Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR7VJG8RABGQRXJ61KDASM

Aurora had one hand wrapped around a mug that had gone cold twenty minutes ago and the other hovering over Eva’s latest scrawl of arrows and half-translated Latin. The flat smelled like curry from downstairs and old paper and the lemon cleaner Eva used when she was anxious. The noise outside—Brick Lane’s perpetual shuffle of footsteps, mopeds, laughter—pressed against the thin windows like a palm. The knock wasn’t the polite sort. It landed in two sharp bursts, then a pause, then one more, slower, as if whoever stood on the landing had decided not to beg. Ptolemy, who had been draped across a stack of books like a spoiled monarch, lifted his tabby head and fixed the door with a stare that suggested he owned the hallway too. Aurora set the mug down. The ceramic clicked against a saucer buried under papers. “Eva?” she called, out of habit, though Eva was on the late shift at the museum and had texted she wouldn’t be back until after midnight. Another knock. Close. Impatient. Her stomach tightened. In London, surprises were rarely good ones. She crossed the cramped living room, careful not to step on a rolled scroll that looked expensive and fragile, and reached the front door. Three deadbolts, all thrown, because Eva slept like the world was always about to end. Aurora slid the top bolt back. Metal rasped. The second. The third. Her left wrist brushed the doorframe as she turned the latch, the small crescent scar catching on the rough paint for a heartbeat—an old sting that always made her feel briefly younger, briefly less in control. She opened the door. Lucien Moreau stood on the landing like a man from a different city had taken a wrong turn and decided to stay anyway. Charcoal suit, cut so clean it made the narrow hallway look shabby by comparison. Platinum hair slicked back from his forehead, not a strand out of place despite the damp London air. His cane—ivory handle, the sort of thing that belonged in a museum or a villain’s hand—rested lightly against his palm. And his eyes. One amber, one black, both locked on her with the kind of attention that had once made her feel chosen. Now it made her feel seen through. For half a second Aurora forgot the door was open and the hallway was cold and her hair was unwashed and she was wearing Eva’s oversized jumper with a tea stain on the cuff. She forgot how to arrange her face into indifference. Lucien’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Bonsoir, Rory.” Her throat tightened on the nickname. It shouldn’t still land like that. She forced air into her lungs, forced her voice to behave. “Don’t call me that.” His gaze flicked down and up again, swift, thorough, as if cataloguing the ways she’d changed. “Aurora, then.” “You can’t be here,” she said, and hated that it sounded like a plea. “I am here.” He glanced past her shoulder into the flat, taking in the crowded walls of books and the nest of papers. Ptolemy rose and padded closer, tail high, then stopped just behind Aurora’s bare ankles like a small, furry bodyguard. “This is Eva’s place.” “Congratulations,” Aurora said. “Your eyes still work.” Something shifted behind Lucien’s composure. Not irritation. Something closer to relief, like her sharpness meant she was alive and therefore the world hadn’t won. He lowered his voice, as if the stairwell itself might be listening. “May I come in?” Aurora’s hand tightened on the edge of the door. The sensible thing was to say no. The sensible thing was to close it, throw all three bolts, and pretend she hadn’t just felt the old magnetic pull of him, that first dangerous warmth. The sensible thing didn’t account for the way he had appeared on her doorstep after months of silence. Didn’t account for the fact that if Lucien Moreau wanted something, he usually got it—quietly, elegantly, and at other people’s expense. “What do you want?” she asked. His gaze held hers. “To speak with you.” “That’s vague.” “It’s also honest.” She laughed once, without humor. “You and honesty. That’s new.” His jaw tightened, then loosened, controlled. “Rory…” “Don’t.” He exhaled through his nose. The landing light caught in his amber eye, turning it molten for a moment. “Aurora. Please.” The word landed differently. Please from Lucien was rare enough to be a currency. Aurora stepped back, not because she’d decided to let him in, but because the narrow hallway made it impossible to breathe with him so close. Her body had always reacted to him before her mind caught up—heat, awareness, a ridiculous urge to lean in and test whether his calm was a mask you could peel away with your mouth. Lucien took her retreat as permission. He crossed the threshold without brushing her, but the air changed anyway, as if the room adjusted around him. He moved with the kind of quiet grace that made clutter look temporary. Ptolemy followed him with suspicion, then sat and began washing one paw, pretending not to care. Aurora shut the door hard enough to make the hanging coats tremble. Then, because she hated herself for it, she threw the bolts back into place. The sound of each one sliding home felt like punctuation. When she turned, Lucien was standing in the narrow strip of space between the door and the living room, his cane angled toward the floor. He looked too big for the flat, too composed. Like he might crack the ceiling just by raising his arms. “You shouldn’t have come here,” Aurora said, keeping her voice low. “Eva doesn’t need—” “Eva is not my concern.” He said it gently, which was almost worse. “You are.” Aurora’s pulse gave a stupid leap. “Don’t do that.” “Do what?” “Talk like you—” she stopped. Like you care, she meant. Like you didn’t leave without a word after telling her to trust you. Like you didn’t watch her walk away and let her. Lucien’s gaze dropped to her hands, to the way her fingers were curled into fists she hadn’t noticed. His eyes followed the line of her left wrist, the scar. He didn’t reach for it. He never reached without permission. That was part of what made him dangerous: he didn’t need to touch to make her feel touched. “You’re angry,” he said. “I’m observant,” Aurora shot back. “And yes. I’m angry. You don’t get to show up at my friend’s flat like it’s a bloody café and expect—what? Tea? Forgiveness?” His mouth twitched, a flash of something almost amused. “Tea would be welcome.” She stared at him. “You’re unbelievable.” “I’ve been told.” He leaned a fraction onto his cane, posture still elegant, the movement economical. “You look well.” “That’s a lie.” “It’s an assessment.” His gaze softened, and that softness was more unsettling than any threat. “You look like you haven’t been sleeping.” Aurora felt suddenly exposed, like every late-night spiral of thought was visible on her skin. “I’m fine.” Lucien’s black eye—his darker one—seemed to deepen, absorbing the light. “You are not.” She stepped into the living room because standing by the door made her feel cornered. She gestured at a patch of sofa visible beneath a heap of notes. “Sit if you want. Don’t touch anything. Eva will know.” Lucien’s gaze swept the mess. “Your friend has a particular relationship with order.” “She’s brilliant,” Aurora said automatically, protective, because it was easier than being vulnerable about herself. “And she’s saved my life more than once.” “So have I,” Lucien said, quiet. Aurora turned sharply. “Is that why you’re here? To tally up favors?” His expression tightened, the polite mask slipping enough to show something raw beneath it. “No.” He didn’t sit. He stood near the sofa, as if he didn’t trust himself to get comfortable. His cane remained in his hand. The ivory handle looked too pale against his skin. Aurora folded her arms. The sleeves of the jumper slid back, exposing her wrist again. She felt his eyes follow the movement, not leering, just… noticing, the way he noticed everything. “Talk,” she said. “You’ve got five minutes before I throw you out.” “You won’t,” Lucien said, and there was no arrogance in it, only certainty. Her cheeks heated. “Try me.” He held her gaze, and for a moment the room shrank to the space between them. The old pull woke up, stretching, hungry. She hated her body for remembering him so clearly—the crisp scent of his cologne, the heat of his hand at the small of her back, the way his voice could soften around her name when he forgot to be careful. Lucien’s voice dropped. “I didn’t leave because I wanted to.” Aurora felt the words like a hand around her throat. “You left,” she said, slow. “You were there one night, telling me I could trust you, that you’d handle it, and then you vanished. No message. No warning. Nothing. I thought—” She cut herself off before she could admit she’d thought the worst. That he’d used her. That he’d decided she was a liability. That he’d gotten bored. “I know,” Lucien said, and it came out like regret. Aurora’s laugh was brittle. “Do you? Because I spent weeks wondering if I’d imagined the whole thing. Like maybe you never looked at me the way you did. Maybe you never—” He flinched, small but real. “Aurora.” She swallowed. Her heart was beating too hard. “Don’t say my name like that,” she whispered. “Not when you didn’t think I deserved an explanation.” Lucien’s fingers tightened on the cane handle. For the first time since he’d arrived, his composure cracked enough for her to glimpse something jagged beneath—anger, not at her, but at himself or at whatever rules he lived under. “I was taken,” he said. Aurora stared. “Taken by who.” His gaze flicked to the window, then back to her. “If I tell you the name, it becomes part of your life. You’ve done enough running.” “I’m not running,” she said automatically, though the word hit something sore inside her. Cardiff. Evan. The way she’d left pieces of herself behind like dropped coins. Lucien stepped closer, careful, like approaching an animal that might bolt. His presence filled the space, warmth against the cold flat. “You are brave,” he said softly. “But you are not invulnerable.” Aurora’s fingers dug into her own arms. “You don’t get to call me brave as if it makes up for disappearing.” “It doesn’t,” he said. “Nothing makes up for it. I’m not asking you to forgive me tonight.” “Then why are you here?” Her voice cracked on the last word, and she hated that more than anything. Lucien’s gaze held hers, steady and intent. “Because I had a choice,” he said. “I could stay away and let you build a life that didn’t include me, like you tried to do. Or I could come to you and be honest, even if it costs me.” Aurora’s pulse stuttered. “Costs you what?” His mouth tightened, then relaxed. “Whatever you decide to do with the truth.” She stared at him, at the fine line of his mouth, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the way his suit sat on his shoulders like armor. She remembered him leaning close in a back room of a club she pretended she hadn’t been afraid to enter, his breath warm against her ear as he murmured a plan. She remembered the thrill of being seen by someone like him, someone dangerous and controlled, someone who had looked at her like she was worth risking things for. And she remembered the night he’d kissed her—slow, deliberate—as if making a promise with his mouth. And then the emptiness afterward when he was gone. Aurora forced herself to ask, “Were you taken because of me?” Lucien didn’t answer immediately. Silence expanded, filled with the distant noise of Brick Lane and the faint hum of the fridge. Ptolemy hopped onto the arm of the sofa and watched them, unblinking. Lucien’s gaze didn’t waver. “In part,” he said at last. “Yes.” Aurora’s breath left her in a harsh exhale. Anger flared, hot and immediate, because anger was easier than the other thing—the guilt, the fear, the tenderness. “So I was right,” she said. “I was a liability.” “No.” The word snapped out, sharper than anything he’d said so far. He took another step, and the air between them felt charged. “You were leverage. There is a difference.” Aurora’s laugh came out strangled. “That’s meant to make me feel better?” “It’s meant to make you understand.” Lucien’s voice softened again, and the shift made her chest ache. “I didn’t vanish because you weren’t enough. I vanished because you were too much of a risk to keep near me.” Aurora’s throat tightened. She hated how those words curled around her, how part of her wanted to take them like a balm. “You could’ve told me.” “Yes,” he said simply. “I should have.” She looked at him and saw, for a moment, not the polished fixer but a man who’d been forced into decisions that left bruises you couldn’t see. Half-demon, Eva had once said in a whisper, as if the walls might hear. Born of a realm that didn’t forgive softness. A man who learned early that attachment was a weapon others could use. Aurora swallowed, her voice quieter. “Why now.” Lucien’s gaze dropped, just briefly, to her mouth, and the heat that sparked there made her stomach twist. He looked back up, caught her watching, didn’t pretend he hadn’t done it. Honesty, then. Or something like it. “Because I thought I could keep you out of it,” he said. “And I was wrong. There are questions being asked about you, Aurora. About the girl from Cardiff who started delivering food by day and stumbling into the wrong rooms by night.” Her skin prickled. “Who’s asking.” Lucien’s expression tightened. “People who don’t knock.” Aurora glanced at the door without meaning to. Three bolts. Thin wood. Eva’s research scattered like kindling. The sudden sense of safety she’d been clinging to felt flimsy. She dragged her gaze back to him. “So you came to warn me.” “Yes.” He paused. His voice lowered. “And because I couldn’t—” He stopped, the first real stumble she’d ever seen in him, like the words had teeth. “I couldn’t leave things as they were between us.” Aurora’s heart thudded. “And how were they, Lucien?” His gaze held hers with an intensity that made her feel pinned and cherished at the same time. “Unfinished,” he said. The word slid under her ribs. Unfinished was exactly it. Not broken cleanly. Not resolved. Just left bleeding at the edges. Aurora stepped closer before she could talk herself out of it. The space between them narrowed until she could smell him properly—something crisp and dark, like cedar and smoke, like expensive choices. She hated that her body leaned toward him. Hated it and wanted it. “You don’t get to decide we’re unfinished,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t get to show up and—” Lucien lifted his hand, slow, stopping short of touching her. A question in the air. His eyes searched hers, not for permission to enter the flat—he’d already done that—but for permission to enter her. Aurora’s breath caught. She should say no. She should step back. She should be cool-headed, intelligent, out-of-the-box thinking Aurora Carter who didn’t let beautiful, dangerous men rearrange her life. But she wasn’t made of pure reason. She never had been. She’d simply gotten good at pretending. Her gaze dropped to his hand. Long fingers. Clean nails. A faint scar near the knuckle, almost hidden. Proof he bled too. “Say what you came to say,” she whispered, and the words were a challenge and a surrender tangled together. Lucien’s hand lowered, the air between his fingers and her skin still warm with what he hadn’t done. “I came to tell you the truth,” he said, voice rougher than before. “I came to ask you to let me help you. And”—his eyes flicked to her mouth again, then held—“I came because there isn’t a day I haven’t thought about the way you looked at me when you believed me.” Aurora’s chest tightened. Anger, hurt, longing—they collided and made something dizzying. “You don’t get to say that,” she breathed, though her body betrayed her, leaning in that last fraction. Lucien’s gaze went dark with restraint. “Then tell me what I get,” he said softly. “Tell me what you want from me, Aurora. Punishment? Distance? A door in my face?” Aurora’s hand rose, almost without permission, and landed lightly on his chest. The suit fabric was smooth under her palm, his warmth beneath it real. She felt his breath change, subtle, like her touch had reached something animal in him. “I wanted an explanation,” she said, voice unsteady. “I wanted you to care enough to—” She swallowed. “To not leave me guessing.” Lucien’s eyes held hers, and something in his face softened, like a vow forming. “I do care,” he said. “More than is wise.” Aurora’s laugh came out as a shaky breath. “You’re a fixer. Wise is supposed to be your brand.” His mouth tilted. “Perhaps I’m tired of my brand.” Her fingers curled, gripping his lapel as if to anchor herself. She could feel his heart under her palm, steady but faster than before. The knowledge made her dangerously tender. Outside, someone laughed in the street. A moped buzzed past. Life went on, indifferent. Inside Eva’s cramped flat, with its books and scrolls and the cat watching like a judge, Aurora stared up at Lucien Moreau and felt the old ache shift into something sharper. “You should’ve knocked like a normal person,” she whispered. “I did knock,” he murmured. “Not the point.” Lucien’s gaze flicked to her hand on his chest. “Then what is the point.” Aurora held his stare. She could still throw him out. She could still choose anger. She could still protect herself by making him the villain. But his honesty—ragged at the edges, imperfect—had slipped under her armor. “The point,” she said, voice low, “is that if you’re here to drag me back into whatever world you live in, you’d better stop disappearing.” Lucien’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in threat but in focus, like he’d just been handed a fragile thing. “I will not,” he said. The words landed with weight. “Not again.” Aurora’s throat tightened. She should demand more. She should ask for names, details, plans. She should be clever. Instead, her fingers slid up, brushing the knot of his tie, feeling the precise tension there. Lucien stilled, as if even he didn’t trust what might happen if he moved too fast. “You’re freezing,” he said softly, and she realized he wasn’t talking about the room. “I’m not,” she lied. Lucien’s hand rose again, slower than before, and this time he didn’t stop short. His knuckles brushed her cheek, barely a touch, the lightest claim. Heat shot through her like a struck match. Aurora closed her eyes for a heartbeat, hating how quickly her body answered him. When she opened them, his face was close enough that she could see the fine line where his control held. “Tell me you don’t want me to,” he said, voice a hush, “and I’ll leave. I’ll go down those stairs and I won’t come back unless you ask.” Aurora’s breath shook. The offer was impossible. Lucien leaving by her command, Lucien giving her the choice—it felt like a door opening in a wall she’d assumed was solid. She should say it. She should send him away and sleep and let her head clear. Instead, she whispered, “You don’t get to make me miss you for months and then stand here acting like you can just—” Lucien’s mouth brushed hers, not a kiss yet, just the faintest contact, testing. Her words died on her tongue. He waited, still, letting her decide. Aurora’s hand tightened on his tie and pulled him in. This time the kiss landed like an answer. Slow, controlled at first, then deepening with the heat of everything they hadn’t said. His hand slid to the back of her neck, firm but careful, as if holding her together. Aurora tasted him—clean, dark, and human in the way he breathed against her, in the way he shivered once when her fingers tangled in his collar. She broke the kiss on a shaky inhale, forehead nearly touching his. Her eyes stung, which was humiliating. Lucien’s thumb brushed her jaw, a quiet comfort that made her chest ache worse. “Aurora,” he murmured. “Don’t,” she whispered, and kissed him again anyway, because she couldn’t stop herself, because she didn’t want to. When she finally pulled back, she kept her hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat there as if memorizing it in case he vanished again. “We’re not done talking,” she said hoarsely. Lucien’s mouth curved, faint and sincere. “No,” he agreed. “We are not.” Ptolemy chose that moment to hop down from the sofa and thread himself between Aurora’s legs, tail brushing her calf, as if reminding her that she was still on Earth, still in Eva’s tiny flat above a curry house, still a woman with a life that could be upended by one man at her door. Aurora swallowed, forced herself to step back enough to think. Her lips tingled. Her heart felt too big for her ribs. “Start from the beginning,” she said, voice steadier by sheer will. “Who took you. Why they’re interested in me. And what you’re going to do to make sure Eva doesn’t end up caught in the middle.” Lucien straightened, control sliding back into place like a blade into a sheath, but his gaze stayed soft on her. “As you wish,” he said, and there was a quiet reverence in it that made her stomach flip. Aurora folded her arms again, reclaiming herself one inch at a time. “And Lucien?” “Yes.” “If you lie to me,” she said, meeting both his eyes, amber and black, “I will bolt all three locks and I won’t open the door again. Not for you. Not for anyone.” Lucien’s expression sobered. “I believe you.” Good, Aurora thought, even as her lips still remembered him. Let him believe her. Let him understand that whatever this was—unfinished, dangerous, tender—it would be on different terms now. He began to speak, and Aurora listened with the full sharpness of her mind, but with her heart still leaning forward, betraying her in the quietest way.