Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNFK8GVN6MVY6KDN042KFGE

The triple deadbolts rattled under Rory's fingers as she worked them open, each metallic clunk settling deeper into her gut. The scent of cumin and turmeric from the takeaway downstairs clung to her jacket. She paused with her key in the final lock, exhaling through her nose. The damn overqualified delivery girl routine was getting old. The third bolt gave way. She shouldered the door open—and froze. Lucien Moreau stood in the center of Eva’s tiny sitting room, stroking Ptolemy with one gloved hand. His cane rested against the armchair. He'd turned at the sound of the door, his mismatched eyes catching the weak London light through the streaked windows. One gold, one black. Just like she remembered. Ptolemy purred like a traitor. "Hello, Rory," Lucien said. Her name in that goddamn accent. The bastard hadn't even bothered to clear the grimoires off the sofa before sitting. "Breaking and entering now, Luc? Classy." Rory dropped her keys in the chipped porcelain dish by the door—a nervous habit. The dish cracked further under the weight. "Eva will flay you alive if you messed with her research." "I used a key." He produced a brass one from his waistcoat pocket. His gloves were new—butter-soft leather that probably cost more than her monthly rent. "Eva’s in Prague searching for a fifth-century amulet. She asked me to check on you." The lie rolled off his tongue effortlessly. Rory dumped her bag by the door and shrugged off her jacket, mostly to give her hands something to do besides shake. Her faded University of Cardiff sweatshirt had seen better days. "Cut the bullshit." She nudged a stack of Latin dictionaries aside with her foot. "You’re here because of the Blackwell job." Lucien's fingers stilled against Ptolemy's fur. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the cat’s rumbling and the distant honk of Brick Lane traffic. It had been six months since Dublin. Six months since he'd kissed her in that rain-soaked alley behind O'Connell's and left without a backward glance. "Partly," he admitted. She should make tea. Strike first. Move. But her feet stayed rooted. The crescent scar on her wrist itched. He rose, cane in hand, except now there were two inches of exposed steel at the tip. The blade caught the weak light as he twisted the handle. "You’ve gotten reckless." "I think the word you're looking for is 'resourceful.'" "Charming corpses isn't resourceful, it's desperate." Rory's pulse kicked hard. She folded her arms. "Who told you?" "You left traces. Blackwell's people found them before I did." The cold truth of it settled between her ribs. Stupid. Amateur. All those nights hunched over Eva’s kitchen table chanting Middle French incantations until her throat burned. "So you're here to save me from myself?" The corner of his mouth ticked up. He took a step forward. Then another. Until she could smell his cologne—vetiver and something darker underneath. Demon blood, maybe. "I’m here because you’re better than this." His glove brushed her forearm. "Better with me." She swallowed. His nearness was a live wire humming against her skin. "You don’t get to disappear for six months and—" "Say it was a mistake?" His thumb grazed her scar. "I know." The anger coiled in her chest unraveled at the touch. His lips were warm against hers this time, not rain-chilled. The cane clattered to the floor. Somewhere, Ptolemy yowled and darted under the sofa. Rory fisted her hands in his waistcoat before he could pull away again. The silk-lined wool strained under her grip. Lucien murmured something in Provençal against her mouth. A spell or an endearment, she wasn’t sure. She didn't care. Outside, London carried on—the honking taxis, the curry-scented air. But for once, Rory wasn't thinking about delivery schedules or ex-boyfriends or corpse charms. She was thinking about the weight of his hands at her waist and the dangerous thrill of falling. Again.