Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0G9V3MPYCBV271KQVMCXK

The knock came at three in the morning—three sharp raps that jolted Rory awake. She blinked at the ceiling, heart hammering against her ribs. The flat was dark except for the neon glow from the curry house sign bleeding through the curtains. Ptolemy twitched his tail against her ankle from where he’d curled at the foot of the bed. Another knock. Harder this time. She grabbed the baseball bat leaning against the nightstand and padded barefoot down the hall. The floorboards creaked underfoot. Through the peephole, the fisheye lens distorted Lucien’s face—pale as bone under the yellow hallway light, his platinum hair slick with rain. His amber eye caught the light like a cat’s. Rory exhaled through her nose. Unlatched the first deadbolt. The second. The third. The door swung open. Cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of wet pavement and Lucien’s bergamot cologne. Rain dripped from the hem of his coat onto the welcome mat. "You look like hell," she said. His mouth twitched. "And yet you answered." "Bat’s behind the door." She stepped aside. "Come in before you flood the place." Lucien limped past her, leaning heavier on his cane than usual. The ivory handle gleamed under the overhead light as he shrugged out of his sodden coat. Water darkened the shoulders of his charcoal suit. He draped the coat over the back of Eva’s reading chair, careful not to disturb the stacks of books piled around it. Rory shut the door. Relocked the bolts. "You’re bleeding." He touched his temple where a thin trail of red seeped into his hairline. "A scratch." "Bullshit." She tossed the bat onto the couch and marched to the bathroom. The medicine cabinet yielded gauze, antiseptic, a half-empty tube of antibiotic cream. When she returned, Lucien had settled on the edge of the coffee table, cane propped between his knees. He watched her kneel in front of him. "You don’t have to—" "Shut up." She dabbed at the cut. His breath hitched when the antiseptic stung. Up close, she caught the faint sulfur scent that clung to him after he used his demon abilities. "Who did this?" "Does it matter?" "It does if they’re coming here next." His black eye darkened further. "They won’t." She pressed the gauze harder than necessary. "You don’t get to show up in the middle of the night and be cryptic. Not after six months of radio silence." The silence stretched. Ptolemy wound between Lucien’s legs, purring. "I needed to see you," he said finally. Her hand stilled. "Why?" His fingers brushed hers as he took the gauze from her grip. "Because I’m leaving London." The words landed like a punch. Rory sat back on her heels. "For good?" "If I’m lucky." He studied her face. "No questions?" "Would you answer them?" A ghost of a smile. "No." She stood, suddenly aware of her sleep shorts and thin tank top. Of the scar on her wrist catching the light when she crossed her arms. "You could’ve called." "And say what?" His cane tapped against the floor as he rose. "Goodbye? That’s not our style." "Our style." She laughed, sharp and brittle. "Right. Because whatever this was had a label." "You’re angry." "I’m awake at three AM cleaning blood off your face. What gave it away?" He reached for her. Stopped himself. "I didn’t come to fight." "Then why did you come?" The question hung between them. Lucien’s gaze dropped to her mouth. Rory’s pulse jumped. She remembered the last time they’d stood this close—his hands gripping her hips in the backroom of Silas’ bar, her back against the liquor shelves. The way he’d tasted like whiskey and regret when she’d kissed him. Ptolemy yowled and bolted down the hall. Lucien exhaled. "I had to know you were safe." "From what?" "Everything." His thumb grazed her scar. "Everyone." She caught his wrist. His skin burned against hers. "You don’t get to disappear and reappear and act like you have the right to worry." "I never stopped." His voice dropped. "Not for a second." Rory’s grip tightened. "Prove it." He kissed her. Hard. His free hand cradled the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair. The cane clattered to the floor. She bit his lip, tasted copper. He groaned and pulled her closer until her back hit the wall. The kiss broke. Their breaths mingled in the scant space between them. "Stay," she said. His forehead rested against hers. "I can’t." "Then why—" "Because if I’m going to hell tomorrow, I wanted tonight with you." His lips brushed her cheekbone. "Just one night." She turned her head. Caught his mouth again. This time slower, deeper. His hands slid under her tank top, palms scorching trails up her spine. She fumbled with his tie, his belt, pushing the suit jacket off his shoulders. The couch creaked under their weight. Lucien’s mouth moved down her throat. Rory arched against him, fingers twisting in his hair. The amber eye glowed faintly in the dark—the only warning before his claws pricked her hip. She gasped. "Luc—" "Sorry." He retracted them. "I forget myself with you." "Don’t." She nipped his earlobe. "I like it." A growl rumbled in his chest. His hands gripped her thighs, hiking her shorts higher. The clock on the wall ticked toward dawn. Outside, the rain slowed to a drizzle. Later, tangled in Eva’s bedsheets with Lucien’s arm heavy across her waist, Rory traced the demonic sigil branded over his heart. "Where will you go?" His fingers stilled on her wrist. "Don’t ask questions I can’t answer." "You’ll come back, though." He didn’t reply. The silence said enough.