Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNG2YQM161WXWT6Z6E6708R

The knock came just as Aurora was settling in with a cup of tea and Ptolemy purring in her lap. Three sharp raps—too precise to be Eva, too impatient to be a delivery. The tabby flicked his ears but didn’t bother lifting his head. She set her mug down, dislodging Ptolemy with an indignant mewl, and padded to the door. The deadbolts clicked open one by one under her fingers. When she pulled the door ajar, the scent of bergamot and something darker, smokier hit her first. Lucien stood on the threshold, his gloved hand resting on the ivory handle of his cane. The amber and black of his eyes caught the dim hallway light, unreadable as ever. His charcoal suit was impeccable, not a thread out of place despite the drizzle clinging to his shoulders. "Rory," he said, her name smooth in that French-accented baritone. Aurora’s fingers tightened on the doorframe. "You’re supposed to be in Marseille." He inclined his head. "Plans change." The silence stretched, brittle. She could still taste the bitterness of their last conversation—his clipped words, the way he'd turned his back on her in that alley behind Silas’ bar. Three months of radio silence, and now here he was, standing in Eva’s hallway like he had every right to be. Ptolemy wound between her ankles, his tail flicking against her calf. Lucien’s gaze dropped to the cat, then back to her face. "May I come in?" She should say no. Should shut the door, bolt it, pretend this never happened. But the set of his jaw was tighter than usual, the shadows under his eyes deeper. Something was wrong. Aurora stepped back. Lucien moved past her, the brush of his sleeve against her arm sending a traitorous shiver down her spine. He surveyed the cluttered flat with a slow sweep of his gaze—the stacks of Eva’s research, the half-empty mugs littering every surface, the single bed barely visible through the open bedroom door. "You’re staying here now?" he asked. "Temporarily." She crossed her arms. "Eva’s in Cairo. Someone had to feed the cat." "Ah." He leaned his cane against the armchair, the motion effortless. "I’d heard about her expedition." Of course he had. Lucien always heard everything. Aurora bit the inside of her cheek. "Why are you here, Luc?" He turned to face her fully. The amber eye caught the light, molten gold. "I need your help." The laugh burst out of her before she could stop it. "You’re joking." "I don’t joke." "No, you just disappear for months and then waltz back in like nothing happened." Her voice cracked on the last word. Damn it. Lucien went very still. "You’re angry." "Observant as ever." He took a step closer. The scent of him wrapped around her—bergamot, leather, the faintest trace of demonic ozone. "I had reasons." "Did you?" His gloved hand lifted, hovered near her face before he seemed to think better of it and let it fall. "I couldn’t involve you in what I was doing. It was too dangerous." Aurora scoffed. "Because I’m so fragile?" "Because I care about you." The words were quiet, raw. Her breath caught. Lucien’s mismatched eyes held hers. "I’m asking for your help now because there’s no one else I trust with this." Ptolemy chose that moment to leap onto the coffee table, sending a stack of Eva’s notes fluttering to the floor. The tension splintered. Aurora bent to gather the papers, her hands unsteady. "What’s the job?" she asked, deliberately not looking at him. "A retrieval. Someone’s taken something of mine." She glanced up. "Demons?" "Worse. Humans with delusions of grandeur." His mouth twisted. "They think they can harness what they don’t understand." Aurora straightened, the papers clutched to her chest. "And you need me because…?" "Because you see angles no one else does." His gaze dropped to her left wrist, to the small crescent scar there. "And because I’ve missed you." The admission hung between them, fragile as spun glass. Aurora’s pulse thudded in her throat. Three months of telling herself she was better off without him, three months of burying the memory of his hands in her hair, his voice murmuring French endearments against her skin. Lucien took another step forward. Close enough to touch now. "Say something," he murmured. She exhaled shakily. "You’re an asshole." The corner of his mouth lifted. "I know." "And I’m probably an idiot for agreeing." His gloved hand came up to cradle her cheek, the leather cool against her skin. "But you will agree." Aurora leaned into the touch despite herself. "Tell me one thing." "Anything." "Did you mean to come back?" Lucien’s thumb brushed her cheekbone. "Every damn day." The papers slipped from her fingers, scattering across the floor again. Ptolemy gave a disgruntled chirp and stalked off toward the bedroom. Aurora closed the last inch between them, her lips meeting his in a kiss that tasted like bergamot and unresolved history. Lucien’s arms came around her, pulling her flush against him, his cane clattering forgotten to the floor. When they broke apart, breathless, he rested his forehead against hers. "Does this mean you’re in?" She nipped his lower lip. "Shut up and kiss me again, Moreau." He obliged.