Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0W9XZRCEG0GR0EBZRBE09

Ptolemy hissed, his back an arched ridge of ginger fur, as the three deadbolts rattled in sequence. Aurora wiped flour from her apron onto a tea towel, her pulse spiking against the underside of her jaw. The wood of the door groaned, yielding to a key that shouldn't have been in circulation. Lucien Moreau leaned against the doorframe, his charcoal suit absorbing the weak light of the Brick Lane hallway. He tapped the ivory handle of his cane against the floorboards. The rhythm mimicked a heartbeat. "The locks have changed, Rory. The fourth one resisted." Aurora gripped the edge of the laminate counter. Sunlight filtered through the grime of the window, catching the heterochromatic shift in his eyes—one the color of bottled honey, the other an endless, obsidian void. "Three years and you still haven't learned how to knock." Lucien stepped inside without an invitation. He swept a stack of ancient scrolls from the only armchair to the floor, reclaiming the space with the casual arrogance of a cat. The scent of rain and expensive sandalwood clung to his wool lapels, cutting through the heavy aroma of cumin rising from the curry house below. "Knocking alerts the neighborhood to one's presence. I prefer the silence of a houseguest who already knows where the gin is kept." He reached for a glass on the sideboard. His fingers, long and deceptively elegant, brushed against the small crescent-shaped scar on Aurora’s wrist as she moved to shield the bottle. The contact surged through her like a live wire. She didn't pull away. She stared at the platinum hair slicked back from his forehead, noting the new line of exhaustion near his jaw. "You don't get to be a guest here. Not after the warehouse in Marseille. Not after you left me holding a bag of cursed relics and a fake passport." Lucien’s amber eye darkened. He poured a finger of clear liquid, the ivory cane leaning against his thigh. "The passport worked, did it not? You reached London. You found your little sanctuary above the spices." Aurora rounded the counter, her shoulder-length black hair swinging like a pendulum. She planted her hands on the table, leaning into his space until she could smell the smoke on his breath. "I reached London with a target on my back and a demon hunter in my peripheral vision for six months. You didn't leave because of the relics, Luc. You left because you saw me bleeding and realized I wasn't an asset anymore. I was a liability." Lucien set the glass down with a sharp *clack*. He stood, his five-foot-eleven frame towering over her, forcing her to tilt her chin back. The black eye, the one inherited from the pits of Avaros, seemed to swirl with ink. "I left because staying meant watching you die. There is a distinction, though I suspect your temper prevents you from seeing it." His hand moved, a blur of motion that ended with his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. The heat of him was unnatural, a byproduct of the blood that shouldn't exist in human veins. Aurora’s breath hitched. She hated the way her body betrayed her, the way her skin hummed under his touch despite the fury vibrating in her chest. "You’re shaking, Laila." "Don't call me that. Laila died in France." "She is hiding under an apron and a thick layer of Cardiff resentment. But she is still there." He leaned in, his lips hovering inches from her ear. The air in the cramped flat grew heavy, pressurized by the sudden proximity. Ptolemy retreated under the sofa, sensing the shift in the room's energy. "Why are you here, Lucien? The information brokers don't travel this far east unless there’s a price on someone’s head." Lucien pulled back just enough to look her in the eye. The black one reflected her own wide-eyed stare. He looked at her mouth, then back to her eyes, his restraint a visible, physical thing. "Evan found the trail. He’s in London." The name acted like a dousing of ice water. Aurora’s blood ran cold, the memory of bruises and quiet threats surfacing like silt in a disturbed pond. She stepped back, the distance between them feeling miles wide. "How? I didn't tell Eva. I didn't tell my parents." "He didn't use human means. He paid a scryer in Bristol. A man with a talent for finding things that wish to stay lost." Lucien took a step forward, closing the gap she’d just created. He didn't reach for her this time. He held his cane like a scepter, his knuckles white against the ivory. "I killed the scryer, of course. But the information was already sold. Your ex-bastard has friends in the Low Circles, Rory. Friends who owe him favors for the souls he helped them harvest in Wales." Aurora felt the room spinning. She grabbed a chair for balance. The mundane reality of her life—delivery runs for the Golden Empress, pints at Silas’ bar—shattered. "And you? What’s your stake in this? You don't do charity." Lucien’s face shifted, the mask of the cool Frenchman slipping for a fraction of a second. A raw, jagged hunger flickered in his amber eye. He reached out, his hand hovering over her shoulder before dropping back to his side. "I have a debt to settle. Not with him. With you." "You don't owe me anything. You made that clear when you walked out of that hospital wing." "I stayed until you were breathing on your own. I paid the nurses in gold to forget your face." He moved behind her, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly vibration that resonated in her spine. "I spent three years convincing myself that you were safer without a monster in your bed. I thought the quiet life would suit you. But looking at you now, surrounded by these dusty books and the smell of cheap curry... you look like a bird in a cage that’s too small to even spread its wings." Aurora spun around, her chest heaving. "It’s a safe cage. It’s a cage where nobody shoots at me." "He’s coming here, Rory. Tonight. Tomorrow. The safety is gone. The locks on that door won't stop what he’s invited into his shadow." Lucien stepped into her personal space again, his presence overwhelming the tiny kitchen. He reached out, his fingers tangling in her black hair, tilting her head back to force her to engage. "You have two choices. You can stay here and hope your books provide a shield. Or you can come with me." "To where? Another warehouse? Another run across the border?" "To my estate. It’s warded. Even the lords of Avaros can't peel back the skin of that house without my permission." Aurora searched his face. She looked for the lie, the hidden agenda, the cold calculation of a fixer. She found only a terrifying, desperate intensity. The silence between them stretched, thick with the history of a summer in Marseille where they had burned through every rule they both lived by. "Why help me now?" Lucien’s thumb brushed her lower lip, a slow, possessive motion that made her dizzy. "Because I realized that watching you die was nothing compared to the slow rot of living without you. I’m a selfish creature, Aurora. I want the asset. I want the liability. I want the woman who nearly gutted me with a letter opener in a hotel room in Lyon." He leaned down, his forehead resting against hers. The temperature in the room seemed to rise ten degrees. "Tell me to leave. Tell me you don't want the protection of a devil, and I will walk out that door and let you face him alone." Aurora closed her eyes. She thought of the three deadlocks. She thought of the way Evan’s voice used to sound when he was angry. Then she thought of the way Lucien’s hands felt—cold on the outside, a furnace underneath. She reached up, her fingers sliding into the silk of his platinum hair, pulling him down the final inch. The kiss was a collision, a frantic, hungry thing that tasted of gin and old grudges. Lucien groaned into her mouth, his cane hitting the floor with a hollow thud as he wrapped both arms around her waist, lifting her until her toes barely brushed the linoleum. He tasted like the life she had tried to bury. He tasted like danger and the sharp, metallic tang of the supernatural. Aurora pulled him closer, her nails digging into the fine wool of his suit. "If you leave me again," she whispered against his lips, her voice a jagged edge. "I would have to be dead," Lucien replied, his eyes burning with a dual colored fire. "And even then, I would find a way to crawl back." He set her down, but didn't release his grip on her waist. He looked at the window, his black eye narrowing as the sun began to dip behind the brick chimneys of the East End. "Pack only what you can carry. We leave through the roof. His scouts are already at the end of the lane." Aurora didn't argue. The weight of her past was suddenly lighter with him standing in the center of the room. She moved toward the bedroom, pausing at the threshold. "Ptolemy comes too." Lucien looked at the ginger cat, who was currently sniffing his discarded cane with suspicion. A small, dry smile touched his lips. "The beast stays. He’ll be a distraction." "The cat comes, Lucien, or I stay and take my chances with the demon hunter." Lucien sighed, picking up his cane and clicking the ivory handle back into place. "Fine. But if he scratches the leather in the car, I’m turning him into a footstool." "You wouldn't dare." "Try me." He watched her go, his gaze lingering on the curve of her back, the amber in his eye glowing with a predatory, protective light. He tapped his cane once more, a silent signal to the shadows waiting in the hallway. The game had changed. The pieces were moving. And for the first time in three years, the Frenchman had something to lose besides his reputation. Aurora shoved a handful of clothes and a heavy leather-bound grimoire into a knapsack. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She looked at the small crescent scar on her wrist, a reminder of a childhood fall, and then at the shadow of the man in her kitchen. The air outside the window shifted. The temperature dropped. A low, unnatural howl echoed from the direction of the curry house entrance. "They're here," Lucien said, his voice devoid of emotion. He drew the thin blade from the center of his cane with a hiss of tempered steel. He didn't look back at the door. He looked at her. "Ready, Rory?" She cinched the bag tight and scooped up the cat, who protested with a sharp yowl. "I've been ready for three years, Luc. Just try to keep up."