Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0GFFZTG9RTY57K5XMCDHH

The door swung open, and Aurora's stomach dropped like a stone through water. Lucien stood in the hallway, his platinum hair slightly disheveled from the London drizzle, one gloved hand still raised where he'd knocked. His mismatched eyes—amber and black—fixed on her face with an intensity that made her pulse stutter. Water droplets clung to the shoulders of his charcoal overcoat. "Rory." His accent wrapped around her name like silk. "May I come in?" She gripped the door handle tighter, knuckles white against the brass. Three months. Three months since she'd walked away from him in that alley behind the Golden Empress, since she'd told him she couldn't do this anymore, couldn't be another one of his carefully managed variables in the supernatural chess game he played. "How did you find Eva's place?" "You know how." He tilted his head, studying her. "Though I confess I'm impressed by the security measures. Three deadbolts? Rather excessive for a graduate student." Heat crept up her neck. She'd installed those locks herself after the incident with the wraith. Eva had laughed, called her paranoid, but Rory knew what lurked in London's shadows now. What Lucien had shown her. "She's not here." "I know. She's at the British Library until eight." His gaze never left her face. "We need to talk." The tabby cat, Ptolemy, appeared between her legs, weaving in and out with a purr. The traitor had always liked Lucien, drawn to the otherworldly energy that clung to him like expensive cologne. Rory stepped back, her bare feet silent on the hardwood. She wasn't going to make this easy for him, but she wasn't cruel enough to leave him standing in the hallway either. The flat's cramped space seemed to shrink further as he followed her inside, his presence filling every corner like smoke. Books and scrolls covered every surface—Eva's research into London's occult history spread across the coffee table, the kitchen counter, even stacked on the windowsill. Lucien's eyes swept the chaos with professional interest. "Your friend's work is... thorough." "Don't." Rory turned to face him, arms crossed. "Don't do that thing where you pretend this is a social call. What do you want, Luc?" Something flickered across his features at the shortened name. She'd been the only one who called him that, back when they'd spent those late nights mapping the supernatural territories of East London, back when she'd thought she understood what they were building together. "There's been a development. The Covenant—" "No." The word came out sharper than she'd intended. "I'm done with all that. Done with your mysterious phone calls and cryptic warnings and—" She gestured vaguely at his perfectly pressed suit, at the ivory-handled cane he carried more for show than necessity. "—whatever this is supposed to be." He set the cane against the wall with deliberate care. When he looked at her again, something raw flickered behind the polished facade. "You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to drag you back into—" "Then why are you here?" The question hung between them like a blade. "Because I made myself very clear three months ago. I said I was done being your informant, done risking my neck for scraps of information you parceled out like treats for a good dog." "That's not—" He ran a hand through his hair, disrupting its perfect styling. "Merde. That's not how it was." "Wasn't it?" She took a step closer, anger sparking in her chest. "You never told me about your father. Never mentioned you were half-demon until I walked in on you with your eyes doing that thing they do when you're angry. I had to figure out on my own that you've been playing both sides of every supernatural conflict in this city for the past decade." "I was protecting you." "From what? The truth?" Another step. She was close enough now to see the flecks of gold in his amber eye, close enough to catch the scent of bergamot and something darker underneath. "Or were you protecting your precious reputation? Can't have the notorious Lucien Moreau getting attached to some Welsh girl who stumbled into your world by accident." His jaw tightened. "You know it wasn't like that." "Do I? Because from where I'm standing, it looks exactly like that." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You collect people, Luc. Information brokers and muscle and desperate humans who'll do anything for a taste of the supernatural. I was just another asset." He moved then, closing the distance between them in two strides. His hands came up to frame her face, leather gloves warm against her skin. "You were never just anything to me." The words hit her like a physical blow. She'd imagined him saying them, dreamed about it during those long nights when she'd lain awake thinking about his laugh, about the way he'd looked at her when he thought she wasn't watching. But she'd never expected them to sound so broken. "Then why—" Her voice cracked. "Why didn't you fight for me? When I walked away, you just... let me go." His thumbs traced along her cheekbones. "Because you were right. About all of it. I do collect people. I do use them." His heterochromatic eyes searched her face. "But with you, I forgot how. You made me forget what I was supposed to be." Ptolemy jumped onto the windowsill, sending a cascade of papers fluttering to the floor. Neither of them moved to pick them up. "The Covenant knows about Eva's research," he said quietly. "They're coming for her tomorrow night. I couldn't—" He swallowed hard. "I couldn't let them hurt you to get to her." The anger drained out of Aurora like water from a cracked cup, leaving behind something more dangerous. Hope.