Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRDDGY7CPPN6BQNP5PF0SH

The third deadbolt clicked back with a metallic scrape that sounded unnaturally loud in the stillness of the hallway. Rory stood on the threshold of Eva’s chaotic flat, her backpack slumped at her feet. Moonlight slanted through the small window at the end of the corridor, silvering the linoleum. The curry-scented warmth from downstairs was a familiar blanket, but tonight it felt suffocating. She nudged the door closed with her hip, her mind replaying the argument with her father for the hundredth time. That’s when she saw him. Leaning against the doorframe of the living room, silhouetted by the soft glow of Eva’s antique desk lamp. The platinum hair was unmistakable, slicked back as if he’d just stepped out of the rain. He wore a charcoal suit, perfectly tailored, his hands resting on the ivory head of his cane. Rory froze. Her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat. “*Bonsoir*, Aurora,” Lucien said. His voice was a low, familiar rasp. It hadn’t changed. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She hadn’t seen him in over a year. Not since the night everything fell apart. Not since she’d told him to stay away from her. A hundred different emotions surged—anger, a sharp prick of betrayal, and beneath it all, a treacherous, unwelcome warmth. “How did you get in here?” Her words came out tight, controlled. She didn’t move from the mat. “Eva loaned me her key. For emergencies.” He pushed off the doorframe and took a step forward, the tip of his cane whispering against the rug. The light caught the heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one a bottomless black. “This qualifies.” She forced a brittle laugh. “Is that so? And who defines these emergencies? You?” “You’ve been followed for three days.” He said it casually, as if commenting on the weather. “The same man. He circles this block each night you work late. Tonight, he waited outside the Golden Empress for forty-seven minutes after your last delivery. He’s watching your flat, too.” A cold knot tightened in her stomach. She’d felt eyes on her. Had dismissed it as paranoia leftover from her life before London. “Why would anyone follow me?” Lucien’s gaze held hers. “Because of me.” Silence pooled between them, thick and heavy. Ptolemy the tabby wound between her ankles, purring, oblivious. She finally stepped inside, dropping her backpack by the door. She needed space from his proximity. The flat was its usual mess—scrolls unfurled on the coffee table, stacks of leather-bound books teetering on the armchair. She moved past him into the living room, her shoulder brushing his sleeve. The contact was electric, a jolt of memory she’d tried to bury. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said, not looking at him. She began gathering Eva’s scattered papers, stacking them with more force than necessary. “You told me that once before. I didn’t listen then either.” She turned on him. “This isn’t a joke, Lucien. You left. You walked out that door and I didn’t hear from you for a year. Not a call. Not a text. Nothing.” The hurt spilled out, raw edged. He didn’t flinch. “You asked me to go.” “I asked you to stay!” The words tore from her. She hadn’t meant to shout. She pressed a hand to her temple. “I asked you to stay, and you chose your father’s world over mine.” His knuckles whitened on the cane. “It was never a choice, Aurora. It was a necessity. My presence in your life was a target on your back. It still is.” “So you ghosted me. To protect me.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “Yes.” She stared at him. The cool-headed logic she prided herself on had deserted her. All that remained was the memory of his mouth on hers, his hands in her hair, the whispered promises in French she’d almost believed. Followed by the empty flat, the unanswered messages, the hollow ache of abandonment. “You could have explained.” “Would you have accepted it?” He took another step closer. The air between them crackled. “Would you have let me walk away if I’d told you the truth? That my father’s enemies consider you a vulnerability? That every moment I spent with you was a risk to your life?” She looked away, her gaze falling on the crescent scar on her wrist. “You don’t get to make those decisions for me.” “Someone has to. You’re too reckless with your own safety.” He said it softly, almost affectionately. “You have no right.” “I have every right.” The intensity in his voice made her look up. His amber eye seemed to glow in the lamplight. “You are still… important to me. That has not changed.” Her throat tightened. She wanted to hate him. It would be easier. “Who is following me?” she asked, pivoting back to practicalities. It was safer ground. “A mercenary. Not particularly skilled, but persistent. Employed by a minor warlord named Varos who has a grudge against my family. He thinks you might be leverage.” “And you’re here to what? Protect me?” “To offer you a choice.” Lucien reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a small, sealed envelope. He held it out. “A ticket to Paris. Under a new name. A flat in the Marais, paid for a year in advance. A clean break.” She stared at the envelope as if it were a viper. “You want me to run.” “I want you safe.” “And if I don’t take it?” His jaw tightened. “Then I stay. I neutralize the threat. And I remain in your life whether you wish it or not. Because the alternative is you ending up in a ditch with your throat cut.” The bluntness of the statement hit her like a slap. She saw the truth of it in his face. The lines of strain around his eyes she hadn’t noticed before. The slight pallor beneath his tan. He hadn’t been sleeping either. “You look like hell,” she murmured. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “You always did have a charming way with words.” She didn’t take the envelope. Instead, she walked to the window overlooking Brick Lane. The street was quiet, slick with rain. A single figure huddled in a doorway across the street, collar turned up. Watching. “Three days,” she said. “Yes.” “And you waited until now.” “I was hoping he was simply incompetent and would lose interest. He did not.” She turned back to face him. He stood in the center of Eva’s chaotic living room, an island of elegant stillness amidst the storm of paper and books. Her heart ached with a terrible, familiar longing. “You lied to me,” she said. “By omission.” “It’s the same thing.” He inclined his head. “Then I am guilty.” “Why now, Lucien? Really? After all this time.” He was silent for a long moment. “Because I could not stay away any longer,” he said finally, his voice low. “Because I saw him watching you tonight and I realized I would burn down every realm between here and Avaros before I let anything happen to you. Even if you hate me for it.” The admission hung in the air, stripping away the pretense, the practicalities. The raw truth of it was terrifying. She crossed the room until she stood directly before him. Close enough to smell the faint scent of his cologne—sandalwood and ozone. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his amber eye. Her hand came up, almost of its own volition, and her fingers brushed the back of his where they gripped the cane. His skin was cool. His breath hitched. “I don’t hate you,” she whispered. “I tried. It didn’t take.” His free hand lifted, hesitated, then cupped her cheek. His thumb stroked the line of her cheekbone. “Aurora.” “Don’t send me away.” “It’s the safest—” “I don’t care.” She leaned into his touch, her eyes closing for a second. “I spent a year caring about safety. Living small. Looking over my shoulder. It didn’t work. He found me anyway.” She opened her eyes, meeting his mismatched gaze. “So maybe safety isn’t the point. Maybe I’d rather face the devil I know.” “I am not a good man, *ma belle*.” “Don’t care.” He exhaled, a soft, defeated sound. His forehead came to rest against hers. She could feel the tension coiled in his body, the war within him. Duty against desire. Protection against passion. “I will not survive losing you twice,” he murmured against her skin. “Then don’t leave.” His mouth found hers. It was not a gentle kiss. It was a claiming, a confluence of a year’s worth of pent-up longing and frustration and regret. His cane clattered to the floor as his arms came around her, pulling her tight against him. Her hands fisted in the lapels of his suit, crumpling pristine fabric. The taste of him—dark coffee and something faintly metallic, demonic—was achingly familiar. When they broke apart, both were breathing hard. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. Across the street, the watcher shifted in his doorway. Lucien’s gaze flicked to the window and back to her. “He’s still there.” “Let him watch,” Rory said, her voice unsteady. “Let him see that I’m not alone.”