Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0PWEG926HHKEM2A60CQ72

The three deadbolts grated against the metal frame, a harsh, screeching sound that echoed in the narrow hallway. Rory threw her weight against the heavy wood door, wrenching it open. She expected a takeaway driver confused by the intercom, or perhaps Eva returning from the university library with another armful of obscure texts she refused to store on the shelves. The air in the corridor smelled of stale cigarette smoke and the sharp, pervasive tang of turmeric drifting up from the curry house below. Rory stopped dead. Lucien Moreau stood on the worn Welcome mat. He looked like a knife blade drawn from a sheath—sharp, dangerous, and entirely out of place in the grime of East London. His charcoal suit was tailored to perfection, hugging broad shoulders and tapering down to polished leather shoes that had likely never touched a puddle. Platinum blond hair was slicked back, exposing the harsh angle of his jaw, and his heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one abyssal black—fixed on her face. He leaned casually on an ivory-handled cane. She knew the handle concealed a blade thin enough to slice through bone. "You," Rory said. Her hand gripped the edge of the door, knuckles turning white. "Hello, Rory." His voice was a low rumble, the accent a smooth blend of French roots and years spent in London's underbelly. "Are you going to invite me in, or shall we conduct our business in the hallway where the neighbors can hear?" "There is no business. There is no us. Go away." She moved to slam the door. A black-gloved hand shot out, catching the wood. The door stopped dead, despite her momentum. He didn't strain. He didn't even blink. "I need a word." "I'm working. I'm busy. I'm not interested in whatever information you're selling." "Not selling. Giving." He pushed forward. Rory stumbled back, the sudden proximity of him overwhelming the small entryway. He stepped inside and kicked the door shut with a heel. The locks clicked home, sealing them in. The flat was claustrophobic on a good day. Books were stacked in precarious towers on the floor, scrolls unrolled across the coffee table, and the scent of old paper warred with the curry from below. Now, with Lucien standing there, the room felt suffocatingly small. He seemed to suck the oxygen out of the space, replacing it with the smell of ozone and expensive cologne. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby cat, poked his head out from behind a stack of grimoires. He hissed, back arching, fur standing on end. "Good to see you too, feline," Lucien murmured. He tapped his cane on the floorboards, a rhythmic sound that seemed to vibrate through the soles of Rory’s boots. Rory crossed her arms, rubbing the small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. A nervous habit. "You have five seconds before I scream for Silas." "He’s three floors down and pouring pints. By the time he got here, I’d be gone. Or he’d be dead." Lucien walked past her, tracing a finger over the spine of a leather-bound book. "You’ve let the place go. Dust bunnies under the sofa, Rory? That’s unlike you." "I’ve been busy running deliveries and staying off the radar. Something you know nothing about." "I know plenty about radars." He turned, the amber eye flashing in the dim light of the single floor lamp. "I know you dropped off the grid three months ago. I know you left Cardiff in a hurry." "I left an ex. Not a supernatural crisis." "Did you?" He took a step closer. The distance between them closed to a few inches. Rory forced herself to hold his ground, to look into those mismatched eyes without flinching. It was difficult. Lucien had a way of looking at a person that felt like being undressed, peeled apart layer by layer until the raw truth was exposed. "Evan is human," she said, her voice steady. "He was just a control freak with a temper." "Humans with tempers are easy. Humans who make deals with Avarosian half-demons are... problematic." Rory froze. The blood drained from her face. "You're lying." "Am I?" Lucien reached into his jacket. Rory flinched, her hand darting toward the heavy iron letter opener on the sideboard. He withdrew a silver cigarette case, snapped it open, and offered it to her. She stared at it. He closed it with a chuckle and tucked it away. "I didn't sell him anything, if that’s what you're thinking. But I know who did. He’s been sniffing around. Asking questions about a woman named Laila." "I haven't used that name in years." "He doesn't care. He wants the grimoire Eva stole from the Athenaeum." "She didn't steal it. She liberated it." "Semantics." Lucien sighed, running a hand through his hair. The perfect slicked look fell apart, a stray strand dropping over his forehead. For a second, he looked tired. Human. "He thinks you have it." "I don't." "I know. But he doesn't, and he’s the type to break fingers first and ask questions later. Assuming he leaves the fingers attached." "Why are you telling me this? We left things in Marseille. Badly." "Marseille was a mistake." The words were blunt, stripped of his usual theatrical flair. "I should have told you what I was. I should have told you why I couldn't stay." "You left me in a hotel room with a note and a bill for room service." "I paid the bill." "Lucien." He moved then, faster than she could track. One hand slammed against the wall beside her head, caging her in. He loomed over her, his face inches from hers. The heat radiating from him was intense, a furnace burning behind the charcoal suit. "I am trying to keep you alive, Rory. I don't care about the grimoire. I don't care about Eva's research. I care that you are currently standing on a demonic threshold with zero protections and no idea that a bounty hunter is two streets over." Rory’s breath hitched. She could smell him—sandalwood and rain and something metallic, like blood. Her body reacted against her will, a traitorous flush rising up her neck. She remembered the last time he had stood this close. The balcony in Marseille, the city lights sparkling below, the brush of his lips against her ear before everything went wrong. "You're not doing this for me," she whispered. "You're doing it because you're bored." "I'm never bored." His gaze dropped to her mouth. The black pupil swallowed the amber rim. "I'm many things. Bored isn't one of them." "Then why?" "Because you're the only person in this godforsaken city who doesn't look at me like I'm a monster." "You are a monster." "I know." He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over her cheek. "But I'm your monster." Rory shoved him in the chest. He didn't move, but he stepped back, raising his hands in mock surrender. The tension snapped, leaving the air thick and heavy. "Get out, Lucien." "I can't do that." "Then tell me what you want." "Protection." "From who?" "From you." He gestured vaguely at the room. "You attract chaos. It follows you like a shadow. If you stay here, Eva gets hurt. Ptolemy gets hurt. I need you to come with me." "To where? One of your safe houses? A penthouse in Kensington?" "Somewhere with iron bars on the windows and a witch who owes me a favor." Rory laughed, a harsh, sharp sound. "I'm not going anywhere with you. I'm not some damsel you can lock in a tower to soothe your conscience." "It's not my conscience that needs soothing." She looked at him, really looked at him. The way he held himself, the tightness around his eyes. He was scared. Lucien Moreau, the fixer, the information broker, was scared. "Who is the hunter, Lucien?" "Someone from my father's side. Someone who knows what I am and wants to use it. He thinks hurting you will get to me." Rory’s eyes widened. The implications settled like lead in her stomach. "Me? Why me?" "Because I didn't pay the bill in Marseille, Rory. I paid with something else. And he’s come to collect." Ptolemy chose that moment to rub against Lucien’s trousers, purring loudly. Lucien looked down, startled, then glanced back at Rory. The hardness in his face fractured. "Please." The word hung in the air. Lucien never said please. Rory looked around the flat, at the books, the life she had built, the fragile safety she had carved out of the chaos of London. She looked at the lock on the door, the one she had thought was enough. She walked over to the sideboard and picked up her keys. "I'm not taking a taxi," she said. Lucien’s lips quirked, a genuine smile breaking through the mask. "I have a car downstairs. The engine is running." "Of course you do." She grabbed her jacket from the hook. "If you try to double-cross me, I will use that cane to sharpen your teeth." "I'd expect nothing less." He opened the door for her, bowing slightly. "After you, Laila." "Don't call me that." He stepped out into the hallway behind her, the ivory cane clicking against the stone as he pulled the door shut, sealing the cat and the chaos inside.