Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX4133B9WREV4T6J69PWDX

The knock came just after midnight—three deliberate raps against Eva’s reinforced door. Rory froze mid-sip, her tea cooling between her palms. No one visited Eva’s flat unannounced. The deadbolts alone kept most unwanted guests at bay, and the few who knew the address wouldn’t risk waking Ptolemy, whose yowls could curdle milk. Setting the mug down, she crept to the door and squinted through the peephole. The dim hallway light carved sharp shadows under cheekbones she knew too well. Lucien’s amber eye flicked toward her, as if sensing her scrutiny, and Rory’s fingers twitched against the chain. “You’re not supposed to be here,” she said through the wood. His exhale was barely audible. “No.” That single word snagged something low in her ribs—the way he never lied around her, even when it would’ve been easier. She undid the locks. The door swung open and there he stood—charcoal suit impeccable, cane braced in one gloved hand. The cold had left a faint pink across his nose, and the scent of bergamot and snow clung to his coat. She crossed her arms. “Eva’s not back till Thursday.” “I know.” His gaze dipped to the crescent scar on her wrist before flicking back up, quick enough that most wouldn’t notice. But she’d learned his tells. The slight tightening at the corner of his mouth when he was uneasy, the way his thumb rubbed circles on the ivory handle of his cane. Rory leaned against the doorframe, blocking his path. “So?” The amber eye darkened—not with anger, but something heavier. “You haven’t answered my calls.” “You didn’t leave voicemails.” “Would they have changed anything?” Her pulse stuttered. She stepped back, letting him in. Lucien moved past her, the rhythm of his cane deliberate, careful. The flat’s clutter seemed to shrink around him, books and scrolls stifled under the weight of his presence. He stopped by the kitchenette, fingers hovering over Eva’s teapot. “Still drink that godawful hibiscus?” “Only when I hate myself a little.” She shut the door. “Take your coat off. Or leave. Whichever.” His chuckle scraped low in his throat as he shrugged out of the wool and folded it over the back of Eva’s chair. The suit beneath was the same one he’d worn the last time they’d argued—navy instead of charcoal, but cut from the same cloth. His fingers worked at the buttons of his waistcoat. Rory tossed a tea towel at him. “Leave it on. The heating’s shit.” Ptolemy chose that moment to saunter in from the bedroom, tail flicking. He wound between Lucien’s legs without hesitation, purring like a motorboat. “Traitor,” Rory muttered. The half-demon crouched—slow, controlled—and scratched behind Ptolemy’s ears. “At least one Carter still tolerates me.” She snorted. “Plenty of people tolerate you. Mostly because they don’t know you.” Lucien straightened, cane tapping lightly against the floorboards. “And here I thought you did.” The air between them turned brittle. Too much history packed into the silence—his mouth on hers in the backroom of Silas’ bar, the way he’d flinched when she touched the scar bisecting his ribs, hours spent deciphering witch-tongued legal texts with their knees knocking under Eva’s table. And then Paris. Rory shoved her hands into her genomes. “Why are you really here, Luc?” He studied her—really studied her—like-acreeping. The kettle whistled. Neither of them moved. “I needed to see you,” he said finally. She barked a laugh. “Bullshit.” His expression didn’t flicker. “The Golden Empress has a new delivery route near Holborn.” “And?” Lucien stepped closer—near enough that she caught the hint of iron beneath the bergamot, the scent that clung to him after demon work. “The Nephilim Syndicate’s been prowling that territory since Tuesday.” Her breath hitched. Not fear—irritation. “So send a fucking text like a normal person.” “Would you have believed me?” She clenched her jaw. He wasn’t wrong. Silence settled again, thick as the steam curling from her abandoned mug. Ptolemy leapt onto the counter, tail twitching as he nudged Lucien’s elbow. Rory exhaled through her nose. “You could’ve called Eva.” “She’d have told me the same thing you will.” His thumb traced the cane’s handle—once, twice. “Stay away.” The words hung between them, razor-edged. She swallowed. “Yeah.” Lucien nodded, as if he’d expected nothing else. He reached for his coat. Her hand shot out before she could stop it, fingers curling around his wrist. The pulse beneath her grip was steady, slow—too controlled for a human. He stilled. Rory forced herself to let go. “Holborn’s not my route.” His lips parted—then pressed into a thin line. Calculating. Always calculating. “Not yet.” “Meaning?” “Cheung’s expanding Thursday.” His gaze locked onto hers. “Your name’s on the roster.” Her stomach dropped. “That’s not—” “Public knowledge?” Lucien’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “No. But it is mine Béryl Vere—my contact at the Syndicate—mentioned an interest in ‘unaffiliated couriers.’” Silence. Then: “Fuck.” “Quite.” He shrugged into his coat, movements precise. “I’ll send Vere a distraction. Just stay clear of Clerkenwell for a fortnight.” She caught his sleeve again. “Why bother?” Lucien turned fully toward her, close enough that she had to tilt her chin up. The amber eye gleamed in the lamplight. “You know why.” The kiss was sudden—hot and bruising and over before she could process it. He tasted of winter and bitter regret. Then he was gone,經典 the door clicking shut behind him. Rory touched her lips. Still warm. Ptolemy yowled in the sudden quiet.