Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT00GNRQE019VSNJS7JT1PD

The knock came just after midnight, sharp and insistent, like someone had pressed their knuckles to the wood and refused to lift them. Rory froze mid-sip, the lukewarm tea in her mug forgotten. Ptolemy’s ears twitched from his perch on the windowsill, tail flicking once before he slunk behind the sofa. She set the mug down with a quiet *clink* against the chipped saucer. No one knocked at this hour unless they were lost, drunk, or trouble. The deadbolts held firm, but the sound came again—three rapid strikes, then a pause, then two more. A pattern. One she recognised. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. *No. Not possible.* The knock repeated, louder this time. A voice followed, smooth as aged whiskey, laced with that damnable French accent. “Rory. Open the door.” She exhaled through her nose, sharp and controlled. The flat smelled of old paper and the faint tang of curry seeping up from the restaurant below. She should’ve known. Should’ve *felt* him coming, the way the air thickened before a storm. Ptolemy hissed from his hiding spot. Rory crossed the room in three strides, her bare feet silent against the worn floorboards. She pressed her palm to the door, felt the vibration of another knock through the wood. “Go away, Lucien.” A beat of silence. Then, “I would, *chérie*, but you left something of mine.” Her stomach dropped. *Shit.* The ledger. The one she’d swiped from his office three months ago, the one with names and debts and half the supernatural underworld’s secrets scrawled in his precise handwriting. She’d meant to return it. Eventually. She unlatched the first deadbolt. Then the second. The third stuck, and she had to jiggle it before it gave with a metallic groan. The door swung open just enough to reveal him—tall, immaculate, leaning against the frame like he owned the place. His cane tapped once against the floor, the ivory handle gleaming under the flickering hallway light. Lucien’s gaze raked over her, slow and deliberate. “You look like hell.” She didn’t rise to it. “What do you want?” “What I’ve always wanted.” His lips quirked, just slightly. “For you to stop stealing from me.” Rory stepped back, letting the door swing wider. The flat’s dim light spilled over him—tailored charcoal suit, platinum hair slicked back, those damn eyes, one amber, one black, catching the glow like polished stone. He smelled like expensive cologne and something darker, something that made her pulse jump. She crossed her arms. “You could’ve called.” “And miss the chance to see your face?” He pushed off the frame, stepping inside without invitation. The door clicked shut behind him. “Besides, you never answer.” Ptolemy chose that moment to dart out from behind the sofa, back arched, tail puffed. Lucien didn’t flinch. He simply crouched, extending a hand. “Bonjour, *petit monstre*.” The cat sniffed his fingers, then—traitor—rubbed his cheek against Lucien’s knuckles before slinking away. Rory scowled. “He hates everyone.” “Not everyone.” Lucien straightened, his gaze flicking to the stack of books on the coffee table, the half-empty tea mug, the way her fingers dug into her own arms. “You’ve been busy.” “Not that it’s any of your business.” He smirked. “Everything you do is my business, *Laila*.” The name hit like a spark to dry kindling. She hadn’t heard it in months—not since the last time they’d stood this close, not since the night she’d walked out of his office with the ledger tucked under her arm and his voice raw in her ears. *Don’t you dare.* She turned away, moving to the kitchenette. “Tea?” “No.” “Whiskey, then.” “You don’t have any.” She yanked open a cabinet, grabbed the half-empty bottle of cheap bourbon she kept for emergencies. “I do now.” Lucien watched as she poured two fingers into a chipped glass, the liquid sloshing slightly. She didn’t offer him one. He didn’t ask. She downed it in one go, the burn grounding her. “You could’ve sent someone else.” “And risk them seeing what’s in that ledger?” He tilted his head. “I don’t trust anyone else with my secrets.” “Funny. You trusted me.” His expression darkened, just for a second. “I did.” The air between them thickened, heavy with things unsaid. The ledger sat on the desk, half-buried under a pile of notes. She could grab it, toss it at him, and be done with this. But the way he was looking at her—like he could see straight through her—made her fingers twitch at her sides. Lucien stepped closer. Not enough to crowd her, but enough that she could feel the heat of him, the way his presence filled the cramped space. “You took it for a reason.” She didn’t answer. “Was it the money?” His voice dropped, rougher now. “Or was it because you knew it would piss me off?” She turned, leaning back against the counter. “Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d notice.” His jaw tightened. “I notice everything about you, *chérie*. Even when I don’t want to.” The words hung between them, sharp and honest. She should’ve looked away. Should’ve laughed it off, deflected, done anything but stand there, her pulse hammering in her throat. Lucien reached out, his fingers brushing the crescent scar on her wrist. She didn’t pull away. “You’re bleeding.” She glanced down. A thin line of red welled from a paper cut she hadn’t noticed. He lifted her hand, his thumb pressing lightly against the wound. The sting faded, replaced by something warmer, something that made her breath catch. “You always were careless,” he murmured. “And you always were a liar.” His grip tightened, just slightly. “I never lied to you.” “No?” She met his gaze, unflinching. “Then what do you call it when you let me walk out that door?” His thumb stilled. The air between them crackled, charged with something dangerous. “I call it the biggest mistake of my life.” She should’ve stepped back. Should’ve told him to leave. But the way he was looking at her—like she was the only thing in the room, the only thing that mattered—made her stomach twist. Lucien’s free hand came up, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck. “Tell me to stop.” She didn’t. His mouth crashed into hers, hot and demanding. She gasped, her hands flying to his chest, but she didn’t push him away. Instead, her fingers curled into the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. He tasted like sin and whiskey, like every bad decision she’d ever made wrapped up in one. He groaned against her lips, his grip tightening. “You drive me insane.” She nipped his lower lip. “Good.” He backed her against the counter, his body pressing into hers. The ledger, the reason he’d come, the months of silence—none of it mattered. Not when his hands were on her, not when his mouth was tracing fire down her throat. Ptolemy yowled from the sofa, but neither of them paid him any mind. Lucien’s fingers found the hem of her shirt, slipping beneath to trace the bare skin of her waist. She arched into him, her breath coming in sharp gasps. “We shouldn’t—” “Shut up, Rory.” She obeyed.