Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT04TW2KF6CXS16Q998DDKR

The chain rattled, a harsh, brittle sound against the hollow wood. Rory checked the peephole, her breath hitching in her throat. When she saw the platinum-blond hair slicked back against the damp grey London sky, she yanked the heavy deadbolt across. She didn't bother with the top two; she needed to open it now. The chain held. She undid the latch, swinging the door inward just enough to see him. Lucien Moreau stood on the landing. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week, his charcoal suit clinging to shoulders that should have been relaxed but were instead stiff with tension. A bruised knuckle marred the silk of his cuff, darkening the fabric. "You told me you were in Paris," Rory said. The words came out sharp, scraping against her throat. She pressed her palm against the wood, anchoring herself. "The last train was full of demons," Lucien replied. His voice was smooth, cultured, and terrifyingly calm. He didn't reach for the handle. He just looked at her, his heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one abyssal black— boring into her through the narrow gap. "Is Ptolemy inside?" "Don't worry about the cat. What are you doing here, Lucien?" He shifted his weight. The click of his heel on the pavement sounded like a gunshot in the small hallway. "I need a favor. The kind you never pay back. Or rather, the kind you can never pay." "Get back to France." He stepped closer. Rain dripping from his collar hit the floorboards. He smelled of expensive cologne, gasoline, and something metallic—copper. Blood? "That ex-boyfriend. Evan." Rory’s heart slammed against her ribs. She clenched her fists, the tendons popping in her wrists. The small crescent-shaped scar from years ago itched, a phantom memory of stitches. "He's dead," she lied. "I told you. The police." Lucien’s lips twitched. It wasn't a smile. It was a warning. "Demons don't stay dead, Rory. Especially not Evan. He moved on. And now he's hunting a resource. I didn't come for you." "Yes, you did." The door clicked. The deadbolt slid back. The chain rattled loose. Rory tried to slam it, but Lucien caught the frame. His hand moved with supernatural speed, blocking her path. The heat radiating from him was intense, unnatural. He shoved the door inward, forcing her to step back or be crushed. He walked in, bypassing the cramped entryway and the stack of delivery menus on the table. The flat smelled of stale curry from downstairs and old paper. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, launched himself from a stack of books with a yowl, claws extended. Lucien didn't even flinch. He reached down, a blur of motion, and caught the animal by the scruff of the neck, depositing it gently but firmly on a pile of scrolls. "Ignore the mess," Rory said, grabbing a tea towel from the counter. She needed something to do with her hands. She needed to get him out of her space. "The rent's due. If you're looking for Eva, she's at the clinic." "She's not there," Lucien said. He walked to the window, ignoring the chaos of her life, the dust motes dancing in the light, the stacks of law textbooks that would never be read. He looked out at the brick wall across the alley. "She's safe. But you aren't." "I'm fine." He turned. He moved with a languid grace that belied the violence beneath the surface. He closed the distance between them in two long strides. Rory backed up until her spine hit the shelf of encyclopedias, leaving her trapped. "I saw the bruise," he said. He didn't ask. He stated it. Rory looked away, staring at the knot in his tie. "It's nothing. It's work. Yu-Fei's ex-husband was... emotional." Lucien laughed. A dry, humorless sound. "Yu-Fei’s ex-husband has been dead for five years. Don't lie to me, Laila." The use of her alias hit like a slap. "I'm not Laila. I'm Rory. And I don't work for you." He reached out. The ivory-handled cane clicked against the floorboards, a sharp staccato rhythm. He didn't touch her, but the proximity was overwhelming. He leaned in, invading her personal space until his breath ghosted over her ear, warming the cold skin. "I know who you are," he whispered. "And I know who I am. We were a mistake, Rory. I told you that. We are poison together." "I don't want to be. Which is exactly why you're leaving." "I can't leave." His hand brushed her wrist. His fingers were cold, but the touch sent sparks crackling through her veins. He traced the scar. "He found your old number. The one you gave the cops. Someone in the underworld knows you're back in Brick Lane." A chill ran down her spine. The implications sat heavy in the room. "So what? You're here to be my bodyguard?" "I'm here because I couldn't stay away." The confession hung in the air, thick and suffocating. He looked at her mouth, then up to her eyes. "I spent three years in Marseille wondering if I’d made the right choice by walking away. I drove past this flat every day. I knew you were above the curry house. I knew you were safe." "You watched me." The accusation was breathless. "I kept watch." He gripped the back of her neck, his thumb pressing into the tender skin just below her hairline. His grip was firm, not painful, but possessive. "Aurora." "Stop calling me that." "Rory." He leaned in until their foreheads touched. The amber eye glowed, the pupil dilated. "I didn't come to leave you. I came to fix the rest of it." She wanted to push him away. She wanted to tell him to go back to the demons and the suits and the dangerous cities he frequented. But the fear in her gut was morphing into something else—something hot and dangerous and familiar. She looked at the bite mark on his knuckle. It was already turning purple. He was bleeding out, and he was standing there holding her up. "You're bleeding," she whispered. "It's nothing." He tried to pull away, but she didn't let him. She stepped closer, pressing her hand against his chest, feeling the frantic rhythm of his heart beneath the tailored wool. "It's not nothing. You said you couldn't fix this." She looked up at him, her blue eyes challenging him. "Then why are you here?" Lucien looked at her—really looked at her—for the first time all night. The anger in him drained away, replaced by a hunger that made his eyes ache. He reached up, brushing a stray lock of black hair from her face, his thumb tracing her jawline. "Because," he said, his voice dropping an octave, "I'm done watching from the shadows." He kissed her. It wasn't gentle. It was desperate, a collision of teeth and tongue, tasting of rain and whiskey. He smelled like the dark underside of London, the part of the city that only he dared to navigate. Rory wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling him flush against her. The cane clattered to the floor, forgotten. Ptolemy hissed from the pile of scrolls, but neither of them paid it any mind. Rory felt the way his muscles coiled under her hands, the way the heat of him seemed to anchor her to the spot. She closed her eyes, leaning into the familiar taste of his mouth, the taste of a second chance she hadn't dared to hope for.