accent wrapped around the words like silk over steel. He tilted his head, platinum hair catching the light. "May I come in?" "No." "Aurora—" "It's Rory. You know it's Rory." She didn't move from the doorway, her body a deliberate barrier between him and Eva's flat. Behind her, she could hear Ptolemy's indignant meow at having his evening interrupted. "How did you even find this place?" "I'm an information broker. Finding people is rather the point of my profession." He shifted his weight slightly, leaning on the cane. "Though I confess I had hoped for a warmer reception." "Did you?" The words came out sharper than she intended. Four months. It had been four months since she'd walked out of his Mayfair townhouse at three in the morning, shoes in hand, after he'd made it abundantly clear that whatever was between them couldn't continue. That his world—the supernatural underworld he navigated with such ease—was too dangerous for someone like her. Human. Breakable. Disposable. She'd believed him. Convinced herself she'd imagined the way his fingers had lingered on her wrist when she left, the crack in his composure when she'd said goodbye. "I have information about Silas," Lucien said, his tone shifting to something more businesslike. "About the Kensington incident. I thought you would want to know." "You could have called." "You changed your number." "Funny how that works when someone tells you they never want to see you again." Something flickered across his face—there and gone so quickly she almost missed it. "I don't recall using those exact words." "The sentiment was clear enough." Rory crossed her arms, suddenly aware she was still in her delivery uniform—the Golden Empress polo shirt stained with sweet and sour sauce from a particularly eventful drop-off in Shoreditch. She'd come straight to Eva's after her shift, desperate for research help on the strange symbol that had appeared on her apartment door. Now this. "What do you really want, Lucien?" He was quiet for a long moment, those unsettling eyes studying her face. When he spoke, his voice had dropped lower. "To ensure you're safe. There are rumors circulating about a human woman interfering in supernatural affairs. A woman matching your description." "I haven't been interfering in anything." "No?" One platinum eyebrow arched. "Then you didn't disrupt a black market transaction in Southwark three weeks ago? Didn't help that werewolf pack in Hackney negotiate with the Thornwood Court? Didn't personally deliver a cursed artifact to the Thames for proper disposal?" Heat crept up her neck. "Eva needed help with those. I was just—" "Getting involved. Precisely." He took a step closer, and she caught the familiar scent of his cologne—bergamot and something darker, something that reminded her of smoke and old books. "The supernatural community has noticed, Aurora. You're making yourself visible. Making yourself a target." "That's not your problem anymore." But even as she said it, her pulse quickened. He was close enough now that she could see the faint shadow along his jaw, the way his collar sat slightly loose—unusual for someone who dressed with such precision. "When's the last time you slept?" The question seemed to catch him off guard. "I fail to see how that's relevant." "You look like hell." It was a lie. He looked devastating, as always, but there were shadows under his eyes she didn't remember. A tension in his shoulders that spoke of exhaustion held at bay through sheer will. "What's really going on?" "I told you. I have information—" "Bullshit." She stepped fully into the hallway, letting the door close behind her. The three deadbolts clicked automatically, Eva's paranoia built into the very architecture of the place. "You're Lucien Moreau. You don't make house calls for information drops. You summon people to that pretentious townhouse of yours and make them beg for scraps." She moved closer, watching his expression. "Try again." His jaw tightened. For a moment she thought he might deflect again, retreat behind that polished facade he wore like armor. Then something cracked. "There's a contract on you," he said quietly. "Posted two days ago on the Umbral Exchange. Ten thousand pounds to anyone who delivers you to a buyer whose identity is being kept anonymous." The words hit her like cold water. "What?" "Someone wants you very badly, and they're willing to pay for the privilege of whatever they have planned." His hand shifted on the cane, knuckles white against the ivory. "I've been attempting to trace the contract's origin. So far, I've discovered nothing useful except that whoever posted it has considerable resources and knows how to cover their tracks." "And you came here because..." "Because the flat above Silas' bar is being watched. Because following you from the restaurant would have drawn attention I couldn't afford. Because—" He stopped, something warring behind his expression. "Because in four months I haven't managed to convince myself that your safety isn't my concern." The admission hung between them in the narrow hallway. Somewhere below, bass thumped from the curry house's sound system. A door slammed on a lower floor. "You told me to stay away from your world," Rory said, hating how her voice wavered slightly. "You said I was a liability. That I'd get myself killed playing in the shadows." "I know what I said." "So what changed?" "Nothing." The word was barely a whisper. He reached out slowly, carefully, as if expecting her to pull away. His fingers brushed the small crescent scar on her left wrist—an old habit from nights spent tangled together in his sheets, when he'd trace it absently and she'd pretend not to notice. "Everything. I don't know." She should step back. Should tell him to leave, to take his information and his concern and his devastating eyes somewhere far away from her. Should protect herself the way she'd learned to protect herself from Evan, from every person who'd ever made her feel like she was drowning. Instead, she turned her wrist, catching his hand in hers. His skin was warmer than she remembered—the demon blood that ran through his veins keeping him just above human temperature. "The contract," she said, watching his face. "Tell me everything you know." His fingers tightened around hers. "Not here. These hallways have ears, and I don't trust Eva's wards to keep out every interested party." He paused. "Come back to the townhouse. We can talk properly there." "Lucien—" "I'm not asking for anything else. Just conversation. Strategy." Something flickered in his expression. "Please." She'd never heard him say please before. Not like that, stripped of artifice and edge. Behind her, the deadbolts clicked. The door opened a crack, revealing Eva's suspicious face. "Rory? Everything all right out here?" "Yeah." Rory didn't look away from Lucien. "Yeah, I think it is." "I'll need to explain to Eva," she told him. "And I have work tomorrow afternoon. But after that..." "I'll send a car." The relief in his voice was subtle but unmistakable. His thumb brushed once across her knuckles before he released her hand. "Thank you." He turned to leave, cane clicking against the floor, but paused after a few steps. "Aurora? For what it's worth, you were never a liability. You were—" He stopped, seeming to reconsider. "Be careful. Please." Then he was gone, disappearing down the stairwell like smoke, leaving her standing in the hallway with her heart hammering against her ribs and four months of carefully constructed distance crumbling to dust.