Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR9SE8JEEZZWAWHC8735A4

The door swung inward and Rory’s breath stalled in her throat. Lucien Moreau stood in the yellowed corridor light like he’d stepped out of a different world and into hers by mistake. Or on purpose, which was worse. Charcoal suit, immaculate as ever despite the drizzle she knew was falling outside. Platinum hair slicked back, not a strand out of place. Ivory-handled cane in one gloved hand, the gold tip resting lightly on Eva’s scuffed doormat. Heterochromatic gaze—amber and bottomless black—fixed on her with a focus that felt like touch. For one savage second, her body forgot it was supposed to hate him. “Bonsoir, Aurora,” he said. The old name—not Rory, not the clipped professional Carter—slid over her like a memory. His accent curled around it, softening the edges. Her stomach tightened. She almost shut the door in his face. Instead she tightened her grip on the handle until the old brass dug into her palm. “You’ve got the wrong flat.” He had the nerve to look amused. “Three deadbolts? Research notes on the windowsills? Smell of vindaloo bleeding through the floorboards? No, I think I have the right one.” From behind her, Ptolemy gave a solitary, questioning mrrp. Traitorous cat. Lucien’s gaze flicked over her shoulder, then came back, sharper now. “May I come in?” The hallway of Eva’s building was narrow, walls the colour of old teeth, faint curry and disinfectant stinging Rory’s nose. Somewhere downstairs a fryer hissed; someone shouted in Urdu. A door opened two floors down, voices spilling, then slammed again. She imagined trying to have this conversation with Lucien in the open. On the landing. With Mrs. Chandra’s ears pressed to her door and some drunk from the curry house staggering past. No, thanks. Rory stepped sideways, keeping one hand still tucked behind the door, as if she might slam it at any moment. “Two minutes.” He inclined his head, the smallest acknowledgment, and crossed the threshold. The cane tapped once on the worn floorboards, then again as he cleared the mat. Ptolemy, clearly offended a stranger had invaded his kingdom, hopped down from the cluttered table and padded forward, tail fluffed. Lucien closed the door gently behind him. The three deadbolts slid home with solid, familiar clacks, sealing them in. Her pulse ratcheted up at the sound. The flat felt smaller with him inside it. Cramped sofa, overflowing bookshelves spilling grimoires and city planning documents, Eva’s maps pinned crookedly to the walls. A single lamp cast a weak pool of light over the coffee table, illuminating stacks of scribbled notes and half-empty tea mugs. On the kitchenette counter, three takeout containers sweated sauce and steam. He did not belong here. He was polished glass and expensive whisky and low-lit back rooms where deals bled into danger. In Eva’s cramped one-bedroom above a Brick Lane curry house, he looked like he’d been photoshopped into the scene. “Christ,” Rory muttered, moving past him toward the sofa, partly to put something between them. “You’re like mildew. Impossible to get rid of.” He took in the room with a flick of his eyes but made no comment on the chaos. Only set his cane carefully against the wall by the door, removed his damp leather gloves finger by finger, and slipped them into his coat pocket. “You moved,” he said. “Silas mentioned the change in address.” Rory froze in the act of shoving a stack of Eva’s photocopied sigils off the cushion to sit. “Silas is giving out my location now?” “He was, as always, compensated appropriately for the information.” “Of course he was.” She sat, because standing made her feel like she was about to bolt, and she refused to give him that. Lucien remained by the door a moment longer, then unbuttoned his coat and stepped further in, the suit adjusting over his shoulders like it had been sewn there. Ptolemy marched up to him, sniffed the hem of his trousers, then, after a considering pause, wound himself around Lucien’s shin and head-butted his ankle. Rory blinked. “Et tu, Ptolemy?” Lucien’s lips quirked. He bent—deliberate, unhurried—and ran elegant fingers down the tabby’s back. “Animals are rarely wrong about people,” he said. “He likes the smell of hellfire, I guess.” Lucien straightened, eyes meeting hers. One amber, one jet. “You used to like it too.” The words landed between them like something dropped from a height. The air in the room shifted, heavier, thicker. The distant sizzle of the curry house downstairs became too loud; her own heartbeat roared in her ears. She shot to her feet. “We’re not doing that.” “Doing what?” His voice stayed maddeningly calm. “The thing where you stroll in here like you didn’t vanish mid-job, like you didn’t leave me to explain to a very pissed-off banshee why her relic had gone missing, and then—” Her throat snagged on the next part. She swallowed hard. “And then avoid my calls until I got the message.” Lucien watched her with that unsettling stillness he had when he was thinking three moves ahead. “Aurora—” “Don’t.” The word came out harsher than she intended. Ptolemy’s ears twitched; he darted under the table and disappeared among the boxes. “You don’t get to say my name like that. Not after nine months of radio silence.” His jaw ticked, the first crack in the composure. “Eight months and ten days.” It shouldn’t have meant anything, that he was counting. It did. Damn him. Rory ignored the sting behind her eyes and crossed to the kitchenette instead, needing the pretense of busy hands. She grabbed the nearest mug and realized belatedly there was a film of cold chamomile tea congealed at the bottom. “Why are you here, Lucien?” she asked, over the clink of ceramic in the sink. “If this is about work, you’re wasting your time. I’m out.” Water gushed from the tap, too loud in the tiny space. She turned it down, stared at the swirl of pale tea as it spiraled away. “Eva said—” “You spoke to Eva?” That cut through everything. She pivoted to face him. “When? What did you tell her?” He took a step closer, the lamplight snagging on the hard edges of his cheekbones. Up close, she could see the faint bluish shadows beneath his eyes, the over-sharpness in his features. He looked tired. Beautiful, infuriating, and tired. “I told her I needed to speak with you.” He paused. “She told me you would be here this week. Feeding the cat. Hiding from… life, I believe she said.” Rory’s nostrils flared. “I’m not hiding.” His eyes flicked to the three deadbolts, then back, dry amusement ghosting across his face. “Of course not.” “I’m taking a break.” She folded her arms. “There’s a difference.” “Mm.” Lucien’s gaze traced the scar on her left wrist, the crescent-shaped whitened line she usually forgot about until someone’s eyes snagged on it. It felt like being undressed. “From the deliveries? Or from nearly getting yourself killed on my account?” Heat crawled up her neck. “Don’t do that.” “Point out that your definition of ‘part-time delivery person’ included raiding a necromancer’s lock-up?” He arched an eyebrow. “You are the one who jumped off the balcony with the relic and no exit plan.” “I had a plan.” “You landed in a skip.” “It was strategically placed rubbish,” she shot back. “And it worked, didn’t it? We got out.” “You got out.” His voice went flat. “The hellhounds had other ideas for me.” The memory flashed, unwanted: Lucien on the balcony, the night wind kicking his coat around his legs, the roar of something not-quite-dog as it burst through the door. His eyes meeting hers in that split-second before she’d jumped, mouth forming the words Jump, now. The sick terror that had followed, crouched in the reeking skip, clutching a hexed box to her chest while demonic snarling and the crash of breaking glass echoed above. The long, long fifteen minutes before his voice came over her earpiece, calm but edged with pain. She hadn’t forgotten. She’d tried. “Fine,” Rory said finally, because that was safer than remembering. “You got chewed on. Occupational hazard.” “You’re angry that I disappeared after,” he said quietly. She laughed, short and humorless. “Is that your famous Moreau information network at work? Took you long enough to figure that out.” Lucien braced a hand on the back of the second-hand armchair, fingers whitening almost imperceptibly. “I am not here for work.” “Then why—” He cut across her, the edge of impatience in his voice bypassing some of her defenses. “May I sit?” She blinked. “What?” “I would prefer not to collapse on Eva’s carpet. I doubt she has forgiven me for the bloodstain the last time.” Her retort died on her tongue. For the first time she really looked at him—past the tailored suit, past the usual precise movements. His posture was too controlled, shoulders held a fraction too tight. There was a dampness at the hem of his coat sleeve that wasn’t rain. “Lucien,” she said slowly. “Are you hurt?” He exhaled, a soft, reluctant sound. “It seems,” he said, “that hellhounds are not the only occupational hazards.” The room tilted, reality lagging. She crossed the space between them before she consciously decided to, hands hovering uselessly in the air. “Why didn’t you say something? Sit.” She nudged him toward the sofa with more force than finesse. “For once in your life, do as you’re told.” His mouth curved faintly, but he obeyed, sinking down into the sagging cushions. Rory snatched the lamp from the side table and dragged it nearer, then knelt in front of him, shoving aside a pile of Eva’s journals with her knee. “Take off your coat,” she ordered. He hesitated only a beat before shrugging it off, the movement stiffer than it should have been. Underneath, his white shirt was half-soaked on one side, clinging darkly to his ribs. The scent hit her then—not just rain and his usual clean spice, but copper and something faintly acrid, like singed air. “Brilliant.” Her fingers went to the buttons without thinking, working them open. “You turn up here bleeding on my—on Eva’s sofa, and what? You thought we’d just have a nice chat over tikka masala while you quietly exsanguinated?” “Aurora.” His voice had gone low, rougher than usual. “Your hands are shaking.” She glanced down. They were. “You’re dripping on Eva’s rug,” she said, because the alternative was admitting it was fear. “She’ll never forgive us.” “Us?” That tiny slip of his. “Shut up.” She eased the shirt aside, careful not to peel it from where it had stuck to his skin. The wound ran along his left flank, an ugly gash with edges that didn’t look entirely natural. Old, dark blood clotted along it; the skin around was faintly bruised, the faintest tracery of black veins licking outward like frost. Rory swallowed. “What did this?” “An overeager warlock with more ambition than control.” Lucien’s hand closed around the edge of the sofa cushion, knuckles whitening. “He objected to my… negotiating style.” “You call getting what you want ‘negotiating.’” She reached for the battered first-aid kit Eva kept under the table, fingers automatically sorting through gauze and antiseptic. “How long ago?” “Three hours.” He studied her face as if cataloguing each micro-expression. “When I woke up, I came here.” The simple statement tugged at something she’d worked very hard to bolt shut. “You have healers,” she said quickly, focusing on ripping open a packet, anything but that. “On speed dial. Charms. Demonic whatever. Why here?” His answer came without prevarication. “Because you do not want me dead.” Her head snapped up. “Don’t be so sure.” “Aurora.” Soft. Certain. It hit harder than any accusation. She stared at the line of his mouth, the almost-human strain there. The memory of his lips on hers last winter, in the back room of Silas’ bar, when the job was done and adrenaline had crashed and the snow against the window had turned the city into something softer. The way he’d pulled back first, eyes wide, as if he’d made some terrible strategic error. Then the way he’d vanished a week later, leaving only a note she’d torn up before she’d finished reading. She poured antiseptic over the wound without warning. Lucien hissed, his shoulders bowing briefly, fingers digging into the cushion. “Consider that interest on the tab,” she said, voice too tight. “Do you normally take such pleasure in other people’s pain?” he managed, through his teeth. “Only yours.” He laughed, very quietly. The sound did worrying things to the air in the room. She dressed the wound in efficient silence, her touch as gentle as she could make it. Up this close she could see the faint, not-quite-visible edge of something under his skin, the mark of his other heritage. The part of him that was not from here. “What happened after the hounds?” Rory asked suddenly. His gaze tracked the movement of her hands. “Is this really the time for story hour?” “You disappeared.” Her fingers stilled against the bandage. “You owe me some sort of explanation, Lucien. Even if it’s just so I know what I’m patching up.” He was quiet long enough that the hum of the fridge and the muted clatter from downstairs felt obscenely loud. “My father,” he said at last. “Decided I had spent too long… playing at being human.” The twist of his mouth suggested that had been the exact phrase. “He called in debts. I could not refuse him and keep you out of it.” Anger flared, sharp and stupid. “You could have told me.” “I did.” His eyes flashed, the black one deepening. “You tore up the letter.” Her breath caught. Shame and fury battled in her chest. “You left a note. ‘Gone to deal with some family business, back soon.’ That is not the same thing as ‘By the way, demon daddy’s throwing a tantrum and I might not survive.’” His gaze held hers, unblinking. “You think, if I had told you, you would have stayed out of it?” She opened her mouth, shut it again. Because of course she wouldn’t have. She would have barged in, demanding names and plans and weak points like she did with every job that went sideways. Like she had with Evan, once upon a time, convincing herself she could fix a man who didn’t want to be fixed. Her chest hurt. He watched that realization land, something raw flickering across his face. “I did not avoid your calls because I did not care,” he said, very quietly. “I avoided them because the sound of your voice made it harder to do what I had to do.” “And what was that?” Her voice came out as barely more than a whisper. “Become,” he said, with a humorless half-smile, “exactly the monster you are so sure I am.” Ptolemy, as if on cue, crept back out and leapt lightly onto the arm of the sofa, then into Lucien’s lap. The tabby circled once, then settled, purring. Rory stared. “He really has terrible taste.” Lucien’s hand moved automatically to the cat’s fur. “As do you, it seems.” She wanted to be angry. It would have been safer, simpler. But the edge of it had dulled under the weight of blood and bandages and the bruised exhaustion in his eyes. “That why you’re here?” she asked. “Because you’ve run out of people willing to stitch you up?” “No.” His hand stilled on the cat. “Because I realized, in my father’s realm, with his guards at my throat, that the only person I trusted to see me bleed and not try to use it was you.” Her throat closed. “You really know how to sweet-talk a girl.” His mouth curved, slow and rueful. “And because,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “I missed you.” The words were soft, but they hit like a punch. She dropped her gaze, stared at the fresh white of the bandage blooming slowly pink. His skin was warm under her fingers. Too warm. Half-demon circulation, she told herself. Nothing to do with the way her own pulse had synced with it without asking permission. “This doesn’t fix anything,” she said. “I know.” “You still left.” “Yes.” “You still should have told me.” “I will not make that mistake again.” A beat. “If you permit there to be an ‘again.’” He said it like a business proposition. It wasn’t. Not for her. Rory drew back a fraction, enough to put a sliver of air between them. The room felt thick with possibilities and ghosts. “I’m not going back to how it was,” she said. “Running your errands in between delivering chow mein. Getting dragged into your wars without warning. Kissing you in broom cupboards and pretending it doesn’t mean anything when you vanish the next day.” His breath caught, just audible. “It meant something.” “Then you’re going to have to prove it.” Her eyes met his, steady now despite the tremor under her ribs. “With more than pretty words and bleeding on Eva’s upholstery.” “Persuasion is one of my particular talents,” he murmured. She snorted. “Yeah, that’s kind of the problem.” They looked at each other, the unspoken hanging thick as incense. Downstairs, someone laughed, a high peel of sound. A car horn blared on Brick Lane, then faded. Lucien’s hand moved, slow and deliberate, until his fingers brushed her wrist, just above the crescent scar. He didn’t grab, didn’t pull. Just rested there, a question instead of a demand. “May I at least thank you properly,” he said, “for saving my life?” Rory’s mouth felt very dry. “Verbally,” she managed. “You can thank me verbally.” Something like relief flickered through his eyes. “Thank you, Aurora,” he said. “For opening the door.” Her laugh came out shaky. “I nearly didn’t.” “I know,” he said softly. “You always did have more sense than was good for you.” She looked down at his hand on her wrist, at Ptolemy’s possessive sprawl over his lap, at the bandage she’d wrapped around his side. At him, in her friend’s cramped flat above a curry house, incongruous and bleeding and far too real. “Just so we’re clear,” she said, because she needed it said out loud. “You show up like this again without calling first, and I will personally feed you to those hellhounds.” His fingers tightened, the briefest, grateful pressure. “Duly noted.” “And if you vanish on me again—” “I won’t.” No hesitation. “You can’t control everything,” she said. “No,” he agreed. “But I can control what I choose. And I choose—” He broke off, jaw flexing, as if the rest were a step too far for one night. “I chose to come here.” She searched his face, looking for the lie, the trick, the angle. Found only tiredness and a stubborn, stupid hope she recognized all too well—because she felt it too, against every rational instinct. “Fine,” she said at last, exhaling. “You can stay on the sofa tonight. Eva’s away until Sunday. We can… talk tomorrow. When you’re not half-dead and I’m not half-homicidal.” His shoulders loosened, a tension she hadn’t fully noticed until it eased. “That,” he said, “sounds acceptable.” “And if you snore,” she added, pushing herself to her feet, “I’m duct-taping your mouth.” “Noted,” he repeated, gaze following her as she crossed to fetch an extra blanket from the hall cupboard. “Aurora?” She stopped, one hand on the cupboard door. “What now?” “I am glad you opened the door,” he said simply. The sincerity in it made her chest ache. “Yeah,” she muttered, more to the blanket than to him. “Me too.” She flicked off the main light, leaving only the lamp by the sofa burning. In the dimness, Lucien looked less like a threat and more like a man who’d run out of places to go. Rory spread the blanket over him with brusque, practical movements, careful not to jostle his side. His eyes stayed on her, the mismatched colours catching the lamplight. She hesitated, then, before she could talk herself out of it, brushed her fingers once through his slicked-back hair, knocking one perfect strand out of place. “Rest,” she said. “Tomorrow’s going to be complicated.” He caught her hand as it passed, pressed his lips, very lightly, to the back of it. Heat flared where his mouth touched, a brand. “It already is,” Lucien murmured. She pulled away before she could lean into it. “Sleep, Frenchman.” As she retreated down the short hallway toward Eva’s bedroom, Ptolemy curled more tightly into Lucien’s lap, purr rumbling like distant thunder. The flat smelled of curry and old paper and antiseptic, of rain and copper and something darker, edged and familiar. Rory closed the door most of the way, the sliver of light from the sitting room painting a thin gold line across the floor. On the other side, a man she had every reason to hate and every reason not to let go breathed out, slow and even, as if, for the first time in a long time, he’d allowed himself to exhale. And despite herself, despite everything, her own lungs finally followed suit.