Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX1T9SZBTFKBCCKEH2HMF2

The clatter of the third deadbolt sliding back echoed in the cramped hallway, a final metallic sigh against the evening clamour of Brick Lane. Curry and cardamom drifted up through the floorboards, a familiar, comforting scent that did nothing to prepare Rory for who stood on the landing. Lucien Moreau. He was a slash of charcoal and silver against the peeling paint of the corridor wall. The London damp had done nothing to disturb the severe part in his platinum hair, and the bespoke suit he wore looked as if it had been tailored to him that morning. One hand rested on the ivory head of his cane; the other was tucked into his pocket. He was an anomaly, a disruption in the fabric of her carefully constructed peace. The delivery bag for the Golden Empress slid from her shoulder, thumping softly against the floor. A phantom ache blossomed in her left wrist, right over the crescent-shaped scar hidden by her watch. “Carter.” His voice was a low hum, the French accent a ghost clinging to the edges of his perfect English. The sound of it coiled in her stomach. Her own name felt foreign on his tongue. He never called her Rory. It was always Carter, a name that felt like a challenge, or a piece on a chessboard. His eyes, one the colour of old amber, the other a chip of obsidian, took in the mess of her—the grease-stained jeans, the faded university jumper, the frantic escape of black hair from her ponytail. He missed nothing. He never did. “Moreau.” She forced the word past the knot in her throat. “Lost your way to Mayfair?” A corner of his mouth lifted, a fractional movement that did not reach his eyes. “My sense of direction remains impeccable. I was looking for you.” She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms over her chest, a barricade of denim and cotton. “How?” The question hung between them, heavy with unspoken accusations. *How did you find me? How dare you find me?* “Finding people is what I do.” Lucien’s gaze swept past her, into the chaotic sanctuary of Eva’s flat. Books overflowed from shelves, teetering in towers on the floor. Scrolls were pinned to the walls like macabre wallpaper. “Your friend is quite the scholar.” A fat tabby cat wound its way around Rory’s ankles, looked up at Lucien, and gave a hiss that was more indignation than threat. “Ptolemy, down.” She nudged the cat with her foot. She kept her body blocking the doorway. “She isn't here. And you shouldn't be either.” “I’m aware Miss Vance is in Oxford for the week.” He took a deliberate step forward, his polished brogues crossing the threshold. The cramped hallway shrank around him. He brought with him the scent of expensive cologne, rain, and something else, something uniquely his—ozone, like the air after a lightning strike. “Which is why I am here. We need to talk.” Rory held her ground. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. It was foolish. He was half-demon, and she was a delivery girl with a half-finished law degree. But she had learned to stand her ground. She’d had to. “We said everything that needed to be said six months ago.” “Did we?” The amber eye seemed to smoulder. “As I recall, you left a note on my pillow. That’s hardly a conversation.” Her jaw tightened. The note had been three words. *I can’t do this.* It had felt like a confession and a surrender. Looking at him now, she remembered why. He was a world of lethal elegance and beautiful danger, a world that had almost swallowed her whole. He moved past her, a whisper of fine wool and cold air. He didn't touch her, but she felt the brush of his presence along her skin like a static charge. He stopped in the centre of the living room, his stillness a stark contrast to the clutter. His gaze landed on an open grimoire on the coffee table, its arcane symbols illuminated by the streetlights filtering through the grimy window. “You’re still dabbling,” he observed, his tone neutral. “I’m helping a friend with some research.” She closed the door, the click of the latch sounding loud and final. She left the deadbolts undone. An escape route. Or an invitation. She wasn’t sure which. “What do you want, Lucien?” He turned to face her. The single lamp in the room carved sharp shadows across his face, making his features seem more angular, less human. “There’s been a development. Something you should be aware of.” “If it’s about your father’s business, I’m not interested.” “This isn’t about Avaros.” He took a step closer, his heterochromatic eyes fixed on hers. “It’s about London. It’s about a name you know. Evan.” Ice flooded her veins. The name was a key, unlocking a room in her mind she kept bolted shut. It brought back the smell of stale beer, the sickening colour of a fresh bruise, the slick promises that always curdled into threats. She shook her head, a small, jerky motion. “No. He’s gone. Back in Cardiff. He wouldn't… he couldn't find me here.” “He has powerful new friends.” Lucien’s voice was soft, but it cut through her denial like a shard of glass. “Friends who don’t concern themselves with restraining orders. Friends who deal in markers and blood.” Ptolemy, seeming to sense the shift in the room, rubbed against Lucien’s leg and, to Rory’s astonishment, began to purr. Lucien’s long fingers drifted down to scratch the cat behind the ears absently. His attention remained entirely on her. “What are you talking about?” “Your ex-boyfriend has made a bargain. He’s offered something of great value to a very old, very dangerous player in this city in exchange for a single service: finding you.” All the fight drained out of her, replaced by a cold dread. She sank onto the arm of the sofa, the worn fabric rough against her jeans. The room, which a moment ago felt like a shield, now felt like a cage. She looked at the man standing over her, a man she had run from, a man who trafficked in secrets and moved through shadows. He was the last person she ever wanted to see again. And he might be the only one who could help. The irony was a bitter pill in her throat. “What did he offer them?” her voice was a thin whisper. Lucien stopped stroking the cat. He straightened up, his silhouette a column of darkness against the window. The casual ease fell away, replaced by the lethal focus of the fixer she knew. “You, Carter.” His gaze was unyielding, a fusion of molten gold and endless night. “He offered them you.”