Run: 2026-02-18-01KHQ927XW81JBPJT360D72KXQ

The first deadbolt clicked, a heavy metallic sound that echoed in the narrow hallway. The second followed, then the third. Aurora Carter paused with her hand on the final latch, the brass cold against her palm. She knew who it was before she opened the door. The silence on the other side was too specific, too weighted. It was the kind of quiet that held its breath. She turned the latch and pulled the door inward. The smell of the curry house below rushed up to meet her, a permanent layer of turmeric and cumin that had seeped into the plaster of the Brick Lane building years ago. Beyond the threshold, standing on the worn welcome mat, was Lucien Moreau. He looked exactly as he had the night they parted, and entirely different. The charcoal suit was tailored to within an inch of its life, hugging shoulders that seemed broader than she remembered. His platinum blond hair was slicked back, gleaming under the flickering hallway bulb. But it was the eyes that hit her first. The heterochromatic stare, one amber and one black, pinned her in place with an intensity that made the air in the cramped flat feel suddenly thin. Rory, he said. His voice was low, smoothed by a French accent that had never quite faded despite his years in London. Lucien. She kept her hand on the door, ready to push it closed. It was a reflex, born of the instinct that had kept her alive after Evan, and sharpened by the supernatural underworld she now navigated. What are you doing here? He shifted his weight. The ivory handle of his cane caught the light. She knew what lay beneath that ivory. A thin blade, concealed within the wood. A tool for walking, and a weapon for killing. He had never drawn it on her, but the knowledge of its presence hummed between them like a live wire. I was in the neighborhood, he said. A lie. They both knew it. Nothing brought Lucien Moreau to East London unless there was blood in the water or information to be brokered. You are a terrible liar, Rory said. She stepped back, just enough to allow the heat from the flat to spill out. It was a concession, and they both knew it. Lucien did not move immediately. His gaze dropped to her left wrist, where the sleeve of her jumper had ridden up. The small crescent-shaped scar from her childhood accident was visible against her skin. He had once traced that scar with a thumb that felt like fire. Now he looked at it as if it were a wound he had inflicted himself. May I come in? he asked. Rory hesitated. The flat behind her was a chaos of Eva's making. Every surface was covered with books, scrolls, and research notes. Ptolemy, Eva's tabby cat, wove through the forest of paper legs, meowing softly at the stranger in the hallway. The security of the three deadbolts felt suddenly fragile. If you try to kill me, I scream, Rory said. Lucien's mouth quirked. A ghost of a smile that did not reach his eyes. If I wanted to kill you, Aurora, you would not have heard me approach. He stepped past her. The scent of him followed—rain, expensive tobacco, and something older, something sulfuric that hinted at the demon blood from Avaros running in his veins. He moved into the center of the room, the tip of his cane tapping softly against the floorboards. He did not look at the clutter. He looked at her. Rory closed the door and engaged the first lock. Then the second. She left the third open. A compromise. You look well, Lucien said. He ran a gloved hand over the back of a chair covered in scrolls. You are eating. Sleeping. I am working. Delivering noodles for the Golden Empress. It pays the rent. And the law degree? She crossed her arms over her chest. Her bright blue eyes narrowed. I told you. I am not doing that anymore. Cardiff feels like a different lifetime. It should not have to be, he said. He turned to face her fully. The amber eye seemed to glow in the dim light. You were meant for more than running deliveries through the rain. And you were meant for more than lurking in doorways, she shot back. The anger was there, hot and sudden. It covered the hurt. You left, Lucien. You vanished for six months. No calls. No messages. Just silence. I had matters to attend to. In Marseille. With my father. So you went to see the demon who sired you and forgot to tell the human who cared about you? Lucien flinched. It was subtle, a tightening of the jaw, but she saw it. He walked toward her, stopping just outside of arm's reach. The height difference was noticeable; at five eleven, he looked down at her, but Rory did not back away. She stood her ground at five six, chin lifted. I left to protect you, he said quietly. There were forces... things that knew about us. If I stayed, they would have used you to get to me. You do not get to make that choice for me. Her voice shook. She hated that it shook. She was cool-headed. She was the one who thought out of the box. But Lucien made her feel like she was walking on ice without knowing where the cracks were. I know, he said. He reached out, his hand hovering near her arm. He did not touch her. Not yet. But the heat of his palm radiated against her skin. I know I do not have the right. But I am here now. Why? Because the silence was worse. The honesty of it stripped the air from the room. Ptolemy rubbed against Lucien's leg, purring loudly, betraying them both. Lucien looked down at the cat, then back to Rory. The black pupil dilated, swallowing the amber iris for a moment. I heard rumors, Lucien said. About Evan. About what he did before you left Cardiff. Rory's hand instinctively covered her wrist again, though the scar was old. Evan was human evil. Lucien dealt with supernatural evil. Sometimes she wondered which was worse. He is in the past, Rory said. He is a threat if he finds you again. He will not find me. I have you to thank for the wards on the windows, don't I? Lucien nodded slowly. I wanted to ensure you were safe. Even from afar. You could have told me. I was afraid. The words hung there, heavy and raw. Lucien Moreau, the fixer, the information broker, the half-demon who walked through London's underworld with a blade in his cane and four languages on his tongue, was afraid. Rory looked at him. Really looked at him. She saw the fatigue lines around his eyes that the perfect suit could not hide. She saw the tension in his grip on the ivory handle. He was not the untouchable ally she had met in the shadows. He was a man who had made a mistake and come back to fix it. She reached out. Her fingers brushed the lapel of his charcoal suit. The fabric was cool, but beneath it, she could feel the warmth of his body. Lucien went still. He did not breathe. You are here now, she said softly. Yes. And you are not leaving? Not unless you tell me to. Rory glanced at the door. The third deadbolt remained unturned. The curry smell drifted up from below, mixing with the scent of rain on his coat. The books and scrolls of Eva's research surrounded them, a testament to the chaotic world they lived in. She looked back at his eyes. The amber and the black. Turn the lock, Lucien, she said. He did not move immediately. He searched her face, looking for the trap, for the rejection. When he found neither, he stepped closer. He reached past her, his body brushing hers, and slid the final bolt home. The click sounded like a period at the end of a long sentence. He did not step back. He stayed there, in the space she had allowed him to occupy. Rory lifted her hand, tracing the line of his jaw. His skin was warm. He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes for a brief second. Do not disappear again, she said. Lucien opened his eyes. The amber one burned bright. I give you my word, Aurora. No more silence. Outside, London rained on. Inside, amidst the clutter and the cat and the smell of spices, the distance between them closed until there was nothing left but the space of a breath.