Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMVPP42GJMZ5591WZS59TZ1

The three deadbolts clicked open in rapid succession, and Eva's door swung wide to reveal Lucien Moreau standing in the narrow hallway. His platinum hair caught the fluorescent light from overhead, still perfectly slicked back despite the November drizzle clinging to his charcoal wool coat. One amber eye and one black eye fixed on Rory with that familiar intensity that had always made her feel like he could see straight through her carefully constructed walls. "Rory." His voice carried that slight French accent that had once made her stomach flutter. Now it just made her grip the door frame tighter. "What are you doing here?" She kept her tone flat, professional, even as her heart hammered against her ribs. Six months. It had been six months since she'd walked away from whatever complicated thing had existed between them, and here he was on Eva's doorstep like no time had passed at all. "May I come in?" He shifted his weight slightly, the ivory handle of his cane catching the light. "We need to talk." "Eva's not here." Rory started to close the door, but his hand shot out to stop it, fingers splayed against the painted wood. She could see the thin scar across his knuckles, the one he'd gotten in Prague during that job she'd helped him with. The job that had changed everything. "I'm not here for Eva." The words hung between them in the cramped hallway, heavy with implication. Rory's mouth went dry. She could smell his cologne—something expensive and subtle that reminded her of late nights in hotel rooms across three different countries, of whispered conversations in languages she didn't understand, of the way he'd looked at her when he thought she wasn't paying attention. "I told you—" "I know what you told me." His voice dropped lower, more intimate. "But circumstances have changed." She hated how her body responded to that tone, the way her pulse quickened despite her better judgment. "Lucien—" "Please." The single word held more vulnerability than she'd ever heard from him before. "Five minutes." Against every instinct screaming at her to slam the door, she stepped aside. He moved past her into the flat, and she caught that familiar scent again, mixed now with rain and something else—something that made her think of danger. The flat felt smaller with him in it. Eva's organized chaos of books and research notes seemed to press in around them as Lucien surveyed the space with those mismatched eyes. Ptolemy, Eva's tabby cat, emerged from somewhere in the bedroom area and began weaving around Lucien's legs with shameless affection. "Traitor," Rory muttered, closing the door but not bothering with the deadbolts. She wouldn't be giving him that much of her time. Lucien's mouth quirked upward—not quite a smile, but close enough to remind her why she'd fallen for him in the first place. He reached down to scratch behind Ptolemy's ears, and the cat purred loud enough to fill the awkward silence. "You look well," he said, straightening. His gaze traveled over her in a way that was both appreciative and careful, as if cataloging changes. She was still in her delivery uniform—practical jeans and the Golden Empress t-shirt that smelled faintly of sesame oil and star anise. "Cut to the point, Lucien. What do you want?" He set his cane aside, leaning it against Eva's overcrowded bookshelf, and began unbuttoning his coat. The casual domesticity of the gesture sent an unwelcome pang through her chest. How many times had she watched him do exactly that in hotel rooms across Europe? How many times had she helped him out of that coat, her fingers working the buttons while his hands— "There's a situation," he said, draping the coat over the back of Eva's reading chair. "In Prague." "No." The word came out sharper than she'd intended. "Whatever it is, no." "You haven't heard what—" "I don't need to." She crossed her arms, partly for emphasis and partly to hide the way her hands were trembling. "We agreed. No more jobs. No more... whatever this was." "Whatever this was?" His voice carried a note of something that might have been hurt, if Lucien Moreau were the type of man who let himself be hurt by anyone. "Is that really how you remember it?" The question hit her like a physical blow. How did she remember it? Late nights planning impossible heists, the thrill of working with someone who matched her intellect step for step. The way he'd looked at her across crowded bars and expensive restaurants, like she was the most interesting person in the room. The night in Vienna when everything had shifted, when professional partnership had become something else entirely—something intense and consuming and terrifying. The morning after Prague, when she'd realized she was in love with a man who traded in secrets and violence, whose demon blood made him capable of things that should have frightened her but somehow didn't. When she'd understood that staying meant losing pieces of herself she couldn't afford to give up. "I remember that it was complicated," she said carefully. "Complicated." He stepped closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head up to meet his eyes. "That's one word for it." She could see the gold flecks in his amber eye, the way his black eye seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Could smell his cologne and something darker underneath—brimstone, maybe, or just the particular scent of danger that clung to him like a second skin. "You left," he said quietly. "Without a word. I woke up and you were gone." "I left a note." "'Thank you for everything. Take care of yourself.' Hardly the epic farewell our... partnership deserved." The word 'partnership' came out carefully chosen, but she could hear the weight of everything he wasn't saying. The things they'd been too careful to name, even as they'd fallen deeper into whatever dangerous game they'd been playing. "What did you want me to say?" The words came out more vulnerable than she'd intended. "That I was falling for someone whose job description included 'morally ambiguous supernatural fixer'? That every time you walked out the door, I wondered if you'd come back? That I was starting to care more about keeping you safe than keeping myself whole?" His expression shifted, something raw and unguarded flickering across his features before he could hide it. "You could have talked to me." "About what? About how your demon father gives you contacts in realms I can't even pronounce? About how you carry a blade in your cane and I've seen you use it? About how I was starting to love someone I couldn't fully trust?" The word 'love' hung between them like a confession. Rory felt her cheeks flush, but she didn't take it back. It was true, had been true then, and pretending otherwise wouldn't change anything. Lucien was quiet for a long moment, studying her face with an intensity that made her want to look away. Finally, he spoke. "The situation in Prague," he said. "It involves Marcus Kellner." The name hit her like ice water. Marcus Kellner, the antiquities dealer who'd hired them for what should have been a simple retrieval job. The man whose betrayal had nearly gotten them both killed and had led to that last desperate night in a hotel room where professional distance had finally shattered completely. "He's dead," she said automatically. "He should be. But apparently reports of his demise were greatly exaggerated." Lucien's voice carried a edge of dark humor. "He's surfaced again, and he has something that belongs to me. Something he stole before Prague went sideways." "Then hire someone else." "There is no one else. Not for this." He stepped closer again, and this time she didn't back away. "He has a piece of my father's binding stone. Without it..." He didn't need to finish. She understood enough about supernatural politics to know what a binding stone represented—control, power, the difference between a half-demon who chose his own path and one enslaved to his darker heritage. "Lucien..." She could see the fear he was trying to hide, the vulnerability that made him more human than his demon blood ever could. "There has to be another way." "If there was, do you think I'd be here? Do you think I'd risk..." He gestured between them, encompassing all the hurt and history and unfinished business. "This?" She wanted to say yes. Wanted to believe that he'd only come to her as a last resort, that whatever had existed between them hadn't mattered enough to make this difficult for him too. But she could see the truth in his mismatched eyes, in the careful way he held himself, like he was braced for her to walk away again. "One job," he said quietly. "Help me get it back, and I'll never darken your doorstep again. You have my word." Ptolemy had settled himself on top of a stack of Eva's research notes, watching them both with the superior expression that only cats could manage. Outside, she could hear the sounds of Brick Lane coming alive for the evening—the call of street vendors, the rumble of traffic, the ordinary life she'd built for herself since leaving his world behind. "Your word," she repeated. "The word of a half-demon information broker with a reputation for playing all sides." "The word of someone who..." He stopped, jaw tightening. "The word of someone who cares what happens to you more than is professionally advisable." It wasn't a declaration of love. It wasn't even close. But from Lucien Moreau, it was as close to vulnerability as she was likely to get. She looked at him standing in Eva's cluttered flat, this beautiful, dangerous man who'd walked back into her life with another impossible job and eyes full of carefully hidden hope. She thought about the way he'd looked at her in Prague, in the moments before everything went wrong. About the binding stone that kept his demon heritage in check, and what might happen if Marcus Kellner decided to use it. "Prague," she said finally. "Just Prague, and then we're done." Something shifted in his expression—relief, maybe, or gratitude. "Just Prague." But even as she said it, even as he nodded his agreement, they both knew it was a lie. Whatever existed between them couldn't be solved by one more job, couldn't be neatly tied up with professional distance and careful boundaries. Prague had broken something in both of them, and maybe the only way forward was through the wreckage they'd left behind.