Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT07A0Z9QRQ2NFN76DFYPJR

The deadbolt gave its familiar metallic groan as Rory turned it three times. The second bolt stuck as always—she had to jiggle the handle while pressing her shoulder against the peeling wood. When the door finally creaked open, the amber glow from the hallway sliced across Lucien Moreau’s face. His tailored charcoal suit was rumpled for once, the platinum hair usually slicked back now disheveled, as if he’d been running his fingers through it. That goddamn ivory-handled cane tapped impatiently against the floor. "Bonsoir, Laila." His mismatched eyes—one black, one amber—locked onto hers with an intensity that made her knuckles tighten around the doorframe. She smelled bergamot and gunpowder. "You’re supposed to be in Marseille," she said. The words came out colder than she intended. Ptolemy slithered between her ankles, his tail brushing her calf before he disappeared down the hallway. Lucien exhaled through his nose, barely a laugh. "Plans change." Three weeks. Three weeks since she’d left his bed before dawn, since she'd slipped out while he slept. No note, no message. Just gone. And now here he stood, leaning on that ridiculous cane like some Regency-era villain, filling her doorway with his expensive cologne and unasked-for presence. "Did you forget something?" She kept her voice flat, fighting the way her pulse jumped when he stepped closer. "Several things." His fingers brushed the crescent scar on her left wrist, the one he’d traced with his tongue that night against the silk sheets. A shiver skittered up her arm. "Starting with you walking out." The hallway ceiling light buzzed, flickering. Downstairs, the curry house’s late-night patrons laughed too loud over lamb bhuna and Kingfishers. "Not much to discuss, Luc." She moved to shut the door. His hand shot out, palm flat against the wood. "Then why do you still call me that?" Her breath hitched. Only Eva called her Rory; everyone else used Aurora. But she'd always called him Luc, from the first night she'd stumbled into his underground casino, bleeding from a cut above her eyebrow and too stubborn to admit she needed help. The cane’s tip tapped again. "Invite me in, Laila." "You don’t need an invitation." "For you, I do." Silence stretched between them, broken only by Ptolemy yowling from the kitchen. Rory exhaled. "Fine. Five minutes." The door swung wider, and Lucien stepped over the threshold like he’d been waiting years to cross it. His polished oxfords scuffed against the uneven floorboards as he took in the mess of spellbooks and takeout containers littering Eva’s flat. "You’ve been avoiding my calls." "And yet you found me anyway." She crossed her arms, leaning against the bookshelf. A pile of grimoires wobbled precariously. "How’d you manage that?" He smirked. "I know a Welshman with a gambling problem who delivers for Golden Empress." "Yu-Fei gave you my address?" "Not willingly." Lucien unscrewed the head of his cane with practiced ease, revealing the thin blade concealed inside. He inspected its edge. "I may have implied you owed me money." "You absolute—" "Relax." He snapped the cane back together. "She believed me when I said I’d forget the debt if she told me where you’d been hiding." Rory’s nails dug into her palms. "I wasn’t hiding." "Then what do you call this?" He gestured to the boarded-up windows, the salt lines etched into the doorframes. "You left your job. Changed numbers. Even that bastard Silas wouldn’t tell me where—" "I needed space." "For what?" Her jaw tightened. "Forget it." Lucien was in front of her before she could blink, crowding her against the shelf. His scent enveloped her—bergamot, gunpowder, the faintest hint of sulfur. Demon blood. "You don’t get to vanish after—" His voice dipped low, rough. "After what happened between us." Heat flooded her cheeks. She remembered the way his mouth had tasted, the scrape of his teeth along her collarbone, the way he’d whispered her real name against her skin. "It was one night." "Bullshit." Ptolemy chose that moment to leap onto the coffee table, sending a stack of Eva’s research notes fluttering to the floor. Lucien didn’t move. His mismatched eyes searched hers. "Tell me to leave, and I will." The words lodged in her throat. His exhale was almost a laugh. "That’s what I thought." Then his lips crashed against hers. The kiss burned—furious, desperate, like he’d been starving for it. His fingers tangled in her hair, angling her head, and she bit his lower lip just to hear him groan. The cane clattered to the floor as he backed her against the wall, one hand splayed across the small of her back. "You’re impossible," he muttered against her mouth. "Takes one to know one." He kissed her again, slower this time, deliberate. When he pulled away, his thumb dragged across her bottom lip. "We’re not done talking." Rory grabbed his tie, yanking him closer. "Later."