Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXT5B6RJHK6XNRG93GDA4J

The knock came at half past midnight, three sharp raps that cut through the silence of Eva's flat like gunshots. Rory froze, chopsticks halfway to her mouth, takeaway container balanced on her knee. Nobody visited Eva this late. Nobody who meant well, anyway. She set the food aside and crept to the door, avoiding the squeaky floorboard near the kitchen. Through the peephole, a familiar figure waited in the dim hallway—platinum hair catching the fluorescent light, shoulders set in that particular way that meant trouble. Lucien. Her pulse kicked up despite herself. Three months since she'd seen him last, three months since that disaster in Whitechapel when everything had gone sideways. She'd told him to stay away. Made it crystal clear. The deadbolts clicked open one by one under her reluctant fingers. "You've got some nerve showing up here." She kept the door chained, opening it just enough to glare through the gap. His heterochromatic eyes found hers immediately—the amber one gleaming, the black one unreadable as always. A bruise darkened his left cheekbone, fresh enough to still show purple at the edges. "Bonsoir to you too, ma chère." "Don't." She tightened her grip on the doorframe. "Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying." "I'm not selling anything." He shifted his weight, and she caught the slight wince he tried to hide. "I need—" "Let me guess. A place to lie low? Someone to patch you up? Maybe a convenient alibi for whatever mess you've stumbled into this time?" His jaw tightened. "If I had anywhere else to go—" "But you don't." She laughed, short and bitter. "Because you've burned every bridge in London except this one, and here you are with matches in your pocket." "Rory." Just her name, but the way he said it—low and rough around the edges—made something twist in her chest. "Please." She'd never heard him say please before. Not once in all the months they'd worked together, through all the close calls and impossible escapes. Her resolve wavered. Behind her, Ptolemy meowed, winding between her legs to peer at their visitor. "Even the cat has better sense than you." But she was already unhooking the chain. He stepped inside, favoring his left leg, and she caught the metallic scent of blood beneath his expensive cologne. The charcoal suit that usually fit him like a second skin hung wrong, jacket torn at the shoulder seam. "Shoes off. Eva will kill us both if you track blood on her carpet." He complied without argument—another warning sign. Lucien never did anything without at least token resistance. She watched him ease out of the leather oxfords, noticed how his hands shook slightly as he set them by the door. "Kitchen. Now." He followed her through the maze of books and research materials, careful not to disturb Eva's precisely chaotic system. In the harsh light of the kitchen, he looked worse. The bruise was just the beginning—split lip, dried blood at his temple, knuckles scraped raw. "Sit." She pointed at a chair. "And don't touch anything." "Where's Eva?" "Cambridge. Some manuscript turned up at the university library." She pulled the first aid kit from under the sink, the one Eva kept stocked for exactly these kinds of midnight emergencies. "She'll be gone all week, which means you've got until Sunday to find somewhere else to be." "Generous of you." "It's Tuesday night. That gives you four days." She set the kit on the table with more force than necessary. "Take off the jacket." He shrugged out of it slowly, each movement calculated to hide how much it hurt. Beneath, his usually pristine white shirt was torn and bloodstained. She sucked in a breath at the slash across his ribs, too clean to be anything but a blade wound. "Who?" "Does it matter?" "It does if they're planning to follow you here." She snapped on latex gloves, started cleaning the wound with practiced efficiency. He hissed at the antiseptic's sting. "They won't." "Because they're dead, or because you lost them?" His silence was answer enough. "Christ, Lucien." She pressed gauze to the wound harder than strictly necessary. "What happened to being careful? To keeping a low profile?" "Plans change." "Plans change," she repeated. "That's all you've got?" "Would you prefer the long version? It involves the Valdris family, a stolen grimoire, and a double-cross that went triple." He caught her wrist as she reached for the medical tape. "I didn't mean to come here." She stared at where his fingers circled her wrist, just below the crescent scar. His touch was light, careful, but it burned all the same. "Let go." He did, immediately. "I'm sorry." "For which part? Showing up bleeding on Eva's doorstep? Nearly getting me killed in Whitechapel? Or—" "All of it." The black eye caught the light strangely, seeming to swallow it whole. "Every bloody thing since the night we met." "That's a lot to be sorry for." "I'm aware." She taped the gauze in place, movements sharp and efficient. The familiar routine helped steady her hands, gave her something to focus on besides the way his breath caught when she leaned close. "The leg next. Those trousers are ruined anyway." "They're Armani." "They're scrap fabric now." She grabbed scissors from the kit. "Unless you'd rather bleed out for the sake of Italian tailoring." He stood, unbuckled his belt with one hand while bracing against the table with the other. She kept her eyes firmly on the medical supplies, organizing things that didn't need organizing. "Rory." "There's a gash on your thigh. Looks deep." She knelt beside his chair, started cutting away the bloodied fabric. Professional. Clinical. Absolutely not noticing the way muscle moved under skin, or remembering— "It wasn't supposed to happen like that. In Whitechapel." "Wasn't supposed to happen at all, if I recall." She cleaned the wound, pleased her voice came out steady. "You said it was a simple pickup. In and out, twenty minutes tops." "I miscalculated." "You lied." "I withheld certain details." "Like the part where the Ferryman's crew would be waiting? Or where the package was cursed?" The wound was deep but clean. She started suturing, each stitch precise. "I could have died that night." "But you didn't." "No thanks to you." "Every thanks to me." His hand clenched on the table edge. "Who do you think led them away from you?" Her hands stilled. "What?" "The Ferryman's boys. They were tracking the curse mark, following anyone who'd touched the package. I made sure they followed me instead of you." "You said you ran the opposite direction because—" "Because I'm a coward who saves his own skin? Yes, well." He laughed, short and humorless. "Easier to let you think that than explain why I couldn't let them near you." She finished the last stitch, tied it off with unnecessary force. "Don't." "Don't what?" "Don't pretend you did it for noble reasons. You needed me alive for the next job, that's all." "Is that what you tell yourself?" She stood abruptly, stripped off the gloves. "It's the truth." "The truth." He caught her hand as she turned away. "You want the truth? Fine. I took that meeting knowing it was a trap. Knew the package was cursed, knew the Ferryman would come for it. I took it anyway because Valdris had leverage—information about your ex, about what really happened in Cardiff." The words hit like physical blows. She yanked her hand free, stumbled back against the counter. "You knew about Evan?" "I know he hurt you. Know you ran to London with bruises that weren't from any accident." His eyes—both of them—were focused on her with an intensity that made her chest tight. "Valdris had photos. Documents. Things that would have led him straight to you." "So you what? Made a deal?" "I burned it all." He stood, favoring the injured leg. "Every photo, every paper trail. Then I took his cursed package and ran, knowing full well what would happen." "Why?" The word came out cracked. "Why would you—" "You know why." The kitchen felt too small suddenly, the air too thin. She could hear Ptolemy scratching at his post in the living room, could smell the antiseptic and blood and that damned cologne he always wore. "I told you to stay away." "You did." "I meant it." "I know." But he stepped closer anyway, and she didn't move back. Couldn't seem to remember why she should. "This doesn't change anything." Her voice barely a whisper. "I know that too." His hand came up slowly, giving her time to pull away. She didn't. His fingers ghosted along her jaw, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. "Lucien." "Tell me to leave." His forehead rested against hers, careful of his injuries. "Say the word and I'll go. Find somewhere else to bleed." She should. Should push him away, show him the door, go back to her cold takeaway and pretend he'd never knocked. Should protect herself the way she'd learned to, walls built high and strong after Evan, after everything. Instead, she fisted her hands in his ruined shirt and pulled him down to her. The kiss tasted like blood and bad decisions. His split lip caught against hers, making him hiss, but he didn't pull back. If anything, he pressed closer, one hand tangling in her hair while the other braced against the counter, caging her in.