Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0W0PWMFNNVPYJTXV4B7F1

The knock came sharp and precise, a three-beat rhythm against the heavy wood of the door. Not Eva’s knock, which was more of an impatient drumming, and not the delivery driver from the takeaway downstairs, who usually just hollered up the stairwell. Rory froze, a half-eaten slice of toast in her hand. A ginger tabby, Ptolemy, lifted his head from his perch atop a teetering stack of books on Sumerian mythology, his ears swivelling. Another knock. Same pattern. Imperious. Final. She set the toast down on a plate already crowded with crumbs. The flat was a fortress of Eva’s design, a response to Rory’s recent history. Rory’s hand moved over the cold brass of the three deadbolts. She drew back the first, a heavy clank that echoed in the small space. The second slid with a grating shriek. The third turned with a soft, well-oiled click. She eased the door open a crack, the security chain holding it fast. Lucien Moreau stood in the narrow landing. He filled the space, a figure cut from shadow and expensive wool. His charcoal suit was immaculate, the knot of his silver tie perfect. Platinum blond hair, slicked back from his high forehead, caught the dim light from the stairwell’s single grimy bulb. And his eyes—one the colour of warm amber, the other a pit of absolute black—found hers. A breath she hadn’t realised she was holding left her lungs in a rush. The world seemed to shrink to the space between them, thick with the smell of curry from the restaurant below and the sudden, sharp scent of his cologne, all cedar and something metallic, like rain on hot pavement. He gave a slight, formal inclination of his head. His gaze swept over the slice of her face visible through the gap. “Aurora.” His voice was just as she remembered it. A low, smooth cadence with the ghost of a French accent curling around the edges. It did something unsettling to the base of her spine. “Lucien.” Her own voice came out tight. “What are you doing here?” “May I come in?” She didn’t move. Her fingers were white where she gripped the edge of the door. He was the last person she ever expected to see on this side of London, standing on the worn welcome mat of Eva’s cluttered sanctuary. He waited, impossibly patient. He held a cane, its ivory handle gleaming, and his long-fingered hands rested atop it. He didn’t belong here. He was Mayfair townhouses and private clubs, a world of clean lines and whispered secrets. This was Brick Lane, a place of noise and chaos and Rory’s quiet hiding. “How did you find me?” One corner of his mouth lifted, a subtle, humourless motion. “It’s what I do.” She undid the chain. The metallic rattle sounded too loud in the sudden silence. She stepped back, pulling the door wider, and he moved past her into the flat. He moved with a liquid grace that belied his stillness on the landing. Ptolemy watched him, a low rumble starting in his chest. Lucien took in the room. His heterochromatic eyes scanned the piles of scrolls, the books jammed into every available space, the precarious towers of research notes threatening to collapse. His expression remained unreadable, but a faint line appeared between his brows. He ran a finger along the dusty spine of a leather-bound grimoire and left a clean track in the grime. “Your friend has eclectic tastes.” Rory shut the door, the click of the latch final. She didn’t bother with the deadbolts. With him on the inside, they felt useless. “Eva’s a scholar. What do you want?” He turned to face her fully. The cramped space made him seem larger, his presence more potent. She was acutely aware of her own state of dress—an old university sweatshirt, faded jeans, bare feet on the cool floorboards. He was a tailored suit and polished leather shoes. They were two different worlds colliding in a room that smelled of dust and cardamom. “I was in the area.” A short, sharp laugh escaped her. “No, you weren’t. Your area is a five-course meal where they don’t list the prices. This”—she waved a hand at the chaotic room—“is not your area.” He took a step closer. She stood her ground, arms crossed tight over her chest. His gaze dropped for a fraction of a second to the small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, then flicked back to her face. He remembered. The thought sent a jolt, hot and unwanted, through her. “Fair enough. I came to see you.” “You have a strange way of doing that. Last I checked, people tended to use phones.” “I suspected you wouldn’t answer.” His amber eye seemed to smoulder. “Was I wrong?” She said nothing. He was right. She’d have seen his name, and a cold knot of dread and something else, something she refused to name, would have formed in her stomach. She would have let it ring. He walked past her, his movements economical, navigating the labyrinth of books with an ease that grated on her. He stopped by the window, looking down at the bustling street below. “I heard what happened. With Evan.” The name hung in the air between them, ugly and heavy. Rory’s jaw tightened. “Who told you?” “Does it matter?” He turned from the window. The afternoon light framed him, making his hair shine like spun silver. “I could have helped you, Aurora.” “Like you did last time?” The words were out before she could stop them, sharp and bitter. A flicker of something—regret, maybe, or frustration—crossed his features before his mask of cool composure settled back into place. His grip on the ivory cane tightened. “That was a complicated situation.” “It was simple. You left.” She took a breath, forcing the tremor from her voice. “I don’t need your help, Lucien. I’m fine.” “Are you? Three deadbolts on the door of your friend’s flat says otherwise.” He gestured with his chin towards the entrance. “You’re running. You’re scared.” “I’m being sensible.” Her fingers dug into her arms. “And I’m not having this conversation with you. You lost the right to ask about my life six months ago.” Ptolemy, as if sensing the shift in the room’s atmosphere, hopped down from his perch and wound his way around Rory’s legs, a soft, comforting pressure. Lucien’s gaze followed the cat’s movement. “Eva is out of town, isn’t she? A conference in Edinburgh on pre-Christian pagan rituals.” He stated it as fact, not a question. A chill snaked its way up her spine. “You’ve been watching me.” “I’ve been concerned.” He corrected her smoothly. “There’s a difference.” “Not from where I’m standing.” She stared at him, at the man who had walked into her life like a storm and then vanished just as quickly, leaving a trail of wreckage she was still clearing. The memory of his touch, the low murmur of his voice in the dark, rose unbidden. She shoved it down. “I needed to be sure you were safe.” “From Evan? Or from you?” His black eye seemed to absorb the light in the room, holding no reflection. “The two are not mutually exclusive threats, I suppose. Not to you.” He took another deliberate step forward, closing the space between them until she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. He was so close she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the individual silver threads in his platinum hair. “Why are you really here, Luc?” The old nickname slipped out, a ghost on her tongue. His expression softened, just for a moment. The hard edges of the fixer melted away, leaving the man she remembered underneath. “Because you are not safe.” He spoke quietly, his voice a low thrum that vibrated through her. “And not just from your pathetic ex-boyfriend.”