Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRJ9VJ071B81QWSGS25H93

The door swung open with a groan of old hinges, the brass handle cold beneath Rory’s fingers. She froze, her breath catching as the dim glow of the hallway spilled into the dimness of the flat. A figure stood silhouetted against the light, tall and broad-shouldered, the faint scent of rain and something sharper—like ozone after a storm—wafting toward her. “You’re early,” Lucien said, his voice smooth as aged whiskey, the French lilt just thick enough to make her pulse jump. Rory’s grip tightened on the doorframe. “You’re not supposed to be here.” “Neither are you.” He stepped inside, the cane tapping once against the wooden floor. The flat smelled of stale coffee and the faint tang of something metallic—blood, maybe, or old iron. Not his usual cologne. “But here we are.” She should’ve closed the door. Should’ve turned and walked away before he could see the way her chest tightened, the way her fingers twitched at her sides. But the air between them hummed, charged, and she couldn’t look away. Lucien’s amber eye caught the light as he tilted his head, studying her. “You look like hell.” Rory exhaled through her nose, a sharp laugh escaping her. “Thanks. You clean up nice.” His lips quirked, just for a second, before smoothing back into that infuriatingly controlled mask. “I always do.” The silence stretched, thick with things unsaid. The last time they’d been in the same room, it had ended with her slamming a door in his face—or at least, that’s what she’d thought. But the truth was, she’d run. And now he was standing in her flat, uninvited, as if he’d never left. “You wanted to see me,” she said, voice steadier than she felt. “Yes.” His gaze flicked to the scar on her wrist, the one she always kept hidden beneath her sleeve. “I did.” Rory’s stomach twisted. She pulled her arm back, as if the movement alone could erase the memory of his fingers brushing against it that night in the alley. The night he’d kissed her. The night she’d kissed him back. “What do you want, Lucien?” His expression darkened, just slightly. “Information.” “About what?” “About you.” He stepped closer, the cane tapping again, closer than she’d expected. “About why you left.” The air between them shifted, charged. Rory’s breath hitched. “That’s not your business.” “Isn’t it?” His voice dropped, rougher now. “You came to me, Rory. You begged me for help. And then you walked away like I didn’t exist.” She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. “I didn’t know what I was doing.” “No.” His gaze locked onto hers, unflinching. “You knew exactly what you were doing.” The words hit her like a punch to the gut. She should’ve known better. Should’ve known he’d see through her lies. But she’d been so desperate, so scared, that she’d let herself believe he’d understand. “You don’t get to play the martyr,” she snapped, her voice shaking. “You’re the one who left me hanging.” Lucien’s jaw tightened. “I left you with a choice.” “A choice?” She laughed, bitter and hollow. “A choice between you and the devil? That’s not a choice. That’s a trap.” His eyes flashed, the amber one burning brighter. “You chose the devil.” Rory’s hands clenched into fists. “And look where that got me.” “Alive,” he said, quiet but firm. “You’re still alive.” She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him she wasn’t alive at all, not really—not since she’d walked away from him. But the words stuck in her throat. Lucien stepped back, the tension between them snapping like a drawn bowstring. “I need to know what you know about the Blackthorn coven.” The name sent a shiver down her spine. She’d heard whispers of them—superstitious warnings from old women in the markets, the way people crossed themselves when the name was mentioned. But she’d never thought she’d have to deal with them. Not here. Not now. “Why?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Because they’re digging up old bones,” he said, his tone grim. “And I don’t like what they’re finding.” Rory’s mind raced. The Blackthorn coven—long dead, or so they said. But if they were digging up bones, if they were stirring up the past, then they were dangerous. And if they were dangerous, then they were dangerous to her. “What do you want me to do?” she asked, her voice steadier now. Lucien’s gaze locked onto hers, intense and unyielding. “Find out what they’re looking for. And stop them.” Rory nodded, her mind already racing with possibilities. She could do this. She had to do this. “When do I start?” Lucien’s lips curled into a smile, sharp and predatory. “Now.” The door to the flat creaked open behind her, and she turned just in time to see Eva’s tabby cat, Ptolemy, slink into the room, tail high. The cat’s green eyes locked onto Lucien, and he froze, his body going rigid. “What the hell is that?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous. Rory followed his gaze. Ptolemy’s fur stood on end, his ears flattened against his skull. He hissed, low and threatening, his eyes never leaving Lucien. “He’s just a cat,” Rory said, her voice calm. “He doesn’t like strangers.” Lucien’s gaze flicked back to her, his expression unreadable. “Strangers?” “You’re not a stranger,” she said, her voice steady. “Not to me.” Lucien’s eyes darkened, the amber one burning brighter. “No,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “I’m not.” The air between them cracketed with tension, the cat’s hiss echoing in the silence. Rory could feel Lucien’s presence like a living thing, like a storm rolling in. She could see the way his chest rose and fell, the way his fingers tightened around the cane. “You’re going to regret this,” she said, her voice steady. Lucien’s lips curled into a smile, sharp and predatory. “I already do.”