Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTR2AS344QFFJNSKKK6VSPM

Aurora's fingers fumbled with the third deadbolt, her mind elsewhere as she balanced a bag of takeaway from Golden Empress on her hip. The flat smelled of sandalwood incense and old books—Eva's perpetual signature—but her flatmate wouldn't be back for hours. A night off. Finally. The lock clicked open, and Aurora pushed the door with her shoulder, stepping inside without looking up. "Took you long enough. I was beginning to think you weren't coming home tonight." The voice froze her mid-step. That voice—smooth as aged whiskey with its slight French accent, familiar and impossible all at once. Aurora's head snapped up. Lucien Moreau sat on her sofa, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, his amber and black eyes watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read. His ivory-handled cane rested against the armrest, within easy reach. The paper bag slipped from her fingers. Cartons of chow mein and dumplings hit the floor with a dull thud. "What the hell are you doing in my flat?" Her voice came out steadier than she felt, a small victory. Lucien uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. The charcoal suit he wore was impeccable as always, not a wrinkle to be seen. "Your roommate let me in before she left. Quite trusting, that one." "Eva wouldn't—" "She would if I told her it was about the Malwick case." His mouth curved into the hint of a smile. "You've been busy these past months, Laila." The name—her cover name when they'd worked together—hit like a physical blow. She hadn't heard it in almost a year. Not since that night in Prague. "Don't call me that. That's not who I am anymore." Aurora bent to retrieve the fallen takeaway, grateful for something to do with her hands. "And Eva had no right—" "To be fair, she seemed to think you'd be pleased to see me." Lucien's voice carried a note of amusement. "Your description must have been rather flattering." Heat crept up Aurora's neck. "I never discussed you with her." "Ah. Then perhaps it was my natural charm." Aurora straightened, takeaway clutched to her chest like a shield. "What do you want, Lucien? Last I checked, you made your position quite clear in Prague." Something flickered across his face—a momentary crack in his perfectly composed facade. He tapped long fingers against his thigh once, twice. "The situation has changed." "Has it?" Aurora moved to the kitchen counter, setting down her food with deliberate care. "Because from where I'm standing, you're still the same man who told me I was a liability. That I didn't belong in your world." "I never said you didn't belong." "You implied it rather effectively." Ptolemy chose that moment to slink into the room, tail high. The tabby assessed Lucien with typical feline suspicion before apparently deciding the half-demon posed no immediate threat to his domain. He jumped onto the sofa and settled himself precisely in the middle cushion, creating a furry barrier between them. "Your cat has excellent judgment," Lucien observed. "He's Eva's, and he's terrible at character assessment." Aurora leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "You have thirty seconds to explain why I shouldn't throw you out." Lucien's heterochromatic eyes held hers. "Because Evan Thompson is looking for you." The name hit like ice water. Aurora's fingers dug into her arms. "That's not possible. He doesn't know where I am." "He didn't. Until three days ago when he hired a particularly unsavory practitioner to perform a locator spell." Aurora's mind raced. "Evan doesn't believe in magic. He's the most skeptical person I've ever met." "People change when they're obsessed." Lucien's voice softened fractionally. "Especially when they've spent two years convinced their ex-girlfriend stole something valuable from them." "I didn't steal anything from him!" The words burst out before she could stop them. "I know." Lucien's response was quiet, certain. "But he believes otherwise, and now he has your general location. It's only a matter of time before he narrows it down." Aurora's fingers found the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, tracing its outline. A childhood accident, she told everyone. A lie she'd repeated so often she almost believed it herself. "How did you find out?" she asked. Lucien's mouth tightened. "I still have contacts in Cardiff. One of them overheard Thompson bragging in a bar about how he'd finally tracked you down. I came as soon as I heard." "Why?" The question hung between them, heavy with all the things they'd never said. Lucien stood in one fluid motion, retrieving his cane. For a moment, Aurora thought he might approach her, but he merely adjusted his cuffs, a gesture she recognized as one of his rare tells of discomfort. "Contrary to what you might believe after Prague, I don't wish to see you harmed." "That's not an answer." "It's the only one I have at present." Aurora studied him—the perfect posture, the carefully neutral expression. But his eyes gave him away. They always had. The amber one gleamed with something she'd glimpsed only rarely before. "You could have called. Sent a message. You didn't have to break into my flat." "I didn't break in. I was invited." Lucien's lips curved slightly. "And would you have agreed to see me if I'd called?" The question hung in the air between them. They both knew the answer. "I thought not." He took a step toward her, then another, until only the kitchen counter separated them. "I'm not here to rehash Prague, Aurora. What happened there—" "What happened there is that you shut me out. After everything we'd been through, after what we—" She stopped, unwilling to name what had passed between them that final night. The vulnerability. The trust. The moment when barriers had fallen and truth had spilled out like blood. "I made a mistake." The admission seemed to cost him, his knuckles whitening around the cane's handle. "One of many where you're concerned." Aurora's breath caught. In all the time she'd known him, through all their entanglements with London's supernatural underworld, she'd never once heard Lucien Moreau admit to a mistake. "What happens now?" she asked, hating the slight tremor in her voice. "That depends on you." Lucien's gaze was steady, unflinching. "I can help you disappear again. New identity, new location. Thompson would never find you." "Or?" "Or we deal with him. Permanently." The implications of that second option hung in the air between them. Once, she might have been shocked at such a suggestion. But that was before she'd learned what lurked beneath London's streets. Before she'd seen what Lucien was capable of. "There's a third option," Aurora said quietly. Lucien raised an eyebrow. "And that would be?" "I stop running." Her fingers touched the scar again, a habit she couldn't break. "Evan took enough from me. I won't let him take my life here too." Something like approval flickered in Lucien's mismatched eyes. "Bold, but dangerous." "I learned from the best." The ghost of a smile touched her lips. "You didn't come all this way just to warn me, Lucien. You could have sent any of your associates for that." Lucien was silent for a long moment, studying her with an intensity that made her skin heat. Finally, he closed the last distance between them, setting his cane on the counter with a soft click. "Perhaps I wanted to see for myself that you were alright." His voice had dropped lower, the French accent more pronounced as it always was when his control slipped. "Perhaps I had things to say that couldn't be entrusted to a messenger." Aurora's heart hammered against her ribs. "Such as?" His fingers brushed hers, feather-light against the scar on her wrist. "Such as I was wrong in Prague. And I have regretted it every day since."