Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0C4TC7FM4Z9HCB41D1KHJ

Role of thrumming rain against the single-pane glass competed with the bass-heavy Bhangra tracks vibrating up through the floorboards from the curry house below. Rory kicked aside a stack of dusty grimoires to make a path to the kitchenette, the smell of turmeric and old paper thick in the cramped air. Ptolemy, Eva’s traitorous tabby, wove between her ankles, nearly sending her face-first into a pile of loose scrolls. A heavy fist pounded the front door. Rory froze. Eva had a key, and anyone else who knew about this flat knew better than to knock that aggressively. She glanced at the clock. Midnight on a Tuesday. She grabbed the nearest heavy object—a brass candlestick shaped like a hydra—and crept toward the entrance. The pounding came again, three distinct raps. Not the police. Not a raid. Intentional. She slid the first deadbolt back. Then the second. The third stuck, requiring a sharp palm-strike to disengage. She cracked the door two inches, the safety chain taut across the gap. One amber eye and one black eye stared back from the gloom of the hallway. Rory slammed the door. Wood collided with ivory. A polished cane jammed into the jamb, preventing the latch from clicking home. "Go away, Lucien." "A warm welcome, as expected." His voice was rougher than usual, the smooth French accent frayed at the edges. "Open the door, Aurora. I am not in the mood for games." "You lost the right to make requests three months ago." She shoved her weight against the wood, the edge of the door biting into his cane. "Remove the stick or I break it." "If you could, you would have already." A wet cough rattled from the other side. "I need... sanctuary." The word hung heavy between them. Sanctuary. It was an invoke, a bond he shouldn't be pulling on. Rory glared at the sliver of his face visible through the crack. Rainwater plastered his platinum hair to his skull, destroying the immaculate style he usually maintained. He looked pale. Paler than his half-demon heritage usually dictated. She swore under her breath, a curse her Irish father would have washed her mouth out for, and yanked the door open. Lucien stumbled in, his balance compromised. He caught himself on the doorframe, the knuckles of his hand white around the ivory cane head. His charcoal suit, usually tailored to perfection, was sodden, dark patches clinging to his frame. One specific patch on his side was darker than the rain. "You're bleeding on the carpet. Eva will kill you, then me." "The cat will eat the evidence." Lucien limped past her, his gaze sweeping over the chaotic clutter of the flat with disdain. "Does she live here, or is she merely storing a library before an arson attempt?" Rory slammed the door and threw the locks back into place. "Sit. Before you fall." She pointed to the velvet armchair, the only surface not currently colonized by research notes. Lucien collapsed into it, his cane clattering to the floor. He hissed through his teeth, head lolling back against the fabric. Rory abandoned the candlestick and raided the kitchen drawer. She returned with a pair of shears and a bottle of cheap vodka. "This is going to sting," she warned, dropping to her knees between his spread legs. Lucien cracked one eye open. The black iris seemed to swallow the dim light of the room, while the amber one burned with feverish intensity. "The scissors or the vodka?" "The price of the dry cleaning." She took hold of his suit jacket lapels. The wool was ruined, soaked in blood and rain. She peeled the fabric back, her fingers brushing the cold skin of his neck. A jolt of static electricity snapped between them. Rory flinched but didn't pull away. Lucien’s breath hitched—short, sharp. "Stop shaking," she commanded, bringing the shears to his shirt. "I am not shaking. I am vibrating with rage." "Keep telling yourself that." Steel bit into silk. She sliced the shirt up the center, exposing his torso. The perfection of his physique was marred by a jagged gash just above his hip bone. It bubbled with dark, viscous fluid that smelled of ozone and copper. "Demon blade?" "A disagreement with a former associate regarding the ownership of a certain artifact." "You stole something." "I liberated it." He watched her hands. "You still wear the crescent." Rory paused, her thumb tracing the line of his ribs. His gaze was fixed on her left wrist, where the small scar sat pale against her skin. "Focus, Lucien. You're leaking." She uncorked the vodka. "Bite down on something." "I have nothing to—" She shoved the sleeve of his ruined jacket into his mouth. He glared, jaws clamping down just as she poured the alcohol over the wound. Lucien’s back arched off the chair. A guttural sound, part growl, part scream, tore from his throat, muffled only by the sodden wool. His hand shot out, gripping Rory’s shoulder with bruising force. His fingers dug in, desperate for an anchor. Rory didn't flinch. She grabbed a clean stack of hand towels she’d swiped from the restaurant and pressed them hard against the gash. "Breathe," she ordered. He offered a strangled noise, his chest heaving beneath her other hand. Sweat beaded on his forehead, mixing with the rain. Slowly, the tension in his frame uncoiled. He spat the jacket sleeve onto the floor. "You enjoy that too much," he rasped. "It's the only time you shut up." Rory kept the pressure applied, her face inches from his bare chest. The heat radiating off him was unnatural, a furnace stoked by his infernal blood. She could feel the steady, powerful thrum of his heart against her palm. It was beating too fast. "Why here, Lucien?" She didn't look up, focusing on the red bloom spreading across the white towel. "You have safe houses. You have money. You have people who don't want to punch you in the throat." "I have employees," he corrected. "I have clients. I have enemies." His hand moved from her shoulder to cover hers, his fingers sliding between hers to press down on the towel. "I had nowhere else that wasn't compromised." "So I'm the last resort." "You are the only resort." Rory looked up then. The distance between them was negligible. Three months ago, he had stood in the rain outside the Golden Empress and told her she was a liability. That her human fragility made her a target he couldn't afford to protect. He had severed the tie with the precision of a surgeon, leaving her standing in the gutter with a broken heart and a box of dumplings. Now, he looked at her as if she were the only solid thing in a spinning world. "You look terrible," she whispered. "And you look tired." His thumb brushed the dark circle under her eye. "You are not sleeping." "Hard to sleep when you're working double shifts to pay tuition." She jerked her chin toward the wound. "It's stopped pulsing. The alcohol cauterized the worst of it." "Professional." "Necessity." She tried to pull her hand away, but his grip tightened. Not painful, just firm. A tether. "Rory." The use of the nickname, something he strictly avoided in favor of her full name, made her pause. "What?" "I did not come here just for the bandages." "Really? Because you're bleeding on my roommate's limited edition rug, so the evidence suggests otherwise." "I came because I knew you would not ask questions I cannot answer." "I'm asking plenty of questions." "But you opened the door." Rory scoffed, finally yanking her hand free. She sat back on her heels, putting a foot of distance between them. It wasn't enough. The air around him tasted like a storm about to break. "I opened the door because you looked like a drowned rat." "A very expensive drowned rat." "A rat nonetheless." Lucien shifted, grimacing as the movement pulled at his side. He watched her with that unnerving, dual-colored stare. "The last time we spoke—" "You walked away." "I removed a target from my back." "You decided for me." Rory stood up, needing the height advantage, though sitting, he still possessed a regal, infuriating dominance. "You assume because I don't have demon blood or magic that I can't handle the fallout. You made me small, Lucien. I don't like being small." Lucien remained silent, studying her. The silence stretched, filled only by the rain drumming against the roof and the distant bass below. Ptolemy jumped onto the arm of the chair, sniffing suspiciously at the bloody towels before settling near Lucien's uninjured shoulder. "You are not small," he said softly. "You are reckless. And brilliant. And entirely too stubborn for your own survival." He reached for his cane, using it to leverage himself more upright. "Which is why leaving was the only logical tactical maneuver." "Tactical." Rory crossed her arms. "Is that what we're calling it?" "Feelings are messy, Aurora. Strategy is clean." "And look where strategy got you." She pointed at his side. "Bleeding out in a flat above a curry house." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. It transformed his face, stripping away the harsh angles of the fix, the broker, the monster. "Touché." Rory sighed, the anger draining out of her, leaving only the exhaustion. She grabbed a throw blanket from the sofa—shaking off a heavy text on Babylonian law—and tossed it at him. "You can stay until the bleeding stops completely. Then you go." Lucien caught the blanket. He didn't wrap it around himself immediately. "And if the bleeding does not stop?" "Then I call Eva. She knows a guy who stitches up werewolves. He’s cheap, but he smells like wet dog." "I think I will take my chances with you." Rory turned her back to him, moving to the tiny sink to scrub the blood from her hands. The water ran cold, turning pink as it swirled down the drain. She could feel his eyes on her back, a physical weight she had missed more than she dared admit. "There's leftover vindaloo in the fridge," she called out over the running water. "And tell the cat to get off your suit. He sheds when he senses evil." "He is purring, Aurora." "He has bad judgement. Just like me." She shut off the tap and dried her hands. When she turned back, Lucien’s eyes were closed, his head resting against the chair back, one hand absently stroking the cat’s fur. He looked younger like this. Human. She walked over, picked up the discarded shears and the bloody towels. As she passed him, his hand shot out again, catching her wrist. His thumb pressed directly over the crescent scar. He didn't open his eyes. "Thank you." Rory looked down at his hand, then at his face. The connection hummed, a live wire running from his skin to hers. "Don't get used to it," she said, her voice lacking any real heat. "I never get used to anything regarding you," he murmured, his grip loosening just enough to let her pull away, though he clearly hoped she wouldn't. Rory hesitated. The smart move was to walk into her bedroom and lock the door. The logical, tactical move. She sat on the coffee table facing him instead. "Tell me who cut you, Lucien. And don't lie." He opened his eyes. The black and the amber locked onto her. "If I tell you, you become an accomplice." "I'm already harboring a fugitive." She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "I'm in the game. Deal the cards." Lucien stared at her for a long beat, assessing, calculating. Then, the tension in his shoulders dropped. "Pour me a drink of that dreadful vodka," he said. "And I will tell you everything."