Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0GA56DYK70T258JHK2X2D

The peephole offered a distorted, green-tinted view of the hallway, but the platinum silhouette was unmistakable. Rory’s fingers trembled for a fraction of a second as she reached for the deadbolt. Her chest tightened, a familiar, metallic taste filling her mouth. She slid the first lock back, then the second. The third resisted slightly before clicking into place. "Silas? Is that you?" she called out, her voice sounding far too loud in the small flat. A heavy knock reverberated through the timber door, sharp and rhythmic. Not the polite tap of a friend; it was the percussive beat of authority. Rory held her breath, gripping the wood with knuckles turning white. She knew that rhythmic knock. She’d traced the pattern on the wooden desk in her former office at the university just to memorize it. She unhooked the security chain and twisted the handle. The door flew open before she could even lean out. Lucien Moreau didn't ask to enter. He just walked in, filling the doorway with the scent of rain, expensive cologne, and ozone. The sound of the door slamming shut vibrated through the floorboards. "You have three deadbolts, Rory. You didn't need the chain." Lucien stood there, a slate-grey suit perfectly pressed despite the London rain soaking his shoulders. He didn't look like a man who had just breeched a secure location. He looked like he had just walked out of a London bank during a robbery. His hair was slicked back, damp at the temples, and the platinum blond strands caught the dim light from the hallway. But it was his face that held her frozen. One eye was a deep, burning amber, and the other was a void of pure black. The heterochromatic gaze settled on her, dissecting her appearance as if she were a suspect or a file he had forgotten to delete. Rory straightened her shoulders, trying to ignore the sudden drop in her core temperature. "I have guests." "You invited nobody." He stepped forward, invading her personal space. The air pressure shifted, heavy and suffocating. He removed his coat, hanging it neatly on the single hook by the door, then walked deeper into the room. His ivory-handled cane tapped against the hardwood with a soft *thock-thock-thock*. The flat was a disaster zone. Papers were piled on the sofa, ancient scrolls—actual scrolls—were stacked precariously on the coffee table, and the kitchen counters were covered in takeout containers from the Golden Empress. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, immediately hissed at the intruder, arched his back, and bared yellow teeth. Lucien ignored the feral noise. He walked to the kitchen counter and looked over it, tilting his head. His black eye locked onto the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. The wound had been from a childhood bicycle accident, barely a scratch, but Lucien looked at it as if it were a wound from a recent battle. "Let me guess," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in her chest. "You've been hiding in this trash heap for three months?" "I've been working," she snapped, crossing her arms to hide her hand. "And this isn't a trash heap. It's... a study." "A study," he repeated. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a silver lighter. The flint sparked, a bright flare illuminating his sharp features. He lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around his face. "You left without saying goodbye, Carter. Not to me. Not to anyone." "You vanished." She met his gaze, refusing to look away from the amber fire in his right eye. "You didn't answer my texts. You didn't pick up the phone. When I finally went to your apartment..." "You came to my apartment? To do what? Save you from yourself?" The casual cruelty of the question hit her like a physical blow. Rory took a step back, bumping into the stack of books on the sideboard. They crashed to the floor with a thunderous thud. She gasped, crouching down to start gathering them. Ptolemy bolted under the sofa. "It was an eviction notice!" she shouted, her voice cracking. "I was there to get my things." Lucien took a drag of his cigarette, exhaling a plume of grey smoke that drifted over her bent form. "You could have knocked. I would have given you everything back. You could have kept the photographs. You could have kept the cufflinks." Rory stood up, clutching a thick hardback book to her chest. Her face flushed, hot with embarrassment. "I wanted you to be angry. I wanted the doors to be locked." "And now?" He flicked the ash from his cigarette onto the floor, the fine grey dust catching in the beams of light filtering through the grime on the windowpane. "Now I'm standing in your flat. And the doors are unlocked." He walked around the table, his cane tapping a steady, maddening rhythm. He stopped right in front of her, so close she could see the irises of his eyes were slightly dilated. The amber one seemed to pulse with heat. "I’m done letting you run," he said. His voice dropped an octave, losing its mocking edge for something rougher, darker. "You think I stayed in London all this time because I missed your personality?" "I didn't ask." He took a step closer. Rory instinctively backed up, her spine hitting the cold wall. He trapped her there, looming over her. The sharp scent of him assaulted her senses—the lingering smell of rain, the sharp tang of cigarette smoke, and beneath it, a musk that smelled like sin. "You think I forgot how you look when you’re about to cry?" His hand moved, his fingers brushing against the hair at her nape. The warmth of his palm seared her skin. "You think I forgot the way you move, the way you think?" Rory looked up at him, her throat tight. The anger had curdled into something else, something sickening and sweet. The years of silence, the wondering, the rage—it all dissolved under the gravity of his gaze. "You're late," she whispered. Lucien let out a short, breathless laugh. He leaned in, resting his forehead against hers. His eyes closed for a second, and the tension in his shoulders finally released, though the intensity in his touch remained. "I'll fix it," he murmured. "I'll fix everything." He crushed his cigarette out on the side of her bookshelf, right next to the spines of her forgotten legal texts. Then he reached out, his cane dropping to the floor with a dull clatter, and pulled her into a kiss that tasted of smoke and refusal.