Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0Y7YB99MDV3YRGXAA8ZFS

The door swung open before Rory finished turning the deadbolt. Eva's face went slack. "Christ. Hi." Lucien stood in the hallway outside the flat on Brick Lane, rain plastering his platinum hair to his skull. Water beaded off the shoulders of his charcoal suit. He gripped his ivory-handled cane with one hand while the other hung at his side, and his heterochromatic eyes—amber and black—fixed on her with the intensity of something that had been practicing this moment for months. "We need to talk," he said. Rory's hand stayed on the door. Behind her, Ptolemy yowled from somewhere in the flat, sensing the shift in the air the way cats did. The hallway smelled like curry from downstairs and the particular London rain that seemed to carry the grime of centuries. "No. We established—" "I'm not here about that." "Then why are you here?" Lucien's jaw worked. The rain fell harder against the window at the end of the corridor, creating a steady percussion that filled the silence between them. When he finally spoke, his voice came out rougher than she'd ever heard it, that French accent she'd once found unbearably sexy cutting through each word like broken glass. "Because Silas was attacked. Because someone's asking questions about you. Because I would rather walk into traffic than show up on your doorstep, but here we are." The words landed like stones in still water. Rory's grip on the door frame loosened. "What do you mean attacked?" "Move. Let me in before the entire building decides this is evening entertainment." She stepped aside. Lucien crossed the threshold with a slight limp she didn't remember from before, the cane taking more weight than it should have. The flat smelled like chai and old paper and Eva's constant paranoia about mold in the corner by the window. Books cluttered every surface. Scrolls leaned against the radiator like drunken soldiers. Ptolemy emerged from behind the sofa, took one look at Lucien, and retreated. Even the cat remembered him. "Silas?" Rory pressed, closing the door and engaging all three deadbolts with mechanical precision. Lucien lowered himself onto the arm of the sofa with the careful deliberation of someone managing pain. Water dripped from his cuffs onto the threadbare upholstery. He'd been to this flat exactly twice before, both times under circumstances Rory had spent the last four months actively trying to forget. "Three nights ago. Someone came through the bar's back entrance. They knew the security codes. Knew when his staff rotated. They worked him over quite thoroughly and left a message." "What message?" "That they were looking for someone. They described you." Rory's stomach performed an involuntary flip. She remained standing, arms crossed, putting deliberate distance between herself and the sofa. The space between them felt charged, like standing too close to electrical wiring. It had always been that way with him—proximity became a weapon. "Silas wouldn't tell them anything." "No. He wouldn't." Lucien's black eye seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. "That's why I'm here and not dead. He protected you, which means you're in debt to a man who doesn't take kindly to debts. And which means I need to know what you've stumbled into." "I haven't stumbled into anything." "The work you did for Eva. The research. The thing you wouldn't tell me about because you said it was safer if I didn't know." Rory's jaw tightened. She'd made that choice deliberately, carefully, building walls between her two lives so that if one collapsed, the other might remain standing. Lucien had hated it. They'd argued about it during their last night together, voices escalating in his Mayfair flat until she'd grabbed her coat and left, neither of them bothering with the things that needed to be said. "Eva handles the research. I'm just a delivery person." "You're a liar." Not angry. Worse—resigned. "You're a brilliant liar, and I've always known it, and I've always respected the hell out of you for it. But don't lie to me now. Not when there are people actively hunting you." Thunder rumbled somewhere in the London skyline. The rain intensified, drumming against the windows with renewed violence. Rory moved to the kitchen area—three steps in this shoebox flat—and filled the kettle. Her hands needed something to do. Some ritualistic motion to anchor her while her brain caught up to the disaster unfolding in her living room. "How badly was Silas hurt?" "Broken ribs. Concussion. Nothing permanent, but the message came through loud and clear. They were professional. Measured. Not desperate, not yet. But they will be soon." Lucien shifted his weight, and she heard the sharp intake of breath he tried to mask. "I've been trying to track the incident back to its source. I have contacts. Resources. But I hit a wall." The kettle clicked off. Rory didn't move to make the tea. She stood with her hands braced on the counter, staring at nothing. "If you're asking me to leave—" "I'm asking you to let me help." The words came quietly. "I'm asking you to tell me what you're actually involved in. I'm asking you to trust me with something other than your body." That landed differently. Rory closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she turned to face him, and Lucien's entire frame seemed to shift at the sight of her expression. The crescent scar on her left wrist caught the light as she moved back into the living room. She sat on the opposite end of the sofa, maintaining the distance between them like it was something fragile enough to shatter. "There's a artifact," she began. "Something old. Something dangerous. Eva found references to it in some texts she acquired. She wanted me to help trace its current location because I'm good at the legwork. The delivery job at Golden Empress—it's perfect cover. People don't notice drivers." Lucien's expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted. Recognition, maybe. Or the settling of pieces into a pattern he'd been trying to construct. "What kind of artifact?" "The kind that people kill for." "Then you're already in danger. You're in danger right now, sitting in this flat, and the fact that you didn't call me when this started tells me everything I need to know about what you think of me." "That's not—" "It is. It's exactly that." He stood, weight still favoring his left side, and moved to the window. Water streaked the glass, distorting the lights of Brick Lane below. "I left you alone because you asked me to. Because you said it was cleaner that way. That getting involved with someone like me would compromise you. So I respected that boundary. And now someone's hunting you, and you're still trying to do this alone." Rory's throat felt tight. The rain outside sounded like static, white noise swallowing the rest of the world. "I can't ask you to—" "You're not asking. I'm telling."