Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0183ZBM4D1M8G24XNTNCZ

The knock came just after midnight, sharp and insistent—three quick raps, then a pause, then two more. Rory froze mid-sip of her tea, the chipped mug hovering near her lips. No one knocked like that. Not at this hour. Not unless they knew the rhythm of her old life, the one she’d left behind in Cardiff. She set the mug down with a quiet *clink* against the scarred wooden table. Ptolemy, curled on the windowsill, lifted his head, ears twitching. The tabby’s tail flicked once, slow and deliberate, as if he, too, recognised the pattern. Another knock. Louder this time. Rory exhaled through her nose, fingers tightening around the edge of the table. The flat was small—just one room with a kitchenette crammed into the corner, a sagging sofa that doubled as a bed, and a bathroom so tiny she had to turn sideways to use the shower. The front door was the only exit, and it was currently being assaulted by someone who either didn’t know the meaning of *quiet* or didn’t care. She crossed the room in three strides, bare feet silent against the worn floorboards. The deadbolts were cold under her fingers as she undid them one by one. The third lock stuck, as it always did, and she had to jiggle it before it gave with a reluctant *click*. The door swung open. Lucien Moreau stood in the dim glow of the hallway’s flickering bulb, one hand braced against the doorframe, the other resting on the ivory handle of his cane. His charcoal suit was immaculate, not a crease out of place, as if he’d just stepped out of a boardroom instead of the rain-slicked streets of London. Water beaded on the shoulders of his coat, darkening the fabric in uneven patches. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—locked onto hers, unreadable. “You look like hell,” he said. Rory’s fingers twitched. She should’ve slammed the door in his face. Should’ve told him to piss off back to whatever shadowy corner of the city he’d crawled out of. But the words died in her throat because, damn him, he looked *good*. Too good. The kind of good that made her stomach clench and her pulse kick up like she’d just downed a triple espresso. “What do you want, Lucien?” Her voice came out steady, which was a small victory. He tilted his head, just slightly, the movement fluid and predatory. “Can’t a man visit an old friend?” “Friends don’t show up unannounced at midnight.” “No?” A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Then what do they do?” She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because the truth was, she didn’t know what they did. Not anymore. Not after Cardiff. Not after *him*. Lucien pushed off the doorframe, stepping forward without invitation. The scent of rain and something darker—something like burnt sugar and ozone—rolled off him, filling the cramped space between them. Rory didn’t retreat. She never did. But she did cross her arms, a flimsy barrier between them. “You going to let me in, *chérie*?” His voice dropped, rougher now, the French accent wrapping around the endearment like a caress. “Or do I have to stand out here all night?” Ptolemy chose that moment to slink between Rory’s legs, his tail brushing against Lucien’s polished shoes. The half-demon glanced down, then back up at her, one eyebrow arched. “Still letting that mangy cat answer the door for you?” “He’s got better manners than you.” Lucien chuckled, low and dark. “Doubtful.” Rory exhaled sharply through her nose. She should’ve known he’d weasel his way in eventually. Should’ve known he wouldn’t stay away forever. But she hadn’t expected *tonight*. Hadn’t expected the way her traitorous heart stuttered when he looked at her like that—like she was the only thing in the room worth seeing. She stepped back, just enough to let him pass. “Five minutes. Then you’re gone.” Lucien’s smirk deepened as he crossed the threshold. “We both know that’s not how this works.” The door clicked shut behind him. The flat suddenly felt smaller. The air thicker. Rory watched as he shrugged out of his coat, draping it over the back of the sofa with practiced ease. His suit jacket followed, revealing the crisp white shirt beneath, the fabric clinging just enough to hint at the lean muscle underneath. She looked away before he could catch her staring. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, turning to face her. “No shit.” He leaned against the sofa, one ankle crossed over the other, the picture of casual arrogance. “I missed you.” The words hit her like a physical blow. Rory’s fingers curled into fists at her sides. “Don’t.” “Don’t what?” He spread his hands, all innocence. “Tell the truth?” “You don’t get to do that.” Her voice was sharp, but there was no real heat behind it. Just exhaustion. Just the weight of everything unsaid between them. “Not after Cardiff. Not after—” “After I let you walk away?” His expression darkened, the amber eye flashing. “Is that what you were going to say?” She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because that *was* what she’d been going to say, and the truth of it sat between them like a live wire, crackling with tension. Lucien pushed off the sofa, closing the distance between them in two long strides. Rory didn’t back up. Didn’t flinch. But her breath hitched when he reached out, his fingers brushing against the scar on her left wrist—the crescent-shaped mark from a childhood accident. His touch was light, barely there, but it sent a jolt through her all the same. “You think I don’t know what I did?” His voice was quiet now, the teasing edge gone. “You think I don’t regret it?” Rory swallowed. “Regret doesn’t change anything.” “No.” His thumb traced the scar, slow and deliberate. “But it’s a start.” She should’ve pulled away. Should’ve told him to stop. But the truth was, she didn’t want him to. Not really. Because as much as she hated to admit it, she’d missed him too. Missed the way he looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. Missed the way he made her feel—alive, dangerous, *wanted*. “Why are you here, Lucien?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let his hand drop, his fingers lingering for just a second before falling away. “Because I can’t stay away from you, *chérie*. No matter how hard I try.” Rory’s heart pounded in her chest. She should’ve told him to leave. Should’ve reminded him of all the reasons this was a bad idea. But the words wouldn’t come. Not when he was looking at her like that. Not when the space between them felt charged, electric, like the air before a storm. “You’re trouble,” she said instead. Lucien’s lips quirked. “And you love it.” She didn’t deny it. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Rory could hear the rain pattering against the window, the distant hum of traffic from the street below. But all she could focus on was him—his scent, his heat, the way his eyes darkened when he looked at her. “Five minutes,” she reminded him, her voice steadier than she felt. Lucien’s smirk returned, slow and knowing. “We’ll see.” And just like that, the game was back on.