Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0YX45MSE7548K1Y8M8ZYH

The bass from the curry house downstairs rattled the floorboards, a steady, rhythmic thrumming that vibrated through the soles of her boots. Three deadbolts threw back with heavy, metallic clanks. Rory wrenched the door open, expecting Eva with a armful of takeaway or maybe a neighbour complaining about the smell of sage burning again. The air in the hallway stalled. Lucien Moreau stood on the welcome mat, looking like he’d just stepped out of a glossy magazine spread and into the grime of East London. His charcoal suit was pristine, the collar of his white shirt crisp enough to cut glass, and that ivory-handled cane rested loosely in his grip. The scent of expensive tobacco and ozone hit her, instantly drowning out the frying spices from the ground floor. Rory’s grip on the doorknob tightened until her knuckles ached. She didn't step back. She didn't invite him in. "You’re blocking the fire escape." "A distinct possibility." He leaned against the doorframe, the movement fluid, predatory. One eye was the colour of polished obsidian, the other a molten amber that seemed to catch the dim hallway light and hold it. He hadn't shaved; a shadow of stubble darkened his jaw, softening the sharp angles of his face just enough to be dangerous. "Six months, Lucien. You don't get to just show up at my friend's door." "I didn’t realise I required an invitation to visit an associate." "I'm not your associate. I'm the delivery girl who once saved your life, and then you vanished." "Vanished implies I ceased to exist. I merely relocated." "To where? Hell?" "Avaros is hotter, but the hospitality is lacking." Rory glared at him, hating the way her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Hating that he looked good. Hating that the sight of him didn't make her angry, it made her tired. A deep, bone-weary exhaustion that had nothing to do with her double shift at the Golden Empress. "If you’re here for business, you can talk to Silas. If you’re here for information, the rate’s gone up." He pushed off the doorframe and stepped forward, invading her personal space. The flat was tiny, barely a hallway and a room, and his presence sucked all the oxygen out of it. He brushed past her, the wool of his suit grazing her arm, sending a jolt of static electricity skittering over her skin. "I’m not here for business, Rory." She spun around, watching him navigate the minefield of stacked books and scrolls that covered every available surface. Eva’s research material. He moved with a grace that defied the clutter, his cane tapping a staccato beat on the floorboards. "Then get out. You can't be here." "I can be anywhere I please." "Not here. Not after what happened." Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby cat, wound himself around Lucien’s legs, purring loud enough to rival the bass downstairs. Lucien paused, looking down at the animal with an expression of mild distaste before nudging the cat away gently with the tip of his shoe. "Traitor," Rory muttered. Lucien turned, the amber eye fixing on her. "The cat recognises power. You, on the other hand, seem determined to pretend you don't feel it." "I feel plenty. I feel like calling the police. Or a priest." He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that did things to her stomach she tried very hard to ignore. He walked over to the window, gazing out at the rain-slicked brick of the building opposite. His back was to her, shoulders tense beneath the tailored fabric. "I heard about Evan." Rory stiffened. The air in the room suddenly felt ten degrees colder. "Who told you? Silas?" "I have my sources. The ex-boyfriend who couldn't take no for an answer. I heard he’s stopped bothering you." "I handled it." "Did you?" He turned back to face her, his gaze dropping to her left wrist. The small, crescent-shaped scar hidden beneath her sleeve. He knew it was there. He knew how she got it, falling off a swing as a child, but he also knew about the newer bruises, the ones that had faded but the memory of which still stung. "You moved to London to escape him. You live above a werewolf’s bar and work for a woman who thinks poison is a valid seasoning choice. You’re hiding, Rory." "I’m living. There's a difference." "Is there?" He crossed the room in two long strides. Rory stood her ground, lifting her chin, refusing to let him see her flinch. He stopped inches away, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his dark eye, close enough that the scent of him—sandalwood and something metallic, like blood—filled her nose. "Why did you leave?" The question slipped out before she could stop it, sharp and raw. "One minute we were... and then you were gone. No note. No goodbye. Just a empty flat and a hole in the wall." "I did what was necessary." "Necessary? You ditched me. We spent three months hunting that banshee in the sewers, I nearly lost my foot, and the second we get out, you disappear." "Because of what happened in the sewers." Lucien reached out, his fingers hovering near her face. He didn't touch her, just traced the air beside her jawline, as if she were something fragile and forbidden. "I almost crossed a line. I almost lost control." "So? I lose control all the time. I’m human. You’re the one who’s supposed to be the composed, half-demon fixer." "I am half-demon, Rory. The other half is human, and that half is... problematic around you." The admission hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Rory’s breath hitched. She looked up at him, searching his face for a sign of deception, for the slick mask he usually wore. It was gone. He looked tired, the lines around his mouth deeper than she remembered. "You could have called." "Phones can be traced. Conversations can be recorded. Silence is safer." "Safety is overrated." She took a step closer, closing the gap. The heat radiating from his body was palpable, a stark contrast to the damp chill of the London flat. She saw his pupils dilate, the black swallowing the amber. "If you're worried about losing control," she whispered, "you're doing a terrible job of proving it." "Am I?" His hand moved, finally touching her. His fingers cupped the back of her neck, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin behind her ear. His touch was cool, but the sensation it sparked was searing. Rory’s eyes fluttered shut for a fraction of a second before she forced them open again, locking onto his. "You left me," she said, her voice barely audible. "You don't get to touch me like that just because you walked back into my life." "I didn't walk back in. I was pulled back in." He leaned down, his forehead resting against hers. The position was intimate, vulnerable. It exposed his throat, a weakness she knew he would never show anyone else. "Eva found something," he murmured against her skin. "Something in the archives. A name. A location. I think I know where my father is keeping the ledger." Rory froze. The ledger. The book of debts that had started them down this twisted path together. The reason they had met in the first place. She pulled back slightly, just enough to look him in the eye. "That's why you're here? You need me to break into a demon lord's safe house?" "I need you because I can't do it alone. And because I don't trust anyone else to watch my back." The admission stung. It wasn't a declaration of love, it was a tactical assessment. But the way his thumb was stroking her neck, the way his breath hitched when she leaned into his touch—that told a different story. "Eva will kill us if we mess up her flat." "Eva isn't here. She's at the university until morning." Rory let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She reached up, covering his hand with hers. Her fingers tangled with his, the crescent scar on her wrist pressing against his pale skin. "If we do this," she said, "we do it my way. No running off half-cocked. No disappearing acts." "I solemnly swear." "Demons can't swear." "This one can." He didn't kiss her. He didn't make some grand gesture. He just squeezed her hand, a silent promise in the pressure of his fingers, and stepped back, the professional mask sliding back into place. But the air in the room had shifted. The tension was still there, tight as a wire, but it had changed. It wasn't just anger anymore. It was the thrill of the hunt, the adrenaline of the fight, and the terrifying, undeniable pull between them. Rory grabbed her leather jacket from the back of the chair and shrugged it on. "Fine," she said, grabbing her keys. "But you're buying dinner afterwards. And I don't mean from the curry place downstairs." Lucien smiled, a genuine, crooked expression that made his heterochromatic eyes gleam. "Deal."