Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMRBJ601M43HX8BH07RWQH9

The knock came three times, sharp and rhythmic, shattering the silence of Eva’s kitchen. It didn't sound like a social call; it sounded like an eviction notice. Rory, currently balancing a takeout box of yang chow fried rice between her thumb and forefinger while attempting to wipe a smudge of chalk dust from her notebook, froze. The chalk dust on her thumb blurred her vision. She looked at the clock on the battered microwave above the fridge—2:14 PM. Eva was supposed to be at the British Library until four. The knocking didn't stop. *Thud, pause, thud, pause, thud.* Rory set the food down on the counter with a clatter, the plastic lid popping open. She smoothed the front of her oversized sweater, checked her reflection in the darkened windowpane. Her hair was a messy tangle of shoulder-length black, sticking up in a cowlick she couldn't seem to tame. Her blue eyes, normally sharp and analytical, felt dull and tired. She checked the deadbolts anyway. One. Two. Three. Secured. There was no reason for anyone to be at Eva’s flat on Brick Lane except the delivery men, and they never knocked like that. She moved toward the front door, her sneakers squeaking softly on the worn hardwood. As she reached for the handle, she hesitated. The atmosphere outside the frame felt wrong—static in the air, a chill that had nothing to do with the London winter. The place smelled like ozone and expensive tobacco. "Who is it?" she called out, her voice a little higher than she intended. "Monsieur Moreau," the voice returned. Smooth. French-accented. Deep enough to vibrate the floorboards. "If you please." Rory’s stomach did a slow, sickening lurch. The blood drained from her face, leaving her skin pale against the dark cardigan. She knew that voice. She knew that accent. She knew the tailoring of the man who would wear it. She slowly turned the lock. Mechanisms clicked, shifting the deadbolts one by one. She felt ridiculous, barricaded behind three locks, answering the door to a man who belonged in another world entirely. She pulled the door open. Lucien Moreau stood on the landing. He was wet, but not from the rain—rain hadn't fallen in London for three days. Mist clung to his platinum hair, slicked back in his signature severe style, though a few damp strands plastered stubbornly against his forehead. He wore a charcoal suit that looked too crisp, too expensive for the grime of the East End. His cane, an ivory-handled monstrosity topped with a silver head, tapped rhythmically against the floor as he shifted his weight. The most arresting thing about him, however, were his eyes. One was a piercing amber, the other a void of deep, unnatural black. They stared down at her, unblinking, dissecting her. Rory backed up a step, her hand reflexively clutching the doorframe. The contact with the wood helped ground her, but she couldn't erase the sudden, sharp memory of his mouth on hers, of the taste of cognac and danger. "Lucien," she breathed out. "What are you doing here?" A ghost of a smile touched his lips, but it didn't reach the black eye. He didn't step into the hallway. Instead, he leaned in, invading her space with a scent of rain, musk, and something primal that set every nerve ending in her body on fire. "You left the window unlocked, rousseau," he murmured, using the French term of endearment that had felt so possessive a year ago. "I didn't," Rory argued, her voice stiffening. "I checked. The maintenance guy fixed the latch yesterday." Lucien straightened up, glancing past her into the apartment. The clutter of Eva’s life—stacks of leather-bound tomes, loose parchment scrolls, the faint smell of cardamom and curry from the street below—seemed to offend him. He took a long, sweeping look at the chaotic room, as if cataloging it for a crime scene report. "You should not let humans enter your sanctuary," he said, his tone dropping. "You know better." "They're not just humans, Lucien. This is Eva." Rory stepped forward, blocking his view of the living room, her body radiating a defensive warmth. "And if you’re here, you shouldn't be. You’re in Paris." "I was," he agreed dismissively. He tapped his cane against the threshold. "Until I received a very... persuasive message that you were in trouble." "In trouble?" Rory scoffed, crossing her arms. The gesture pulled the fabric of her sweater tight against her ribs, drawing attention to the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist—a souvenir from a childhood fall off a jungle gym, forgotten until she saw him look at her. Lucien’s gaze dropped to the scar, his amber eye darkening, before snapping back up to meet hers. "I’m fine, Lucien. I’m sitting in my friend's kitchen eating Chinese food. I haven't been in trouble since I moved out." "You moved across the continent. It was a permanent departure." He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a crumpled pack of cigarettes, though he didn't light them. "We agreed, oui? If one of us was in danger, we would burn London to the ground before seeking the other out." "We burned Marseille to the ground, yes. That was a complicated night," Rory said, her tone biting. She looked him up and down, trying to gauge his state of mind. He looked tired, the fine lines around his eyes deeper than she remembered. "How long have you been standing out there?" "Enough to see that someone has been keeping you company." He gestured vaguely into the room. "Your flatmate. The human with the chaotic energy." "It’s Eva. She’s just... well, she’s me. But better organized." Lucien sighed, a sound of deep exhaustion that made her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with fear. He stepped forward, ignoring her unspoken protest. He bypassed the chaotic pile of books by the door and moved into the small kitchen. "The smell of your cooking suggests you are hiding," he said. He reached out, his long fingers closing around the takeout container of fried rice. "From what, Rory? From your past, or from me?" "I'm not hiding," she said, but the denial felt weak. She followed him into the room, unable to tear her eyes away from him. He was a paradox—a half-demon from the realm of Avaros, raised in the boardrooms of Marseille, but he walked with the burden of a man much older. He belonged in her vision, even if he shouldn't have been. He set the rice container on a stack of journals, careful not to make a mess. He looked at her, really looked at her, and the air between them shifted. The tension that had built up over the last year, stretching thin like a taut wire, began to vibrate. "I came because I have something you need," he said abruptly, shifting gears. He pulled a small, silver pendant from his breast pocket and held it out. It was simple, unadorned, but the metal looked old, tarnished with age. "A piece of my father’s keep. It was recovered from a scavenger in the Undercity." Rory stared at the object, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. "You know I can't use that, Lucien. It burns when I touch it." "Does it?" He took a step closer, closing the distance between them until he was only an arm’s length away. She could feel the heat radiating from him, unnatural and suffocating. "I wasn't aware of that until I reclaimed it. I’ve been keeping it for you." "Why?" she whispered. The breath caught in her throat. There were things between them—unsaid things, violent things, and fragile things. He was a fixer. She was a lawyer, or she wanted to be. They were from different worlds. He was a monster with a pulse; she was a woman trying to survive in the wreckage of a bad relationship. "I told you once," Lucien said, his voice dropping to a gravelly murmur. He reached out, not to grab the necklace, but to brush a stray lock of hair away from her face. His fingers were cool, calloused, and perfect. His touch lingered on her cheek, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw with a reverence that made her knees weak. "That you were the only ground I had ever stood on. Avaros is a place of fire and chaos. But here..." He glanced around at the chaotic mess of books and the smell of spices. "Here, you are tangible. You are real." The words hung in the stale air between them, heavy and loaded with a pain neither of them had dared to voice since the night she left. Rory’s eyes burned. She hated how easily he could dismantle her defenses with a single sentence. She hated how her body still knew exactly how to fit against his, how her mind still cataloged the texture of his tongue and the heat of his hands. "I can't take it," she said again, though she didn't pull away from his hand. "I’m happy here. I’m trying to be." "Are you?" The question was quiet, but it was a blow. Lucien tilted his head, studying her. The black eye seemed to absorb the light from the window, while the amber burned like a furnace. He stepped closer, forcing her back until the small of her spine pressed against the edge of the counter. He loomed over her, a guardian and a predator wrapped in a tailored suit. "You are breathing, yes. But are you living?" He reached into his jacket again, not for the necklace, but for a photograph he slipped from his wallet. He didn't show her the picture; he just tapped the edge of it against the counter. "There is a hunter looking for you, Rory. Someone who knows about your... talents. I saw the sign." Rory went cold. "I don't have talents. I’m just Rory. I deliver food." "You lie to me, and you lie to yourself," Lucien said softly. "I see the way the light hits your eyes when you’re calculating a path through a situation. I see the way you clean your nails when you’re nervous." He pressed the small, glowing silver pendant into her open palm. It was freezing cold, shocking against her warm skin. "Take it. It will act as a ward. If the hunter comes, it will burn them." "No," she said, her voice shaking. She gripped the pendant tight, but it didn't burn. It just hummed, a low vibration that rattled her teeth. "I can't involve you in this. You’re already in the crosshairs because of me." "I was already in the crosshells, Aurora. I just needed a reason to come home." He lifted her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. The gesture was chivalrous, devastating, and completely infuriating. "You owe me a dinner. Yu-Fei’s delivery doesn't cut it." "I'm not buying you dinner." "You will. Eat the rice you brought. Then, we will talk about how you are going to let me help you." He placed the cane beside the door and unbuttoned his cuffs, rolling up his sleeves to reveal pale, muscular forearms. He looked dangerous, untamed, and incredibly, achingly familiar. The cat, Ptolemy, chose that moment to jump onto the counter, swatting at Lucien’s cufflink. Lucien looked down at the tabby with an expression of mild surprise, his anger melting into something softer. "And you have acquired a pet. I suppose I will tolerate it." Rory looked at him, really looked at him, seeing the hesitation in his posture, the way he wouldn't quite let go of her hand. He wasn't just there to leave a gift. He was there to stay. She closed her fingers around the necklace, the cold metal turning warm against her skin. The deadbolt clicked. It had been her, unlocking the door for him. It had been her inviting him in. "There's tea in the cupboard," she whispered, finally letting her hand curl around his. Lucien’s lips quirked, a genuine smile finally breaking through the wall of his stoicism. "Earl Grey?" "Green tea. Eva's the health fanatic." "Perfect." He took the necklace from her palm and held it for a moment longer, letting his thumb trace the lines of her palm before tucking it safely into his pocket. "Then I suppose I shall wait for the water to boil." He turned away from her to look at the view of Brick Lane outside the window, but he didn't move. He stayed there in the narrow hallway, a phantom in a suit of armor, finally grounded.