Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT04BZS89XS9G3S8GC7VRYZ

The third deadbolt slid back with a heavy clunk. Rory pulled the door open, a cardboard container of chicken tikka masala balanced in her other hand. The scent of cumin and turmeric from the restaurant downstairs clung to her jacket. He stood there, a stark silhouette against the garish neon glow of the Brick Lane evening. Lucien Moreau. His platinum hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place, and his charcoal suit looked like it had been tailored onto him an hour ago. The ivory handle of his cane gleamed under the weak hallway light. Her breath caught. It had been six months. Six months of silence, of pushing the memory of his amber-and-black eyes to the darkest corner of her mind. “Rory.” His voice was exactly as she remembered—a low, smooth baritone that felt like expensive whiskey. She didn’t move. “You’re lost, Luc. The demonic debriefing office is in Mayfair.” A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. “I am precisely where I intend to be.” His heterochromatic gaze flicked past her shoulder, into the cluttered flat. “May I come in?” “Eva’s not here.” Rory’s grip tightened on the food container. “She’s in Edinburgh. Research trip. So whatever you’re selling, she’s not buying.” “I am not here for Eva.” His eyes locked on hers, intense and unblinking. “I am here for you.” The simplicity of the statement disarmed her. She’d built a wall of cool indifference, and he’d just walked through it like it was smoke. She could slam the door. She should slam the door. He’d walked away from her, after all. After that night in the rain-soaked alley behind Silas’s bar, after he’d wiped demon blood from his cane and told her it was too dangerous for her to be near him. But her hand stayed on the door. Her traitorous heart hammered against her ribs. “Why?” The word came out quieter than she intended. “Because there is a situation. And because…” He paused, and for the first time, she saw a crack in his impeccable composure. A faint tension around his eyes. “Because I was wrong.” She stepped back, holding the door open. An invitation. A mistake, probably. He moved past her into the flat, his cane making a soft tap on the worn floorboards. He seemed too large for the space, his presence sucking the air from the room. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, uncurled from a pile of research notes on the sofa, gave a low growl, and darted under the kitchen table. Lucien’s gaze swept over the chaos—the towers of books, the scrolls spilling from the desk, the half-empty mugs of cold tea. “It seems some things do not change.” “Some of us don’t have a demonic valet,” Rory said, setting the food down on the cluttered coffee table. She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen. “What situation?” He turned to face her, leaning his weight lightly on the cane. “A name has come into my possession. A name I believe is connected to your former… associate. Evan.” The name was a physical blow. The small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist seemed to pulse with a phantom ache. She kept her face neutral, a skill she’d perfected during her pre-law studies and honed in that relationship. “Evan is in Cardiff. My past. It has nothing to do with your world.” “It has everything to do with it,” Lucien countered, his voice dropping. “The man you knew was a mask. A very convincing one. The creature beneath it… is a client of mine. A very troublesome one.” The flat felt suddenly colder. The cheerful noise from the street below faded into a dull hum. “What are you saying?” “I am saying that your flight from Cardiff was not the clean escape you believed it to be. His interest in you was never entirely… human.” Lucien took a step closer. The scent of his cologne, something dark and smoky like oud wood, cut through the smell of curry. “He is asking questions in certain circles. Expensive questions. I could not let that stand.” Her coolness evaporated, replaced by a cold, sharp fear. “You’re protecting your investment. I get it. You don’t like rivals poaching on your turf.” She pushed off the doorframe, her voice gaining an edge. “Is that why you’re here? To tell me my abusive ex is a demon and you’ve staked a claim? Thanks for the update. You can leave now.” He was in front of her in two swift, silent strides. He didn’t touch her, but his proximity was a cage. “Look at me, Aurora.” She forced her bright blue eyes to meet his mismatched ones. The anger was a shield, and it was cracking. “Do you truly believe that?” The words were barely a whisper. “After everything?” The memory of his mouth on hers, the desperate press of his body against a rain-slicked wall, the way he’d looked at her like she was the only real thing in a world of shadows—it all came rushing back. Then the cold dismissal. The wall he’d built between them. “You left,” she said, the words hollow. “You told me it was for the best. That your world would chew me up and spit me out.” “I was a fool.” His amber eye seemed to glow in the dim light. “I thought distance was a armor. I thought if I pushed you away, the danger would not find you. I was wrong. The danger was always there, festering in a past I was too arrogant to consider. My only mistake was believing I could ever truly walk away.” He lifted his hand, slowly, giving her every chance to pull back. His fingers brushed a stray strand of black hair from her cheek. His touch was electric, a jolt that went straight to her core. “I have spent six months trying to forget the sound of your voice,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. “Trying to convince myself that the heat in my blood when you look at me was a weakness I could not afford.” Her breath hitched. The wall was gone, rubble at her feet. “Luc…” “Tell me to leave,” he challenged, his voice thick. “Tell me you feel nothing. That you have forgotten. And I will walk out that door and you will never see me again.” She couldn’t. The words wouldn’t form. All the hurt, the anger, the confusion—it was still there, a tangled knot in her chest. But beneath it, older and stronger, was the pull. The undeniable, terrifying attraction that had drawn her to him from the start. Her hand came up, her fingers closing around the lapel of his impossibly soft suit jacket. She pulled him down, and her mouth found his. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was six months of pent-up frustration and longing. It was an answer and a question. His cane clattered to the floor as his arms wrapped around her, pulling her flush against him. He tasted of darkness and secrets and everything she’d tried to run from. His kiss was possessive, demanding, and she gave herself over to it completely, her fingers tangling in the slick perfection of his hair. When they finally broke apart, both were breathing heavily. His forehead rested against hers. “I have not forgotten a thing,” she whispered, her voice unsteady. A real smile, one that reached his strange eyes, finally broke across his face. “Neither have I, *mon couer*. Neither have I.”