Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTREG2VHF4DHCRBNVB3YCZF

Aurora’s hand hovered over the deadbolt. She’d counted the knock twice before she moved. Her flat, above Silas’s bar, smelled of stale ale and takeaway grease. She braced on the doorframe, shoulders tight, pulse drumming in her ears. When she swung the door open, Lucien stood framed in the hallway light, rain dripping from his tailor-cut charcoal suit. His hair lay plastered at the nape of his neck. One amber eye caught hers, the other black. Neither blinked. He stepped inside before she could close the door. The wood floor creaked under his polished shoes. Steam trailed from his collar. He leaned his ivory-handled cane against the wall. “You weren’t answering my texts,” he said. His voice was low, clipped. French accent. She folded her arms. The scar on her wrist itched. “I’ve been busy.” He tapped his cane. “I saw you last week at the curry house. You vanished before you could say hello.” She kept her gaze on the scattered pizza boxes, the stack of legal textbooks she’d abandoned on the sofa. “Was busy,” she said again. Silence filled the room, stretching until Aurora felt it coil around her throat. Then he moved, unhurried, and flicked a pizza box open. A wisp of grease-stained cardboard met his palm. He frowned at it. “You still eat like a starving student.” She bristled. “I haven’t got time to cook.” He set the box back, intact. He studied the floor. “I half-expected you’d moved out.” She jerked a look at him. “I’ve been here for six months.” He toyed with the blade hidden in his cane. The ivory handle gleamed. “Then why all the locks?” She backed up, hand inching toward the third bolt. “You tell me.” He shrugged, shoulders stiff. “Old habits. Yours or mine.” Rage rose behind her ribs. They’d danced around this before. He always skirted the truth. Aurora squared her jaw. “You came here for a reason. Spill.” He crossed to the threadbare armchair. Rain trailed onto the wooden slats. He sat, cane tucked under his leg. Rainwater formed puddles in the grain. He lifted one foot and dabbed it on the floor. He didn’t rise. She let out a breath and dropped onto the sofa opposite him. The springs groaned. Aurora pressed her fingers to her eyes. Her scar burned. She’d seen him the night she’d fled London, before the messages cut off. He’d stood in the rain then, too, whispering promises she couldn’t keep. Promises that hurt her more than the storm. “I need to talk,” he said. “Important matter.” She stared at him. Her pulse crawled back to normal. “Lucien, it’s two in the morning.” He inclined his head. “It never ends.” She pushed to her feet. “Why are you here? I left that world.” He drew a deep breath. His jaw clenched. “The Avaros Gate reopened.” Her heart thudded against her ribs. Avaros Gate—portal between Earth and the demon realm. Deadly. She’d thought she’d run far enough. City lights flickered in her mind. “You’re serious.” He tapped the cane. “I have proof.” She inhaled sharply. “I’ll need details.” He paused, looked up at the low ceiling. “First you promise me you’ll cooperate.” She crossed her arms again. “You don’t get to set terms.” His heterochromatic eyes glinted. “You ran last time.” Her breath hitched. She’d abandoned him—and London—when the investigation turned dangerous. When she realised he’d let her walk into a trap. Let her almost die. He uncapped the blade with a flick. Silver edge gleamed. He slid it back into the cane. “I tried to protect you,” he said. She pressed her lips together. “By lying?” He leaned forward. “By not telling you who I was.” She exhaled and paced. The flimsy rug beneath her scuffed in dusty arcs. “You were a demon broker. I spent nights dodging your contacts in back alleys.” He followed her with amber gaze. “And you used every lead I gave you to tear that gate apart.” Her chest tightened. “I did what you wouldn’t.” He looked away, voice low. “You left without a word.” She stopped. “I told you why.” He shook his head. “You shut me out.” The silence knotted them together. Then he slid off the chair, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded parchment, edges singed. He laid it on the coffee table. Aurora’s breath caught at the swirling script. “The wards held for three days,” he said. “Now they’re weakening.” She frowned, knuckles whitening around her forearm. “Where?” “Underneath the old cathedral on Fleet Street.” Aurora’s mind spun. Desecrated altar, hidden sacrificial pit. She’d seen the research—but never believed it real. Until now. “Show me.” He rose, stepping around the table. Up close, his silence weighed heavy. She caught the faint scent of smoke, ozone. He brushed past her. The air between them crackled. She clenched her fist. She wanted to grab him. Shake him. Ask why he’d let her go then. But the parchment burned questions hotter than anger. “Wait,” he said. “There’s more.” She turned, annoyed. “What?” He lifted a small black box. Intricate carvings of demonic runes. “This belonged to my father. It holds a key.” She stared at the box. Impulsively, she reached and touched the carvings. The metal was cold, humming under her fingertips. He watched, expression unreadable. “It’ll seal the gate.” She jerked the box away. “And you need me to read the script.” He inclined his head. “You’re the only one who can.” She struggled to catch her breath. A dozen reasons to slam the door raced through her chest. But she drew in a controlled breath. The weight of that parchment settled on her shoulders like a promise. “All right,” she said quietly. His face shifted then, relief flickering behind his eyes. He stepped closer, so close she could count the rain droplets on his collar. “Thank you.” She swallowed. She hated that she felt warm at his gratitude. Her pulse throbbed in her throat. They stood inches apart, the box between them, that distance alive with everything they’d left unsaid. She avoided his gaze, eyes flicking to his cane, the sturdy blade hidden within. “When do we leave?” He brushed damp hair off his forehead. Rain ran down his cheek, traced the line of his jaw. “Tonight.” Aurora nodded and turned to the table, flattened the parchment with both hands. Her fingertips traced the arcane symbols. The room shrank around them—just the two of them, drawn back together by something neither wanted to face alone. She pulled a pen from her pocket, clicked it open. The nib scratched across the parchment as she began to translate. Lucien moved behind her, leaning in to watch. The coarse hairs at the nape of her neck stood. She refused to shiver. He smelled of storm and leather, that uncanny mix that always set her on edge. His presence felt like a vow she couldn’t break. She read a line aloud. He murmured its meaning under his breath, and she scribbled the English beneath the glowing script. Hours stretched. Outside, Silas’s bar finally quieted. The rain slowed until the only sound was the scratching of pen, the turning of the parchment. When she lifted her head, Lucien’s amber and black eyes met hers. No words lay between them—only the map they’d drawn to close a door neither dared open again. She closed the box, slid it toward him. He picked it up, tucking it inside his jacket. Dim light from the streetlamp caught the edge of the blade in his cane. He poised, ready to go. She brushed hair from her face. Her scar tingled. She squared her shoulders. They’d come this far together, drawn back by fate and stubborn pride. Tonight, they’d face demons—literal ones. He nodded to the door. She flicked the locks free. The hallway awaited. He paused under the frame. One amber eye flicked to her scar. Then he stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind him. She followed, ready for whatever waited beyond.