Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0WX35NBASB39HA25JH1Z6

The three deadbolts clicked open one after another. Rory stood in the doorway, fingers still curled around the cold metal knob, staring at the man leaning against her doorframe. The scent of bergamot and something darker—smoke, maybe—drifted between them. Lucien Moreau looked exactly as she remembered. Tailored charcoal suit, platinum hair slicked back, that damned ivory-handled cane resting against his thigh. His mismatched eyes—amber and black—locked onto hers with the same unsettling intensity. "You," she said. His mouth quirked. "Eloquent as ever." Rory didn’t move. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been walking away from her in the rain outside Silas’ bar, his shoulders rigid beneath his coat. That had been six months ago. Six months of silence. She crossed her arms. "You’re blocking my door." "So I am." He didn’t budge. Ptolemy wound between Rory’s ankles, purring loudly. Traitor. Lucien glanced down at the cat, then back up at her. "May I come in?" "No." He sighed, rubbing his thumb along the cane’s handle. "Rory." "Don’t." Her voice came out sharper than she intended. "You don’t get to say my name like that anymore." A muscle twitched in his jaw. "Then what do I get?" "Nothing." She started to shut the door. His cane shot out, stopping it an inch from closing. The wood creaked under the pressure. "Move," she said. "I can’t." "Bullshit." His grip tightened on the cane. "I need your help." That made her pause. Lucien Moreau didn’t *need* anything from anyone. She narrowed her eyes. "Try again." His expression darkened. "Fine. I *want* your help." "Why?" "Because you’re the only person I trust with this." A bitter laugh escaped her. "Funny. Trust wasn’t exactly your strong suit last time." "I know." His voice dropped, rough at the edges. "I know what I did." The weight of those words settled between them. Rory exhaled slowly, fingers flexing against the doorframe. Ptolemy meowed, nudging Lucien’s polished shoe. She stepped aside. "Five minutes." The flat smelled of old paper and the curry drifting up from downstairs. Lucien’s gaze flicked over the cluttered shelves, the stacks of books piled haphazardly on the coffee table. His cane tapped softly against the floorboards as he moved further inside. Rory didn’t offer him a seat. "Talk." He turned to face her, sunlight catching the amber in his left eye. "There’s a demon in London. One of my father’s." "And?" "And it’s hunting someone." "Who?" "Me." She blinked. "You’re joking." "Do I look like I’m joking?" No. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in days. Shadows clung to the hollows beneath his eyes, his usual impeccable posture slightly slumped. Rory crossed her arms. "What do you expect me to do about it?" "You have connections." "I deliver noodles, Luc." "You know people who don’t." She scoffed. "You have plenty of your own contacts." "Not for this." His fingers tightened around the cane. "This is… personal." The way he said it—quiet, almost reluctant—sent a prickle down her spine. Rory exhaled through her nose. "Why now? Why come to me after all this time?" His gaze held hers. "Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you." The admission hung in the air, raw and unexpected. Her pulse jumped. "Don’t." "I’m not lying." "You’re good at that." He flinched. Silence stretched between them, thick with everything they hadn’t said six months ago. The way his hands had felt tangled in her hair. The way he’d left without a word. Rory swallowed. "You should go." "I can’t." "You *won’t*." His jaw clenched. "Rory—" "Stop." She turned away, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. "Just stop." The floorboards creaked as he stepped closer. His scent wrapped around her—bergamot and smoke, familiar and infuriating. His voice was low, barely above a whisper. "Look at me." She didn’t. His hand brushed her shoulder. Electricity shot down her arm. She spun, shoving him back. "Don’t touch me." He caught her wrist instead, his fingers warm against her skin. The small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist pressed between his thumb and forefinger. "You’re still angry," he murmured. "Damn right I am." His grip loosened, but he didn’t let go. "Good." She froze. "What?" "Anger means you still care." Her breath hitched. "That’s not fair." "Neither was leaving." His thumb traced the curve of her scar. "I regretted it the moment I walked away." The words lodged in her chest. She wanted to hate him. Wanted to shove him out the door and slam it behind him. Instead, she whispered, "Prove it." His gaze burned into hers. Then, slowly, he lifted her wrist to his mouth and pressed his lips to the scar. Heat coiled low in her stomach. Lucien’s voice was rough against her skin. "Tell me to leave." She couldn’t. His mouth trailed up her arm, lips brushing the inside of her elbow. "Say it." Her fingers curled into his sleeve. "You’re a bastard." "Yes." He kissed the hollow of her throat. "But I’m yours." The words unraveled her. She grabbed the front of his suit and pulled him in.