Run: 2026-02-19-01KHSZ0SM3Q7FPA4PXQHNBDPVK

The sharp rap at the door startled Rory. Three quick taps, then silence. She frowned. Eight o'clock on a Wednesday, she'd just kicked off her trainers and flopped onto the worn settee. Ptolemy, the flat's resident tabby, glared at her from his perch atop a stack of leather-bound tomes. Two more knocks sounded, more insistent this time. With a sigh, Rory hauled herself up, fishing her wand from her back pocket. She nudged the sleeping potions textbook aside with a toe and pressed an eye to the peephole. The breath caught in her throat. Sleek blond hair, chiseled features, heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one fathomless black. Lucien Moreau. She hadn't laid eyes on him in months, not since... Rory shook herself and undid the deadbolts with trembling fingers. The door creaked open. Lucien stood there in his impeccable charcoal suit, his pale hair gleaming under the flickering hallway light. An ivory-handled cane—she knew it concealed a wickedly sharp blade—was clenched in his fist. "Hello, Laila," he said, his voice a low purr. Her heart stuttered at his use of her old alias. "May I come in?" She hesitated. Memories flooded back—late nights poring over ancient grimoires, the searing brush of his lips against hers, the wrenching agony of his betrayal. In the end, she stepped aside. He swept past her. Sandalwood and spice tickled her nose, too close, too familiar. She shut the door and turned to face him. "Well?" she demanded, crossing her arms. "What do you want, Lucien?" A muscle jumped in his jaw. He twirled the cane between nimble fingers. "I need your help." Rory barked a laugh. "My help? That's rich, coming from you." She stalked into the tiny kitchen, desperate to put space between them. "Tea?" "No, thank you," he said. She busied herself filling the kettle, keeping her back to him. His footsteps whispered over the threadbare carpet. She tensed as he drew nearer, his presence like a brand against her skin. "I'm here about your father." The mug slipped from her nerveless fingers, shattering on the linoleum. "You bastard," she whispered. "How dare you bring him into this?" She whirled to face him. "Get out." He reached for her. She flinched away, her shoulders striking the wall. He sighed and let his hand fall. "I understand your anger, ma petite," he said softly. "But your father's life hangs in the balance. I would not have come to you otherwise." Rory shook her head mutely. Lucien's jaw clenched. "Evan suspects that your father knows the location of the Staff of Malphora. He will stop at nothing to extract that information. We must get to Brendan before he does." A chill ran through her at the mention of her sadistic ex. "And why should I trust you?" she asked hoarsely. "You've lied to me before." He stilled. One long-fingered hand reached up and skimmed along her jaw. A shiver raced over her skin. "I have," he agreed. Remorse flickered in his mismatched gaze. "I have made...mistakes. But I have never stopped caring for you." Rory closed her eyes, her breath catching. His forehead came to rest against hers. "I need you," he rasped. His fingers fisted in her hair. "Please, Laila. I can't do this without you." Her heart thrummed in her chest, a caged bird. "Damn you, Lucien," she whispered. Then she kissed him, hard and desperate. He groaned and hauled her against him, his arms vises around her. When they broke apart, they were both panting harshly. "Okay," Rory said, her voice shaking. "I'll help you save my father." Relief crashed over his features. He pressed his lips to her forehead. "Thank you," he breathed. He stepped back, his hands reluctantly releasing her. "We'll leave for Cardiff tonight." As the implications sank in, Rory felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up. She'd just agreed to go on a quest with the man who'd shattered her heart. The odds were laughably low. Despite that, a smirk curved her mouth. "When do we start?"