Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRE78RFBTZVK0FZ7XG1N43

The deadbolt clicked. Rory’s fingers hovered over the last one, her breath shallow. Three locks—Eva’s paranoia, not hers. But tonight, the weight of them pressed against her ribs like a warning. She twisted the knob. The door swung open before she could push it all the way. Lucien stood there, one hand braced against the frame, the other gripping his cane. His amber eye caught the dim hallway light, sharp as a blade. The black one swallowed it whole. “You changed the locks,” he said. Rory’s pulse jumped. “Eva did.” “Still. You didn’t stop her.” She stepped back, letting the door creak wider. The scent of him—bergamot and something darker, like burnt sugar—slid into the flat before he did. Ptolemy arched his back on the armchair, tail flicking, but didn’t bolt. Traitor. Lucien ducked under the low frame, his shoulders nearly brushing the doorjamb. He straightened, the movement effortless, like he’d never had to squeeze himself into a space too small for him. His gaze flicked over the stacks of books, the half-empty mug of tea on the coffee table, the rumpled blanket on the couch where Rory had been sleeping. “You’re staying here now,” he said. “Temporarily.” “Since when?” “Since I needed a place to breathe.” His jaw tightened. The silence between them stretched, thick with the things they weren’t saying. The last time they’d seen each other, she’d walked out of his office without looking back. The time before that, she’d kissed him like she could drown in him. Ptolemy chose that moment to leap onto the back of the couch, his green eyes fixed on Lucien. The cat’s tail twitched, and for a second, Rory envied him. No history. No regrets. Lucien’s fingers flexed around his cane. “I need your help.” She crossed her arms. “You have a whole network of people who owe you favors. Why me?” “Because you’re the only one who won’t ask questions.” “That’s not true.” “It is.” He stepped closer, the hem of his charcoal suit brushing against the edge of the coffee table. “You never do.” Rory’s throat went dry. The last time he’d stood this close, she’d pressed her palm against his chest and felt the heat of him through his shirt. The time before that, she’d traced the scar along his collarbone with her teeth. She turned away, busying herself with the kettle. “Tea?” “No.” “Then why are you here, Lucien?” He exhaled, sharp. “There’s a job. High risk. High reward.” “How high?” “Enough to get you out of London. Permanently.” The kettle whistled. Rory poured the water, her hands steady, but her mind raced. She’d dreamed of leaving—of boarding a train with nothing but a backpack and a new name. But not like this. Not with him. “What’s the catch?” she asked. “You’ll be working with me.” She set the mug down too hard. Tea sloshed over the rim. “That’s not a catch. That’s a red flag.” Lucien’s mouth quirked, just for a second. “You always did have a way with words.” “And you always did have a way of showing up when it’s most inconvenient.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. The edges were singed, like it had been pulled from a fire. He held it out. “This is why I’m here.” Rory didn’t take it. “What is it?” “A name. An address. A time.” “And?” “And someone wants it buried.” She finally looked at him. Really looked. The shadows under his eyes were deeper than she remembered. The lines around his mouth were new. “Who?” she asked. “Does it matter?” “Yes.” He hesitated. Then, quietly: “Evan.” The name hit her like a punch. Rory’s fingers curled into her palms, her nails biting into the crescent scar on her wrist. Evan. The man who’d left her with bruises and a restraining order. The man who’d shown up at her flat two weeks ago, drunk and demanding, before Eva’s boyfriend had thrown him out. Lucien’s gaze dropped to her wrist. His voice was low. “He’s not just looking for you anymore. He’s looking for something you have.” “I don’t have anything.” “You do.” He tapped the paper. “This.” Rory snatched it from his hand. The paper was warm, like it had been in his pocket for hours. She unfolded it. A single line of text, written in a hand she didn’t recognize: *Midnight. The old distillery. Bring the ledger.* She looked up. “What ledger?” “The one your father kept.” Her breath caught. “My father’s dead.” “Not all his secrets are.” Rory’s chest tightened. Her father’s study, the locked drawer, the key she’d found taped under his desk after the funeral. She’d never opened it. Never wanted to. “This is about my family,” she said. “Yes.” “And Evan?” “He’s working for someone. Someone who wants what’s in that ledger.” She crumpled the paper in her fist. “Why now? Why after all this time?” Lucien didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. She already knew. Because she’d run. Because she’d hidden. Because she’d thought she was safe. Ptolemy chose that moment to launch himself at Lucien’s leg, claws out. Lucien didn’t flinch. He just reached down and scratched the cat behind the ears, his expression unreadable. Rory’s voice was quiet. “You could’ve sent a message.” “I could’ve.” “But you didn’t.” “No.” “Why?” He looked at her then, really looked at her. His amber eye burned. The black one was a void. “Because I needed to see you.” The words hung between them, heavy and dangerous. Rory’s pulse roared in her ears. She wanted to step back. She wanted to step forward. She wanted to pretend she hadn’t spent the last six months trying to forget the way his mouth felt against hers. She settled for turning away. “The distillery. Where is it?” “Southwark. Abandoned. Guarded.” “By who?” “Men with guns. Men with worse.” She exhaled. “And you want me to walk in there with you.” “Yes.” “Why me?” “Because you’re the only one who can get close enough.” “To what?” He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his coat again and pulled out a small, leather-bound book. The cover was worn, the edges frayed. He held it out. Rory didn’t take it. “What is that?” “Your father’s ledger.” She stared at it. “You had it this whole time.” “Yes.” “And you didn’t think to give it to me before now?” “I didn’t think you’d want it.” She laughed, sharp and bitter. “You don’t know what I want.” “Don’t I?” The air between them crackled. Rory’s fingers itched to slap him. To kiss him. To do something, anything, to break the tension coiling in her gut. Instead, she took the ledger. The leather was warm, like it had been pressed against his skin. She flipped it open. Numbers. Dates. Names she didn’t recognize. And then, halfway down a page, her own name. Scrawled in her father’s handwriting. *Rory—safe deposit box 12. Key in the blue tin.* She snapped the book shut. “What’s in the box?” “Something your father didn’t want anyone to find.” “Including me?” “Especially you.” She looked up. Lucien’s face was unreadable, but his knuckles were white around his cane. “You could’ve told me,” she said. “I could’ve.” “But you didn’t.” “No.” “Why?” He stepped closer. The scent of him wrapped around her, familiar and intoxicating. “Because I was afraid.” “Of what?” “Of this.” His hand brushed against hers, his fingers warm. “Of you walking away again.” Rory’s breath hitched. The ledger burned in her grip. She wanted to throw it across the room. She wanted to press it to her chest and never let go. Instead, she met his gaze. “I’m not walking away.” “No?” “No.” She swallowed. “But I’m not doing this for you.” Lucien’s mouth curved, just slightly. “I wouldn’t expect you to.” She turned away, her heart pounding. The ledger felt heavy in her hands. The past, pressing against her skin. The future, uncertain and dangerous. Ptolemy wound himself around her ankles, purring. She reached down and scratched his ears, her fingers trembling. Lucien’s voice was quiet behind her. “We leave at midnight.” She didn’t look back. “I know.”