Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT07Q1WB64Q0WJX0QVP5NVT

Three deadbolts groaned in sequence, a heavy, metallic percussion that echoed through the narrow hallway of the Brick Lane flat. Rory pulled the heavy oak door inward. The scent of turmeric and cumin from the curry house below billowed into the room, instantly smothered by the sharp, expensive fragrance of sandalwood and rain. Lucien Moreau stood in the dim light of the landing. The charcoal fabric of his suit caught the weak yellow glow of the hallway bulb, tracing the sharp lines of his shoulders. He leaned slightly on his ivory-handled cane. One amber eye and one black eye locked onto hers, unblinking. "You changed the locks, Aurora." Rory gripped the edge of the door until the wood bit into her palm. The crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist throbbed, a phantom pulse. "I changed my life, Lucien. The locks were just a side effect." She moved to swing the door shut, but the silver tip of his cane slid into the gap. It didn't strike the wood; it simply existed there, an immovable tether. Lucien didn't push. He waited, his expression a mask of Gallic indifference that didn't quite reach the tension in his jaw. "The Golden Empress has a new delivery driver today because you didn't show for your shift. Silas mentioned you were barricaded in here with a stack of scrolls and a nervous disposition." Rory stepped back, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor cluttered with open manuscripts and half-empty mugs of tea. She didn't invite him in, but her retreat was an admission of defeat. "Silas talks too much. I'm busy. Eva left me with a translation project that actually requires a brain, not a motorcycle helmet." Lucien stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind him with a softness that felt louder than a slam. He surveyed the cramped space. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, uncoiled from a pile of research notes on the sofa and stretched, his green eyes narrowing at the intruder. Lucien offered a gloved hand; the cat sniffed the leather and immediately rubbed his chin against the Frenchman’s knuckles. "Traitor," Rory muttered. She turned her back to him, heading toward the small kitchen alcove. Her black hair swayed against her shoulders, the straight edges sharp as a blade. She busied herself with the kettle, her fingers trembling just enough to clatter the lid. "Why are you here? We settled the bill in Soho. I don't owe you any more favors, and I certainly don't owe you any more of my time." Lucien moved through the maze of books with a predator’s grace, his cane silent on the rugs. He stopped just behind her. The heat radiating from his chest brushed against her spine. "We settled a transaction, Aurora. We settled nothing else." Rory spun around, the kettle forgotten. "There is nothing else. You’re a fixer. You fix problems for the things that go bump in the night, and I was just a temporary logistical hurdle. Go back to Marseille, or Avaros, or whatever hole you crawled out of to find me." Lucien’s amber eye flared, a flicker of hellfire behind the iris. He reached out, not to touch her, but to pluck a stray thread from the shoulder of her oversized jumper. His fingers lingered a fraction of a second too long near her neck. "You ran from a man who broke your spirit in Cardiff, and you think I am the same breed of monster." He took a step closer, forcing her back against the laminate counter. "Evan was a coward who used his fists because he lacked a soul. I am a demon who uses his soul because I lack the restraint to stay away from you." Rory stared up at him. The height difference forced her to tilt her head back, exposing the pulse jumping in her throat. "Don't do that. Don't use that silver-tongued poetry on me. I saw how you handled the London covens, Lucien. You’re cold. You’re calculated. You treat people like chess pieces." Lucien dropped his cane. It clattered to the floor, the sound sharp as a gunshot. He planted both hands on the counter on either side of her hips, pinning her within the circle of his arms. The scent of him—the rain and the dark places—swirled around her until she couldn't breathe anything else. "I calculated everything but this," he whispered. His black eye seemed to swallow the light in the room. "I stayed away for three months. I let you deliver your noodles and hide in this dusty flat because I told myself you were safer without a shadow like mine falling over you. Then I heard you were looking into the Avaros scrolls. You're digging into my father's realm, Rory. Why?" Rory pushed against his chest. His suit jacket felt like cold silk over granite. "Because I wanted to understand what makes a man half-human and zero percent honest. I wanted to know why you look at me like I'm a puzzle you can't solve, and then walk away when the pieces start to fit." She felt his heart thudding beneath her palms—a heavy, rhythmic beast. "You left me in that rainstorm outside Silas' bar. No word. No note. Just a dry cleaning bill for the coat you let me borrow." Lucien’s face cracked. The composure he’d worn like armor since Marseille dropped, revealing a raw, jagged hunger. "I left because if I stayed, I would have burned that bar to the ground just to keep you warm. I don't know how to be around you without wanting to possess every thought in your head." He leaned down, his forehead resting against hers. His breath hitched, a jagged sound that felt out of place in such a polished man. "Is that what you want to hear? That the great information broker of London is paralyzed by a girl with a crescent scar and a penchant for trouble?" Rory’s fingers curled into the lapels of his suit. The anger that had sustained her through the weeks of silence began to erode, replaced by a terrifying, liquid heat. "I want the truth, Lucien. Not the version you sell to the vampires at the docks." Lucien slid one hand from the counter to her waist, his thumb hooking into the belt loop of her jeans. He pulled her flush against him. The ivory-handled cane lay forgotten on the floor. "The truth is that I am a creature of greed. It is in my blood. And right now, I am starving." He didn't wait for her to bridge the gap. He tilted his head and captured her mouth with a ferocity that tasted of desperation. It wasn't the kiss of a gentleman; it was the kiss of a man reclaiming something he had tried to throw away and realized he couldn't live without. Rory made a soft sound in the back of her throat, half-moan and half-protest, but her arms wound around his neck, pulling him closer. Her fingers tangled in his slicked-back platinum hair, ruining the perfection he maintained so carefully. The flat narrowed until the only things that existed were the heat of the kitchen and the friction of their bodies. Lucien groaned into her mouth, his hand moving up to cup the back of her head, his gloved fingers sliding through her black tresses. He pulled back just an inch, his eyes searching hers, the amber and the black both blown wide with dark pupils. "Tell me to leave, Aurora. If you say it now, I will walk out that door and I will never cross your path again. I will hire a dozen guards to watch this flat from the shadows, and you will never see my face." Rory looked at the deadbolts on the door, then back at the man who had bypassed every one of her defenses without even trying. "I've spent my life running from men who wanted to dim my light, Lucien." She reached up, tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "You don't want to dim it. You want to stoke the fire. So don't you dare walk out that door." Lucien’s grip tightened on her waist. He lifted her easily, setting her onto the laminate counter among the scattered tea bags and crumbs. He stepped between her knees, his hands sliding up her thighs. "Then the scrolls wait," he murmured against her skin, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below her ear. "The scrolls aren't going anywhere," Rory gasped, her head falling back as his teeth grazed her collarbone. "And neither are you." Outside, the sirens of East London wailed, and the smell of curry hung heavy in the air, but inside the narrow flat, the world had shrunk to the space between their heartbeats. "You're making an mess of my research," she whispered, even as she pulled his shirt from his waistband. "I’ll buy you new books. I’ll buy you the library at Alexandria if it keeps you here." He looked up at her, the mask gone, leaving only the demon and the man, both of them wanting the same thing. "You're a high-maintenance fixer, Moreau." "And you're a delivery girl who's late for her shift." He kissed her again, slower this time, a promise of the wreckage they were about to make of the night. Ptolemy jumped down from the sofa and wandered into the bedroom, leaving the two of them to the chaos of their own making. Rory unbuttoned his waistcoat, her movements frantic and precise. She wanted the suit gone. She wanted the charcoal silk and the tailored prestige out of the way until there was nothing left but the heat and the truth. Lucien pulled her closer, his hands anchoring her to the edge of the world. "I've missed you," he confessed against her lips, the words sounding like a surrender. "I know," she replied, her voice steady despite the fire in her blood. "Now make up for it."