Run: 2026-02-19-01KHSZA0JC5KM9QRH285N21GY5

The deadbolt scraped back with a sound like a knife being drawn. Rory stood frozen in the doorway, her fingers still curled around the key she hadn’t quite pulled from the lock. The scent of turmeric and old paper rushed out to meet her, but beneath it—faint, insistent—was the warm, spiced cologne she’d spent three years trying to forget. Lucien leaned against the kitchen counter, one ankle crossed over the other, a teacup balanced between his long fingers. Ptolemy was draped over his shoulder like a fur stole, tail flicking lazily against the lapel of his charcoal suit. The cat’s amber eyes locked onto Rory’s, unblinking. “You’re bleeding,” Lucien said. Rory looked down. A thin red line snaked from her knuckle to her wrist, where the delivery bag’s strap had chafed against the old scar. She wiped it on her jeans. “It’s nothing.” “You always did understate injuries.” He set the teacup down with a quiet *clink*. “Then again, you also understate most things. Anger. Fear.” His heterochromatic gaze flicked up, the black eye swallowing the light. “Desire.” The word hung between them, sharp as the blade in his cane. Rory’s pulse jumped, but she kept her voice steady. “What are you doing here, Lucien?” “Eva let me in. She said you’d be back soon.” He pushed off the counter, the movement fluid, controlled. “She also mentioned you’ve been avoiding my calls.” “Because I don’t work for you anymore.” “No. You quit.” His mouth twisted. “After the job in Prague. After *us*.” Rory stepped inside and kicked the door shut. The lock clicked into place, the sound too loud in the sudden silence. “There was no *us*. There was a job. And then there was you disappearing when things got messy.” “Messy.” He laughed, a dry, humorless sound. “Is that what we’re calling it?” Ptolemy chose that moment to leap down, landing with a soft *thump* before winding himself around Rory’s legs. She bent to scratch behind his ears, using the motion to steady herself. “You left. No note, no message—just gone. And then I find out you’ve been back in London for *months*?” Lucien’s jaw tightened. “I had reasons.” “Oh, I’m sure you did. You always do.” She straightened, meeting his gaze head-on. “But here’s the thing, Lucien. I don’t care anymore.” The lie tasted bitter. She *did* care. She cared about the way his hands had felt on her skin, the way his voice dropped when he spoke her name, the way he’d looked at her like she was something precious—right before he’d walked away. His fingers twitched at his side, as if he wanted to reach for her. “Rory—” “No.” She held up a hand. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to show up unannounced and act like nothing happened.” “And what would you have had me do?” His voice rose, the French accent sharpening the edges of his words. “Beg? Grovel? You made it clear you wanted nothing to do with me.” “Because you *left*!” The words tore out of her before she could stop them. “You left, and then you *ghosted* me, and now you’re standing in my best friend’s flat like it’s nothing!” Lucien went still. The air between them crackled, thick with everything they weren’t saying. Then, slowly, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He held it out to her. Rory didn’t take it. “What’s that?” “A job offer.” “I told you, I don’t work for you anymore.” “Not for me.” He unfolded the paper, revealing a grainy photograph of a man with a scarred face. “For *him*.” She recognized the face instantly. Viktor Drakos. A name that made her stomach twist. “The man who tried to kill me in Prague.” “He’s resurfaced. And he’s looking for something.” Lucien’s voice was low, urgent. “Something dangerous.” Rory crossed her arms. “And you want me to help you stop him.” “No.” Lucien’s fingers tightened around the paper. “I want you to help *me* stop him. Because I can’t do it alone.” The words hung between them, heavy with meaning. Rory’s chest ached. She wanted to say no. She *should* say no. But then Lucien stepped closer, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his amber eye, close enough that she could feel the heat of him. “Please,” he said softly. And just like that, three years of hurt and anger and longing came rushing back.