Run: 2026-02-19-01KHSYYZFZRTPHPWER8M3KBGFG

The deadbolts clicked back, one after another, a sound Rory had grown so accustomed to she barely heard it anymore. She pulled the door open, expecting the usual evening stillness of Brick Lane settling into its nighttime rhythm. Instead, she found Lucien Moreau standing on the narrow landing, the weak yellow glow from the single bulb overhead carving sharp shadows across his face. He looked like he’d stepped out of a different century. Tailored charcoal suit, platinum hair slicked back with military precision, one hand resting lightly on the ivory handle of his cane. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black as pitch—fixed on her with an intensity that made the air in her lungs tighten. “Rory.” He hadn’t called her that in months. Not since the last time she’d seen him, in the back room of his club, when words had been flung like knives and the space between them had stretched into something vast and cold. She didn’t move. Didn’t step aside to let him in. Just stood there, her hand still on the edge of the door, feeling the draft from the stairwell coil around her ankles. “What are you doing here, Lucien?” “We need to talk.” “We talked. It ended with you telling me to stay out of your business.” “Circumstances change.” He shifted his weight, the tip of his cane tapping once against the worn linoleum. “May I come in?” She hesitated. The part of her that remembered the feel of his hands, the low murmur of his voice in the dark, wanted to say yes. The part that remembered the hurt wanted to slam the door. In the end, she stepped back, leaving the space open. He moved past her, bringing with him the scent of rain and expensive cologne. Rory closed the door, reset the deadbolts. When she turned, he was standing in the middle of her cramped living room, taking in the chaos of books and scrolls piled on every surface, the tabby cat Ptolemy watching him from the top of the bookshelf with wary gold eyes. “Eva’s not here,” Rory said, more to fill the silence than anything. “I didn’t come for Eva.” She crossed her arms, leaned against the doorframe. “Then what do you want?” Lucien turned to face her. The amber eye seemed to catch the lamplight, glowing softly. “There’s a situation. Something’s come up that requires… discretion.” “And you thought of me.” “I thought of you because you’re the only person I know who can deliver a message to Yu-Fei Cheung without raising eyebrows.” Rory’s breath hitched. “You want me to use my job.” “I want you to do what you do best. Move through the city unseen. Drop something off, pick something up. No questions asked.” “Last time I did that for you, I ended up with a demon’s mark on my door.” “And I removed it.” “After I asked. Three times.” He took a step closer. The space between them shrank, charged with all the things they hadn’t said, all the nights they’d spent tangled together in his bed above the club, the way he’d traced the crescent scar on her wrist like it held secrets. “This is different,” he said, his voice dropping into that low register that used to make her bones hum. “This isn’t underworld politics. This is personal.” “Everything with you is personal, Lucien. That’s the problem.” He flinched, just a slight tightening around his eyes. “My father is sending someone to London. A representative from Avaros.” A cold knot formed in Rory’s stomach. Lucien rarely spoke of his demon father, but when he did, it was with a controlled venom that spoke of old, deep wounds. “Why?” “To deliver an ultimatum. Either I return to Avaros and take my place at his side, or he cuts off my access to the shadows. All of them.” “The shadows” were Lucien’s network, the whispered conversations in alleyways, the secrets traded for favors, the lifeblood of his power in London. Without them, he’d be vulnerable. Maybe even mortal. Rory uncrossed her arms, let her hands fall to her sides. “What does Cheung have to do with it?” “He has something I need. Something that can… persuade my father’s emissary to reconsider.” “And you can’t get it yourself.” “Cheung doesn’t deal with half-breeds.” The words came out flat, stripped of emotion. “But he likes you. You bring his dumplings on time, you never complain about the stairs. He’ll give it to you.” “And what do I get out of it?” Lucien’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “You always were practical.” “I learned from you.” He moved again, closing the distance until she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the faint pulse in his throat. “Name your price.” She could have asked for money. For protection. For information about Evan, the ex who still haunted her dreams some nights. Instead, she said, “Tell me why you really left.” The air went still. Ptolemy shifted on the bookshelf, his tail twitching. “Rory—” “You told me to stay out of your business. You shut me out. After everything.” Her voice stayed level, but she felt the old ache blooming beneath her ribs. “You owe me that much.” For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Just looked at her, the black eye depthless, the amber one holding her reflection like a trapped flame. Then he lifted a hand, slow, as if approaching a skittish animal, and brushed a strand of hair back from her face. His fingers lingered against her temple. “Because I was afraid,” he said, so quiet she almost didn’t hear it. “Afraid of what?” “Of what would happen if I let you in any further. Of what my father would do if he knew…” He trailed off, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone. “You became a vulnerability. And in my world, vulnerabilities get exploited.” “So you pushed me away first.” “Yes.” It was the honesty that undid her. The raw, unvarnished truth of it. She’d spent months imagining elaborate reasons, betrayals, secrets. But this was simpler, and somehow worse. “You’re an idiot,” she whispered. “I know.” His other hand came up, the cane hanging from his wrist, and he cupped her face. His palms were warm, his touch familiar in a way that made her chest ache. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it until now. “I need your help, Rory. But I won’t ask if you don’t want to give it.” She leaned into his touch, just a little. “What happens if your father cuts you off?” “I become human. Fully. The demon half… fades. And with it, everything I’ve built.” “Would that be so bad?” He laughed, a soft, bitter sound. “For me? Yes. This city, this life… it’s all I have.” “Not all.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. The air between them sparked, charged with everything they hadn’t said, everything they’d left unfinished. Rory remembered the taste of him, the way he’d whisper French endearments into her hair when he thought she was asleep. “Rory,” he said again, her name a prayer on his lips. She reached up, curled her fingers around his wrist, feeling the steady beat of his pulse against her thumb. “I’ll do it. But not for you. For me.” His eyebrow lifted. “I need to know,” she said. “If I walk away after this, I need to know it was my choice. Not because you scared me off.” Something shifted in his expression, a crack in the polished veneer. “And if you don’t walk away?” She didn’t answer. Instead, she rose up on her toes and kissed him. It wasn’t gentle. It was all the months of anger and hurt and longing poured into a single point of contact. Lucien made a sound low in his throat, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her flush against him. The cane clattered to the floor, forgotten. His hands slid into her hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss. She tasted rain and regret and something darkly sweet, like burnt sugar. His mouth moved over hers with a desperation that mirrored her own, as if he’d been starving for this, for her. Rory clutched at his shoulders, the fine wool of his suit rough under her fingers, and let herself drown in the heat of him. When they broke apart, both breathing ragged, he rested his forehead against hers. “I missed you,” he murmured, the words warm against her lips. “Show me,” she said. He kissed her again, slower this time, a promise and an apology all in one. Then he bent, retrieved his cane, and with his free hand laced his fingers through hers. “The bed’s through there?” She nodded, her throat too tight for words. He led her to the narrow doorway, pausing only to scoop Ptolemy off the bookshelf and deposit him gently outside before closing the door. The click of the latch echoed in the sudden quiet. In the dim light filtering through the curtains, Lucien looked at her, really looked, as if memorizing every detail. “You’re sure?” Rory reached for the knot of his tie, pulled him down to her. “Shut up, Lucien.” He smiled against her mouth, a real smile this time, and let her undo the first button of his shirt.