Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT063Z8WZ1SGARMVPHEVAVP

The door swung open and Rory's breath caught. Lucien stood in the corridor, platinum hair dishevelled in a way she'd never seen, one shoulder pressed against the doorframe like he needed it for support. His mismatched eyes—amber and black—locked onto hers with an intensity that made her stomach flip. The ivory-handled cane dangled from his left hand, and his charcoal suit looked like he'd slept in it. Or hadn't slept at all. "Aurora." Her name in his mouth, wrapped in that French accent, still did things to her she refused to acknowledge. "How did you—" She stopped. Stupid question. He was an information broker. Finding people was literally his job. "What are you doing here?" "May I come in?" "That depends." She tightened her grip on the door. Behind her, Ptolemy meowed from somewhere in Eva's chaotic living room. "Are you here to tell me everything that happened three months ago was necessary? That you had no choice? Because I've heard that speech." Something flickered across his face. Pain, maybe. He was good at hiding it, but she'd learned to read the micro-expressions that slipped through his armour. "No." He straightened, rolling his shoulders back. The vulnerability vanished. "I'm here because someone tried to kill me last night, and you're the only person I trust." The words hung between them like a blade suspended by thread. She should close the door. Should tell him to take his trust and his perfect suits and his lies of omission back to whatever hole he'd crawled from. Should remember the way he'd walked out of her life without explanation, leaving only a note that said it was safer this way. Instead, she stepped aside. He moved past her, bringing with him the scent of expensive cologne mixed with something metallic. Blood, she realized. Her eyes dropped to his right side, where his jacket hung strangely. "You're hurt." "Observant as ever." He made it to Eva's threadbare sofa before his leg gave out. He caught himself on the armrest, knuckles white against the faded floral pattern. "Let me see." "It's nothing." "Lucien." She crossed the room in three strides, batting away his hands when he tried to stop her. "Shut up and let me help you." His laugh came out broken. "Still bossy." "Still an idiot who thinks he's invincible." She unbuttoned his jacket, her fingers brushing against his chest. The cotton shirt underneath was soaked through, dark and wet. "Christ. What happened?" "Ghoul. Claws coated with something I haven't identified yet." He winced as she peeled the fabric away from the wound. "I killed it, but not before it got a few good swipes in." The gashes ran from his ribs to his hip, deep enough that she could see muscle. Her medical knowledge extended to basic first aid, but this needed stitches. Maybe worse. "You need a hospital." "Can't. Whoever sent the ghoul will have people watching the emergency rooms." His hand closed over hers, stopping her assessment. His palm was warm, familiar. "I wouldn't have come if there was another option." She met his eyes and saw the truth there. He was terrified. Lucien Moreau, the man who'd once negotiated a ceasefire between two demon factions while standing in a burning building, was scared. "Eva has supplies." She pulled away from his touch, ignoring the way her skin burned where he'd held her. "Supernatural injuries, too?" "Eventually. The poison slows healing." She moved to Eva's bathroom, digging through the cabinet until she found the medical kit her friend kept for emergencies. When she returned, Lucien had his head tipped back against the sofa, eyes closed. In the dim light filtering through Eva's curtains, he looked almost human. Fragile. "This will hurt." She knelt beside him, laying out supplies on the coffee table. Antiseptic. Needle. Thread. Her hands were steady even though her heart hammered. "When has that ever stopped you?" "I'm trying to decide if I should punch you first or stitch you up." "The punching will be less painful." He opened his eyes, and the weight of his gaze pinned her in place. "I owe you an explanation." "You owe me several." She soaked gauze in antiseptic. "Starting with why you're really here." "I told you—" "Bullshit. You have a dozen safehouses across London. You've got contacts who could hide you in places I've never heard of." She pressed the gauze to his wound. He hissed but didn't pull away. "So why show up at Eva's flat, where you knew I'd be?" The silence stretched. Ptolemy jumped onto the back of the sofa, regarding Lucien with feline disdain. "Because I'm tired of running." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Because the people after me won't stop until I'm dead or they are. And because—" He stopped, jaw clenching. "Because what?" "Because I've made a lot of mistakes, Aurora, but leaving you was the worst one." The gauze slipped from her fingers. She stared at him, searching for the lie, the angle, the manipulation. Found none. "You left a note. On my pillow. While I was sleeping." "Yes." "Said it was safer if we weren't seen together." "It was true. Is true." He caught her wrist, thumb brushing over the crescent-shaped scar there. "My father's enemies were circling. I couldn't let them use you against me." "I'm not some damsel who needs protecting." "I know. That's what made it worse." His grip tightened. "You would have fought beside me. Would have put yourself in danger without hesitation. I couldn't live with that." "So you made the choice for me." "Yes." She yanked her hand back, grabbed the needle and thread. "Take off your shirt." He complied without argument, revealing the full extent of the damage. The poison had spread, dark veins radiating from the wounds across his abdomen. She'd seen something similar once, in one of Eva's books about demonic toxins. "This needs more than stitches. You need an antidote." "Working on it. I have people trying to identify the compound." He watched her thread the needle. "There might not be time." "Don't." She positioned the needle. "Don't you dare come here and tell me you're dying." "I'm telling you I might be. There's a difference." She drove the needle through his skin. He didn't flinch. "If you wanted to make amends before shuffling off this mortal coil, you should have brought flowers. Maybe chocolates." "Would you have let me in?" "No." "Well then." They fell into silence. She worked methodically, closing the wounds one careful stitch at a time. His breathing stayed even despite the pain. She'd forgotten this about him—his absolute control, even when his body screamed otherwise. "I thought about you." The words escaped before she could stop them. "After you left. Wondered if you were dead in a ditch somewhere." "Would you have cared?" "Yes. No. I don't know." She tied off a stitch with more force than necessary. "I was angry. Still am." "You have every right." "Stop being so reasonable. It's infuriating." His hand moved to her face, fingers curling against her cheek. She should pull away. Didn't. "I've been called many things, Aurora. Reasonable isn't typically one of them." "Lucien—" "I know. This is complicated. We're complicated." His thumb traced her jawline. "But complicated is better than nothing." She finished the last stitch, tied it off, and finally let herself look at him properly. At the exhaustion carved into his features, the vulnerability he only ever showed her, the want that mirrored her own. "If you leave again—" "I won't." "You don't know that." "No." He pulled her closer, foreheads touching. "But I'd like the chance to try."