Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0ZXB5QP24S2C8J4EMZAVJ

The final deadbolt yielded with a metallic groan. Rory leaned her weight against the heavy oak door of the Brick Lane flat, expecting the drafty silence of an empty hallway. Instead, a scent hit her first—expensive sandalwood and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone that always preceded a storm. Lucien Moreau stood framed by the dim yellow light of the landing. He leaned on his ivory-handled cane, his tailored charcoal suit pristine despite the torrential downpour howling outside the windows. The platinum strands of his hair remained slicked back, unbothered by the gusts. His heterochromatic eyes—one the warmth of molten amber, the other the void of a blackout—fixed on her face. "You changed the locks." Rory gripped the edge of the door frame. Her knuckles turned white. "Three times. Once for every week you didn't call after the incident in Brixton." Lucien didn't flinch. He stepped past her before she could grant him entry, the tip of his cane clicking rhythmically against the hardwood floor. He moved with a predatory grace that defied his half-demon nature, a silhouette of sharpened edges and quiet power. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, uncurled from a pile of ancient scrolls on the coffee table and arched his back, letting out a low, inquisitive chirp. "The locks were a charming sentiment, Rory. But the wards on the threshold were amateur at best." Lucien turned to face her, sweeping his gaze across the cramped living room. Books climbed the walls in precarious towers. Reams of research notes fluttered as the wind from the open door caught them. Rory slammed the door shut, the bang echoing through the small space. "Amateur wards for an expected guest. You aren't a guest. You’re an intruder." Lucien set his cane against the side of a bookshelf and began to peel off his leather gloves. "I am a necessity. The council is moving. They know you have the Grimoire." Rory crossed her arms, her thumb brushing the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. The old habit flared whenever her pulse spiked. "I don't have it. And even if I did, why would I tell the man who left me bleeding in an alleyway while he chased a lead on Avaros?" A flicker of something—regret, or perhaps just the ghost of it—passed through Lucien’s amber eye. He stepped closer, invading her personal space until she could smell the rain on his wool coat. The height difference forced her to tilt her head back. "I didn't leave you. I drew them away from you. There is a distinction." "A distinction that feels remarkably like abandonment at three in the morning." She tried to brush past him to get to the kitchen, but he caught her elbow. His touch was cold, a constant reminder of the blood that didn't quite run human in his veins. The friction between them felt like a live wire, humming with the memory of a night in Marseille before everything collapsed into blood and secrets. "Look at me." Rory wrenched her arm away, but she stopped. "I’m looking, Luc. I see a fixer who’s running out of time and an information broker who forgot to mention he was working both sides of the fence." Lucien reached out, his fingers hovering inches from her jaw before he dropped his hand. "I work for no one but myself. And, occasionally, for the safety of a girl who is far too intelligent to be this reckless." "I am twenty-five, not a child. I’ve handled the Golden Empress deliveries in Southwark at midnight. I can handle a few rogue demons and a disgruntled Frenchman." She moved to the kitchen island, shoving aside a stack of scrolls to clear a space. Her hands shook, so she gripped the edge of the counter. "Why are you really here? The council doesn't scare you into showing up at my door at ten PM." Lucien moved into the kitchen light. The black of his left eye seemed to swallow the glare of the overhead bulb. "Because I saw the sigil marked on your doorframe downstairs. Not mine. Not the council’s. It belongs to your ex." Rory felt the air pull from her lungs. The name she never spoke aloud—Evan—hung in the air between them like a curse. "He’s in Cardiff. He doesn't know where I am. Eva made sure." Lucien reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a scrap of parchment. He laid it on the counter. It was a charcoal rubbing of a symbol—a jagged crown of thorns. "He’s in Whitechapel. He’s been tracking the restaurant’s delivery routes. You’re smart, Rory, but you’re sentimental. You keep using the same alias in the neighborhood. Laila wasn't an inspired choice." Rory stared at the symbol. The phantom pain of old bruises seemed to ache beneath her skin. "I didn't have anywhere else to go. London was supposed to be the blind spot." "There are no blind spots for a man with his connections. And certainly none when you are carrying enough magical resonance to light up the Underground." Lucien stepped into her space again, this time without the pretense of business. He placed his hands on the counter on either side of her, boxing her in. The heat radiating from his body contradicted his cold touch. "You should have come to me. After Brixton. After everything." "And be what? Another asset on your ledger? Another favor you can trade when the stakes get too high?" Rory looked up at him, her bright blue eyes defiant. "You don't get to play the protector now. You chose the mission over us." "There was no 'us' while the demonic gateways were tearing open in the East End," Lucien hissed, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register. "I was keeping you alive. I am still keeping you alive." "I never asked you to be my martyr. I asked you to be honest." Lucien leaned down, his face inches from hers. The tension was a physical weight, a tether pulling them toward a collision they had avoided for months. "You want honesty? Fine. The Grimoire is a death sentence. And seeing your name on a hit list is the only thing that has ever made me feel fear." Rory’s breath hitched. "You don't feel fear. You told me your father burnt that out of you in Avaros." "He tried. He failed." Lucien’s gaze dropped to her lips. The amber in his eye glowed with an unnatural intensity. "I didn't come here to argue semantics or to justify my absence. I came to take you to the safe house in Richmond." "I’m not leaving my flat. I’m not leaving Ptolemy or my life because you had a bad feeling." "It isn't a feeling. It is a certainty." He reached out, his thumb finally brushing the line of her jaw. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through her, a sharp reminder of the nights they’d spent deciphering texts by candlelight, their shadows merging into one on the walls. "Rory, please." The use of her nickname, a rarity for him, softened the edge of her anger. She hated how easily he could dismantle her defenses. He was a man built of lies and shadows, yet his touch felt like the only solid thing in a world that was rapidly dissolving into chaos. "If I go with you," she whispered, "it’s on my terms. No more side deals. No more disappearing acts." "You have my word." "Your word is a currency I’ve seen devalued before." Lucien smiled, a slow, dangerous tilt of his lips. "Then let me pay a deposit." He leaned in, the distance vanishing. The kiss was desperate, tasting of rain and suppressed longing. It wasn't the tentative start of a reconciliation; it was a battle. Rory gripped the lapels of his charcoal coat, pulling him closer, her fingers digging into the expensive fabric. He tasted like the dark world he inhabited—bitter, deep, and intoxicating. Lucien groaned low in his throat, his hand moving to the back of her neck to hold her steady. For a moment, the books, the scrolls, and the threat of the man in Whitechapel didn't exist. There was only the heat of the small kitchen and the frantic beat of two hearts that shouldn't have been synchronized. He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers. His breath was ragged. "We leave in five minutes. Pack only what you can carry." Rory stared at him, her lips tingling. "I’m bringing the cat." Lucien smoothed a strand of black hair behind her ear, his eyes searching hers. "I wouldn't dream of leaving him." He stepped away, reclaiming his cane with a fluid motion. The fixer was back, the mask of professional indifference sliding back into place, but the amber in his eye remained bright. "The back exit. My car is around the corner on Hanbury Street." Rory looked around her flat—the home she’d built from the wreckage of her life in Cardiff. She saw the stack of delivery slips from the Golden Empress, the half-finished tea, and the life she was about to abandon once again. "Evan... how close did he get?" Lucien paused at the door. "Close enough to know what color curtains you bought." Rory felt a chill that had nothing to do with the storm. She moved to the bedroom, grabbing a duffel bag and shoving her essential journals inside. Ptolemy watched her with wide green eyes, sensing the shift in the air. "You’re sure about this?" she called out. "I am sure of very little in this life, Aurora," Lucien replied from the living room. "But I am sure that I will not lose you to a man who thinks he can own you." Rory zipped the bag and scooped up the cat. She walked back into the living room, where Lucien stood waiting by the three deadbolts. He held the door open for her, his expression unreadable, but his hand was steady as he waited for her to pass. "After this," she said, stopping at the threshold. "After we deal with him and the council. We talk. Everything. No more omissions." Lucien inclined his head. "Everything." They stepped out into the rain-slicked night of Brick Lane. The neon signs of the curry houses blurred into streaks of pink and yellow against the wet pavement. As they moved toward the car, a shadow detached itself from the mouth of an alleyway two blocks down, watching the flash of a tailored charcoal suit and a woman with jet-black hair disappear into the dark. Lucien climbed into the driver’s seat of the sleek black sedan, the engine purring like a predator. "Is the cat secure?" "He's thrilled," Rory muttered, adjusting the carrier on her lap. "He loves being a refugee." Lucien put the car in gear, his knuckles grazing hers on the gearshift. "He’ll learn to love Richmond. It has a much better class of bird." The car pulled away from the curb, leaving the flat on Brick Lane behind. Rory didn't look back. She kept her eyes on the road ahead, watching the wipers sweep away the London grime, wondering how many more times she would have to ruin her life to save it. "Where's the Grimoire, Rory?" She leaned her head against the cool glass of the window. "Safe." "Be more specific." "I told you. My terms. We reach the safe house, I get a drink, and then we talk." Lucien’s jaw tightened. "You're a difficult woman to protect." "Then stop protecting me and start partnering with me." The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of the kilometers between London and their destination. The city lights flickered across Lucien’s face, highlighting the sharp bone structure and the constant, restless movement of his heterochromatic eyes. "A partnership," he murmured, the word sounding foreign in his mouth. "A dangerous proposition." "Everything with you is dangerous, Luc. I’m just evening the odds."