Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0DGX1292JF5EYP2WJDWTZ

The knock came just past midnight, three sharp raps that cut through the rain hammering against Eva's windows. Rory stood frozen at the door, one hand still raised, water streaming from her black hair onto the grimy hallway carpet. The smell of curry from downstairs mixed with petrichor and something else — blood, faint but unmistakable. The deadbolts scraped open one by one. Through the gap, amber light spilled out, followed by Lucien's face. His platinum hair remained perfectly slicked despite the late hour, though his usually immaculate charcoal suit jacket hung open, sleeves rolled to his elbows. "Merde." The word escaped him before he could catch it. His mismatched eyes — one amber, one black — swept over her sodden form. "You're bleeding." "Just a scratch." Rory's voice came out rougher than intended. She hadn't seen him since that night three months ago, when she'd walked out of his Mayfair flat with her dignity barely intact. "Is Eva here?" "In Cardiff. Family emergency." He stepped back, opening the door wider. "Come in before you bleed all over Mrs. Patel's hallway." She hesitated. Water dripped steadily from her delivery jacket, forming dark spots on the worn runner. Going in meant being alone with him, meant navigating whatever remained between them without Eva's cheerful presence as buffer. "Unless you'd prefer to explain to the landlady why there's blood on her carpet." His French accent, usually faint, thickened slightly — the only sign he wasn't as composed as he appeared. Rory pushed past him, careful not to brush against his body. The familiar chaos of Eva's flat engulfed her: towers of books threatening to topple, scrolls unfurled across every surface, the lingering scent of sage and frankincense. Ptolemy lifted his tabby head from his perch atop a grimoire, fixed her with an imperious stare, then resumed his nap. "Bathroom." Lucien's hand hovered near her elbow without touching. "Now." "I know where it is." She shrugged off his almost-touch, leaving wet footprints on the threadbare carpet. In the tiny bathroom, fluorescent light revealed the gash along her left forearm, deeper than she'd thought. Blood had soaked through her jacket sleeve, mixing with rainwater to create rust-coloured rivulets. Lucien appeared in the doorway with Eva's first aid kit. "What happened?" "Delivery gone wrong." She peeled off the sodden jacket, wincing as fabric pulled away from the wound. "Customer had friends. Unfriendly ones." "Human?" "Would I be here if they were?" He set the kit on the sink's edge, movements economical. "Shirt." "Excuse me?" "The sleeve is ruined. Unless you'd prefer I cut it off you." Heat crept up her neck. She'd changed in front of him before — before things went sideways, before she'd learned exactly how dangerous caring for someone like him could be. But this felt different. Raw. She turned her back and pulled the delivery shirt over her head, hyperaware of his presence behind her. "Christ, Rory." His breath hitched. She glanced down. Bruises bloomed across her ribs, purple-black against pale skin. "Those are from Tuesday." "Putain de merde." He moved closer, and she caught his reflection in the mirror — jaw tight, that careful control slipping. "Sit." She perched on the bathtub's edge, holding out her injured arm. His fingers were gentle as he cleaned the wound, though she noticed the slight tremor in his hands. The bathroom felt too small, too warm despite her rain-chilled skin. "This needs stitches." He didn't look up from his work. "Then stitch it." "I'm not a doctor." "No, just a half-demon who's patched up worse." The words came out sharper than intended. "Or have you forgotten?" His hands stilled. In the harsh light, she could see the faint lines around his eyes, the tension in his shoulders beneath the crisp white shirt. "I haven't forgotten anything." The confession hung between them, heavy with meaning. Rory forced herself to breathe normally, to ignore the warmth of his fingers against her skin, the way his cologne — sandalwood and something darker — made her stomach tighten. "Why did you come here?" He resumed cleaning the wound, voice carefully neutral. "You have other safe houses." "Silas is dealing with a situation at the bar. Tommy's out of town." She hissed as antiseptic hit raw flesh. "Figured Eva wouldn't mind." "But you didn't know she was gone." Not a question. "Which means you came here bleeding, in the middle of the night, without knowing who would answer." "I thought—" She stopped. What had she thought? That three months was enough time? That she could handle seeing him again? "It doesn't matter." "Doesn't it?" He selected a needle from the kit, sterilising it with practiced ease. "Hold still." The first pierce of needle through skin made her grip the tub's edge. Lucien worked in silence, each stitch precise. She focused on the faded floral wallpaper, on Ptolemy's distant purring, on anything but the careful way he held her arm. "You left," he said finally, tying off the last stitch. "No explanation. No word." "You know why I left." "Do I?" He applied antibiotic ointment with unnecessary concentration. "Because from where I stood, we had one argument about my methods—" "You killed someone in front of me." The words exploded out. "Tore his throat out with your bare hands." "He was trying to kill you." His control cracked, accent thickening further. "What would you have had me do? Let him?" "I had it handled." "You had a knife to your throat." "I was negotiating!" "You were dying!" He stood abruptly, turning to grip the sink. In the mirror, his amber eye glowed faintly. "And I would do it again. Every time. Without hesitation." The bathroom fell silent except for the rain against the window. Rory stared at his back, at the tension vibrating through his frame. This was why she'd left — not the violence itself, but what it revealed. The depth of what lay between them. The danger of it. "I should go." She reached for her ruined shirt. "No." He turned, blocking the doorway. "Not like this. Not again." "Lucien—" "I have things to say." His mismatched gaze held hers. "Three months of things. And you're going to hear them." "Since when do you get to make demands?" "Since you showed up bleeding on a doorstep where you knew I might be." He stepped closer, and she had nowhere to retreat. "Since you trusted me enough to let me touch you again, even after—" "Don't." But the word lacked conviction. This close, she could see the faint demonic markings that appeared along his collar when his control slipped, could feel the heat radiating from his body. "After I showed you what I am," he continued, voice dropping. "What I'm capable of when it comes to protecting what's mine." "I'm not yours." "Aren't you?" His hand rose to cup her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone. "Then why are you here, Rory? Why not any other safe house in London?" She should pull away. Should remind him why they'd ended, why a human and half-demon could never work. Instead, she found herself leaning into his touch, eyes closing as his fingers tangled in her wet hair. "Because I'm a fool," she whispered. "No." His forehead touched hers. "Because you know, as I do, that this isn't finished." The rain intensified, drumming against glass. In the living room, Ptolemy yowled, likely demanding attention or food. But neither of them moved, suspended in the small space between what was and what might be. "I can't watch you kill for me again," she managed. "And I can't watch you bleed." His thumb traced the crescent scar on her wrist, the one he'd memorised months ago. "We seem to be at an impasse." "Seems so." His lips quirked — not quite a smile. "Then we'll have to negotiate. You're good at that, I hear." Despite everything, she felt her own mouth twitch. "Better when there's not a knife to my throat." "I'll bear that in mind." He pulled back slightly, studying her face. "You need dry clothes. Food. Rest." "Is that your professional assessment?" "That's me trying very hard not to do what I want to do." The amber eye flared brighter. "Which is carry you to Eva's spare room and show you exactly how much I've missed you these three months." Heat flooded through her. "Lucien—" "But I won't." He stepped back, giving her space to breathe. "Not tonight. Not when you're hurt and exhausted and we have too much to sort through." The loss of his warmth left her cold. She grabbed a towel from the rack, wrapping it around her shoulders. "Very noble of you." "I have my moments." He retrieved his cane from where he'd left it by the door. "Eva keeps clothes in the bureau. Should be something that fits."