Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXM9XW18F117SVG5W54XRY

The three deadbolts slid back with heavy, metallic thuds, one after another. Rain drummed a relentless, chaotic rhythm against the single pane of the flat’s only window, drowning out the bass thrum of music from the curry house downstairs. Rory checked the peephole, the brass rim cold against her skin, and frowned. She threw the locks open and yanked the door inward. Air rushed out, carrying the scent of ozone and wet wool. Lucien stood on the landing. Water dripped from the hem of his charcoal coat, pooling on the worn floorboards of Eva’s hallway. His platinum hair was plastered to his skull in dark, slick streaks, but he held himself with that infuriating, rigid posture. The ivory handle of his cane caught the yellow light of the hallway bulb. She stared. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a traitorous rhythm that had nothing to do with surprise. "You're dripping on the carpet." "Charming as ever. May I?" She stepped aside. Not because she wanted to, but because standing in the doorway while he loomed there felt like surrender. He moved past her. The scent hit her then—sandalwood, expensive tobacco, and the metallic tang that always clung to his skin. A hint of sulfur, buried deep. He brought the London night in with him, a cold shadow that seemed to suck the warmth right out of the cluttered room. "It’s been three months, Rory. You could at least offer me a towel." " towels are in the bath. Help yourself." She leaned back against the door, crossing her arms. The small crescent scar on her left wrist throbbed, a phantom itch she couldn't scratch. Lucien ignored the invitation to the bathroom. He stopped in the centre of the living room, his head turning slowly as he surveyed the chaos. Stacks of books towered over the armchair like precarious skyscrapers. Scrolls lay unrolled on the coffee table, weighed down by empty tea mugs and a jar of pencils. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, lifted his head from his cushion on the sofa, eyed the intruder with disdain, and went back to sleep. "I see Eva hasn’t changed." "I'm house-sitting. She’s in Cardiff." "I know." Rory pushed off the door. "Of course you do. You probably had a bird watching the train station." "I had a meeting." Lucien turned. His eyes locked onto hers. The mismatched gaze—one amber, one void black—always unsettled her, stripping away her defenses faster than she could rebuild them. "I finished early. I thought I would see if you were still alive." "Barely. The delivery bike almost killed me yesterday." "A hazard of the profession." "It pays the rent." He unbuttoned his coat, revealing a pristine waistcoat beneath. He placed the cane against the arm of the sofa, careful not to disturb the cat. The motion was fluid, practiced. He looked too perfect here. Too sharp. The flat was a mess of intellectual curiosity and human messiness, and Lucien was a blade cutting through it all. "You didn't call." "The network is compromised." "Bullshit." He arched a brow. "You have a secure line. You have three. You just didn't want to use them." Lucien walked towards the kitchenette. He ran a finger along the dusty top of the refrigerator, inspecting the grime. "I was busy. The situation in Avaros is deteriorating. My father’s kin are restless." "Always an excuse with you. It’s the demon blood, or the business, or the alignment of the stars." She followed him, keeping a safe distance. "You vanished, Lucien. One night we were drinking wine at Silas's, the next you were gone. No note. No text." "It was safer that way." "Safer for who? You? Or me?" He stopped. His hand dropped from the counter. "For you. Being associated with me attracts attention you don't need. You have enough problems with that ex-boyfriend of yours without adding my family to the list." Rory flinched. She hated that he knew about Evan. Hated that he knew everything. "Don't bring him into this. This is about us." "Is there an 'us'?" He turned to face her. The question hung in the damp air, heavy and sharp. He took a step closer. The space between them shrank. "You tell me," she said. Lucien reached out. He didn't touch her, just hovered his hand near her face, his fingers trembling slightly. She saw the exhaustion now. The faint purple bruise beneath his good eye. He wasn't invincible. He was just very good at pretending. "I tried to stay away." "Clearly failed." "I am a creature of habit, unfortunately. And bad decisions." "Coming here is a bad decision?" "Coming here is the worst decision I have made in weeks." He let his hand drop. It brushed her shoulder, a feather-light contact that seared through her t-shirt. Rory didn't pull away. She leaned into it, just for a second, before she caught herself and straightened her spine. "You're hurt." "A disagreement." "Let me see." "It is nothing." "Let me see, Lucien." She grabbed his wrist. He tensed, his muscles hard as iron, then relaxed. She pushed up the sleeve of his coat and waistcoat, rolling the fine white linen of his shirt up to his elbow. Three gouges marred his forearm. Angry, red lines that looked suspiciously like claw marks. They weren't bleeding anymore, but they looked deep. "Werewolf?" she asked. "Troll. Bargaining is tedious when they lack the mental capacity for basic arithmetic." Rory ran her thumb over the edge of the worst wound. Lucien hissed, a sharp intake of breath between his teeth. He didn't pull away. "You need stitches." "I heal." "Not fast enough to avoid infection. You know how gross the Thames is? Trolls carry things." She dragged him over to the kitchen chair. He sat, looking like a king deposed to a pauper's court. She rummaged through the drawers, pushing aside takeaway menus and rubber bands until she found the first-aid kit. "This is going to sting." "I have endured worse." "Pity party later." She poured antiseptic onto a cotton pad. The smell cut through the scent of rain and sandalwood. She dabbed the wound. He watched her face, not his arm. His eyes traced the line of her jaw, the curve of her mouth. The intensity of his scrutiny made her hands shake slightly. "You cut your hair," he said. "It was getting in my eyes." "I liked it long." "Well, I'm not here for your aesthetic appreciation." "It suits you. Sharp. No-nonsense." "You're talking nonsense." She applied a bandage with practiced efficiency, tearing the tape with her teeth. When she looked up, he was still watching her. The black eye seemed to swallow the light of the room, while the amber one burned with a heat that had nothing to do with fever. "Why are you really here, Lucien?" "You have a book. Something Eva picked up in Soho last week." Rory froze. "The Grimoire of Ashes? How do you know about that?" "I know everything that enters this city, Rory. Especially things that burn with that kind of signature." "It's just research. We're translating the introduction." "It is a trap. A beacon. I am not the only one who sensed it." "Who else?" "A collector. A man who does not believe in lending libraries." He stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. "I came to warn you. And to hide it." "You came to steal it." "I came to save your life." Rory slammed the first-aid kit shut. The noise made Ptolemy twitch an ear. She faced him, her back against the counter. "I don't need saving. I can handle myself." "Can you?" Lucien stepped into her space again. This time he didn't stop. He crowded her, trapping her between the counter and the hard wall of his chest. He placed a hand on the counter on either side of her hips, boxing her in. "You run deliveries. You study law you hate. You live in a flat above a curry house that smells of cardamom and despair." His voice dropped, low and rough. "You are brilliant, Rory. You are the most intelligent human I have met in decades. But you are not a fighter. Not like this." "So I should just hand it over? Let the big bad demon fix everything?" "Yes." "Not a chance." Lucien leaned closer. His breath ghosted over her lips. He smelled of rain and blood. The anger in his eyes warred with something else. Something hungry. "You are infuriating." "And you arrogant." He didn't deny it. He dipped his head, his forehead resting against hers. The contact was electric, a jolt that sparked memories she had spent three months trying to drown in cheap lager and late shifts. His body was solid and warm against hers, the cane still leaning forgotten against the sofa across the room. "I missed you," he whispered. The confession stripped the air from her lungs. "Don't." "I did. I missed the noise. I missed the way you look at me like I am an idiot." "You are an idiot." "I know." She gripped the lapels of his coat, her fingers twisting the damp wool. She wanted to shove him away. She wanted to pull him closer until the space between them dissolved completely. "Three months, Lucien." "I know." "You don't get to just walk back in here." "I am aware." "Then why are you still standing this close?" He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye. The amber eye swirled with internal fire. "Because I am terrified that if I step away, you will slam that door in my face. And because I cannot seem to remember how to breathe when you are not near." He reached up, his thumb brushing the small scar on her left wrist. The touch was gentle, reverent. "I am not asking for forgiveness. I am asking for a chance to stop whatever is coming for that book." "Just the book?" "Just the book." "Liar." He smiled then. A genuine, crooked thing that transformed his face from a mask of cold elegance into something boyish and dangerous. He leaned in, his lips a breath away from hers. "Possibly." Rory closed the gap.