Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0PFJ2C8TCDNWV264HHHYG

The chain rattled. Three deadbolts slammed back in rapid succession, a metallic symphony of paranoia that echoed off the narrow hallway walls. The door swung inward, revealing Rory framed by the warm, cluttered glow of her flat. Books stacked like precarious towers lined every surface. Scrolls spilled from baskets onto the floor. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, wove a figure-eight around her ankles before freezing, tail twitching at the sight of the man on the landing. Lucien Moreau stood there, rain dripping from the brim of his umbrella onto the scuffed linoleum. His charcoal suit looked immaculate despite the London drizzle, the fabric repelling water as if offended by the weather. He leaned on his ivory-handled cane, the tip clicking once against the doorframe. "You changed the locks," he said. His voice carried that smooth, continental edge that used to make her forget her own name. "Smart. Though the third bolt is a tad dramatic, even for you." Rory gripped the door, knuckles white. She didn't step back. She didn't invite him in. The air between them crackled, thick with the scent of ozone and old perfume. "I didn't expect company. Especially not you." "Plans change." Lucien tilted his head, his heterochromatic eyes catching the light. The amber one seemed to burn; the black one swallowed it. "May I?" "No." He pushed past her anyway. The cane hooked the door shut behind him with a deft flick of his wrist. The movement was fluid, predatory. He navigated the maze of research notes and ancient texts without knocking a single paper to the floor, as if he had mapped the chaos in his mind beforehand. "This place smells of turmeric and desperation," he observed, running a gloved finger along a stack of grimoires. "A fitting combination." "Get out, Lucien." Rory crossed her arms over her chest, shielding the small crescent scar on her left wrist. "We're done. You made that abundantly clear six months ago when you vanished without a word." "I did not vanish." He turned to face her, stripping off his leather gloves finger by finger. "I retreated. There is a distinction." "Semantics." She stepped forward, forcing him to look down at her. At five-six, she had to tilt her chin up, but she held her ground. "You left. You took the job in Marseille and ghosted. I spent weeks wondering if you were dead or if you just decided I wasn't worth a phone call." Lucien's expression tightened. For a moment, the cool mask slipped, revealing a flash of something raw beneath. "You think I wanted to leave? My father's realm does not grant sabbaticals, Rory. Avaros calls its blood home, and the pull was... insistent." "So you couldn't send a text? 'Hey, demonic dad issues, might be gone a while'?" He laughed, a short, sharp sound lacking humor. "And what would you have done? Dropped your delivery route for Yu-Fei Cheung to fly to Marseille? You were barely keeping your head above water with Evan breathing down your neck. Adding a half-demon crisis to your plate would have broken you." "Don't pretend you did it for me." Rory's voice cracked, just once. She hated the sound. "You did it because it was easy. Because walking away is what you do best." Lucien closed the distance between them. The space in the cramped flat suddenly felt suffocating. He towered over her, the heat radiating from him distinct from the radiator clanking in the corner. He smelled of sandalwood and something darker, like smoke trapped in a bottle. "Easy?" He reached out, his bare hand hovering near her cheek. He didn't touch her, not yet. "Do you have any idea what it cost me to walk out of that bar in Soho? To leave you sitting there with your bright blue eyes full of accusations I couldn't answer?" Rory flinched but didn't pull away. "Then answer them now." "I can't." He dropped his hand, gripping the ivory handle of his cane until his knuckles turned white. "The things I deal with, the people I protect you from by staying away... knowledge is a liability, Rory. You know this better than anyone." "I know you treat me like glass." She shoved past him, pacing the small strip of floor between the sofa and the coffee table. Ptolemy hissed at Lucien's shoes and darted under an armchair. "I survived Evan. I survived moving to London with nothing but a backpack and a grudge against my father. I deliver food to vampires and warlocks in the East End before breakfast. Stop treating me like I'm fragile." "You are not fragile." Lucien's voice dropped, low and rough. "You are the most stubborn, infuriating woman I have ever encountered. That is precisely the problem." He moved again, cornering her against the bookshelf. A volume on Celtic mythology dug into her lower back. She glared up at him, breath hitching as he caged her in with his arms, the cane discarded somewhere on the floor. "Say it," she demanded. "Say why you're really here." "I received intel," he began, his gaze dropping to her mouth. "Someone is asking questions about the girl who lives above Silas' bar. Questions that suggest they know about your connection to me." Rory's heart hammered against her ribs. "Is that it? You show up as a bodyguard? After half a year of silence?" "I show up because I couldn't stay away." The admission hung in the air, heavy and terrifying. Lucien brushed a stray strand of black hair from her face, his touch finally landing on her skin. His fingers were warm, trembling slightly. "Every minute I spent in Marseille, I wondered if you were safe. If you were eating. If you were thinking about me with the same bitterness I felt every time I closed my eyes." Rory stared at him, the anger warring with the ache she had buried deep inside. "You're an idiot, Lucien Moreau." "Undeniably." "And a coward." "Also true." She grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket, yanking him down. Their lips crashed together, not gentle, not sweet. It was a collision of months of unsaid words and stifled frustration. He tasted of rain and wine. His hands tangled in her hair, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. The books rattled on the shelves as he pressed her harder against the wood. Rory kissed him back with everything she had, biting his lower lip, tasting the salt of his skin. The hurt didn't vanish, but it burned away under the intensity of the moment. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and he lifted her effortlessly, carrying her away from the door, away from the locks and the security and the past. They stumbled toward the sofa, knocking over a stack of papers. Ptolemy yowled in protest from under the chair. Lucien ignored the chaos, his focus entirely on the woman in his arms. He broke the kiss only to trail his mouth down her neck, eliciting a gasp that echoed in the small room. "Don't you dare leave again," she whispered, her fingers digging into his platinum hair. Lucien paused, his forehead resting against hers. His amber eye swirled with gold; the black one remained void. "I have no intention of going anywhere. Let them come. Let them all come." "If you break my heart this time," Rory said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands, "I won't just change the locks. I'll find a way to banish you to Avaros myself." A genuine smile touched his lips, transforming his face from brooding fixer to the man she remembered. "I would expect nothing less from Aurora Carter." He kissed her again, softer this time, sealing the promise in the quiet of the flat on Brick Lane, surrounded by the secrets they both kept and the future they had yet to navigate.