Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0KRTZ9RM5QWR000CB4R1J

The third deadbolt clicked open just as Rory raised her fist to knock again. The door swung inward, revealing Lucien Moreau in his usual tailored charcoal suit, the amber and black of his mismatched eyes catching the dim hallway light. His platinum hair was slightly disheveled, as if he’d been running fingers through it. The ivory handle of his cane gleamed where it rested against the doorframe. Rory’s breath caught. Three months since she’d last seen him. Three months since the argument in the rain outside Silas’ bar, when he’d called her reckless and she’d called him a control freak. The small crescent scar on her wrist itched. “You’re supposed to be in Marseille.” Her voice came out sharper than intended. Lucien’s mouth twitched. “And you’re supposed to ring before appearing at people’s doors at—” He checked his watch. “—half eleven on a Tuesday night.” Ptolemy the tabby wound between Lucien’s legs, purring loudly. The smell of old paper and bergamot tea drifted from the flat. Rory shifted her weight, the strap of her delivery bag digging into her shoulder. “Eva gave me a key. Said I could use the flat while she’s in Edinburgh.” “Ah.” Lucien’s fingers tightened on the cane. “She failed to mention that particular arrangement.” Silence stretched between them, thick with everything unsaid. The hallway light flickered. Downstairs, the curry house’s closing-time clatter drifted up through the floorboards. Rory cleared her throat. “So are you going to let me in, or do I have to sleep in the hallway?” Lucien stepped aside with exaggerated courtesy. “By all means.” The flat looked the same as always—books stacked haphazardly on every surface, Eva’s research notes pinned to the walls with colored tabs. A half-drunk cup of tea sat cooling on the coffee table beside Lucien’s gloves. Rory dropped her bag by the door, the Chinese takeaway containers inside rattling. “Working late?” She nodded at the scattered papers. “Trying to decipher Eva’s organizational system.” Lucien nudged a stack of scrolls with his cane. “It appears to be based on some arcane logic known only to her.” Rory snorted. “Try alphabetical by first footnote. That’s her go-to.” She hesitated, then added, “You look tired.” The shadows under his eyes were more pronounced than she remembered. Lucien raised an eyebrow. “And you look like you’ve been wrestling with your bicycle again.” Her delivery uniform was splattered with mud. Rory shrugged. “London streets.” Another silence. Ptolemy jumped onto the sofa and began kneading Lucien’s discarded jacket. “You never answered my question,” Rory said finally. “Why aren’t you in Marseille?” Lucien leaned against the bookshelf. “Business concluded early.” “Bullshit.” His lips quirked. “Such language.” “You hate cutting trips short. Something spooked you.” Rory crossed her arms. “Was it the Avaros thing? Because if demons are—” “It wasn’t demons.” Lucien’s voice dropped. He studied her for a long moment, then sighed. “I heard about Evan being released.” The air left Rory’s lungs. She turned abruptly, pretending to examine one of Eva’s maps. “That’s not your problem.” “Isn’t it?” The floorboards creaked as Lucien moved closer. Rory kept her eyes fixed on the map’s faded ink. His reflection appeared beside hers in the darkened window—tall, immaculate, infuriatingly composed. “I can handle Evan,” she said. “I don’t doubt that.” His breath stirred the hair at her temple. “But you shouldn’t have to.” Rory spun to face him. “What’s that supposed to—” Lucien caught her wrist, his thumb brushing the crescent scar. The contact sent a jolt through her. His skin was warmer than a human’s, the demon blood in him burning just beneath the surface. “You left,” he said quietly. “Three months ago. No word. No forwarding address.” Rory swallowed. “You told me to go.” “I told you to be careful.” His grip tightened fractionally. “Not to disappear.” The scent of his cologne—spice and something darker—wrapped around her. Rory’s pulse hammered in her throat. Every argument they’d ever had, every charged glance, every almost-kiss rushed back. “I’m here now,” she whispered. Lucien’s gaze dropped to her mouth. “So you are.” Ptolemy yowled, knocking over a stack of books. The spell broke. Lucien released her wrist, stepping back to adjust his cuffs with studied nonchalance. Rory exhaled shakily. “Right. Well. I should—” She gestured vaguely toward the bedroom. “Of course.” Lucien retrieved his cane from where it leaned against the sofa. “I’ll take the couch.” “You don’t have to—” “I insist.” Another standoff. Rory gritted her teeth. “Fine. Suit yourself.” She grabbed her bag and stalked toward the bedroom, Ptolemy trotting after her. At the threshold, she hesitated. “Lucien?” He looked up from arranging the couch cushions. “Thanks,” she said. “For worrying.” Something unreadable flickered in his heterochromatic eyes. “Goodnight, Rory.” The bedroom door clicked shut behind her. Lucien stood motionless for a long moment, then sighed and loosened his tie. The faint sound of Rory moving about in the next room followed him into the dark.