Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYBRBPQXMAZA2E7G4A6EAG

The knock came at midnight—three sharp raps that startled Ptolemy off the windowsill. Rory froze mid-sip, tea sloshing against the rim of her mug. Eva’s flat didn’t get visitors. Not this late. Not ever, really. She set the mug down, the ceramic clinking against the crowded desk. The knock came again. "Who is it?" Silence. Then— "Open the door, Rory." That voice. Low, smooth, unmistakably French. Her fingers twitched toward the deadbolts before she caught herself. "You’ve got five seconds before I call Silas up from the bar." A dry chuckle filtered through the wood. "Still keeping the old wolf on speed dial, I see." She flipped the locks open, yanked the door wide. Lucien Moreau stood framed in the dim hallway light, one hand resting on his ivory-capped cane. The amber and black of his eyes caught the glow from the flat behind her. "You look terrible," he said. Rory crossed her arms. "You look like you walked out of a fucking Bond villain audition." The corner of his mouth twitched. He stepped forward without waiting for an invitation, forcing her to retreat or let him brush against her. She stepped back. The door clicked shut behind him. His gaze swept the cluttered flat—Eva’s grimoires stacked beside takeout containers, Ptolemy lurking under the desk. "Charming." "What do you want, Luc?" He turned that mismatched stare on her. "Business." "Try the daytime. Or a phone." "I did." He tapped his cane once against the floorboards. "You changed your number." She hadn’t. She’d just blocked his. He moved then, slow but deliberate, circling the cramped space like a predator assessing territory. His fingers trailed along the spines of Eva’s books. "You’ve been avoiding me." "I’ve been busy." "Doing what? Delivering noodles?" Her jaw tightened. "It pays better than selling secrets." "Ah." He stopped in front of her, close enough she caught the scent of bergamot and something darker beneath. "There’s the Rory I remember." She didn’t step back this time. "You didn’t come here to trade barbs." "No." His free hand lifted, hesitated near her cheek before dropping. "I need your help." She barked a laugh. "You’ve got the entire underworld at your disposal." "None of them think like you." The words hung between them, weighted with everything unsaid. The last job. The fight. The way he’d walked out without looking back. Ptolemy chose that moment to slink out from under the desk, rubbing against Lucien’s tailored trousers. Traitor. Rory exhaled through her nose. "Talk fast." He smiled—the real one, the rare one that softened the sharp lines of his face. "There’s a book—" "Of course there’s a book." "—hidden in the vaults beneath St. Paul’s. I need someone who can get past the wards." She stared at him. "You want me to break into a cathedral." "I want you to outthink a cathedral." Her pulse jumped despite herself. That was the rub, wasn’t it? He knew how she loved a puzzle. She turned away, grabbed her cooling tea just to have something to hold. "What’s in it for me?" "Money." "Not interested." "Then name your price." The ceramic warmed her palms. Outside, a siren wailed down Brick Lane. She met his eyes. "Why now?" Something flickered in his expression—there and gone. "Because I’ve run out of time." The quiet admission unsettled her more than any grand gesture could have. Lucien Moreau didn’t admit weakness. Ever. She set the mug down. "Tell me about the wards." His shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. "They’re keyed to bloodlines. Only descendants of the original architects can pass." "And you thought of me because—?" "Your father’s family." He tilted his head. "The Carters built half the legal system in Wales. They also built vaults." She snorted. "Dad’s going to love that." "You don’t have to tell him." "No. Just commit a felony." "You’ve committed worse." She couldn’t argue with that. Ptolemy leapt onto the desk, knocking over a stack of Eva’s notes. Lucien reached out, righted them with careful fingers. "You’re staying in London," he said. It wasn’t a question. "For now." "No more disappearing?" She arched a brow. "Worried?" "Annoyed." But his thumb brushed the edge of a parchment, betraying him. Rory watched the motion, the way his hands moved—precise, controlled. She remembered those hands gripping hers in the dark, the press of his mouth against her collarbone. She cleared her throat. "When do we leave?" "Tomorrow night." He straightened. "I’ll pick you up here." "No. Meet me at the restaurant." His lips curved. "Don’t trust me with your address?" "Don’t flatter yourself." He laughed, low and rich, and for a moment it was like before—easy, electric. Then the moment passed. Lucien adjusted his cufflinks. "Until tomorrow, then." She didn’t walk him to the door. Didn’t watch him leave. But she listened—the click of his cane on the floorboards, the sigh of the door closing, the silence that followed. Ptolemy bumped his head against her elbow. "Yeah," she muttered. "I know."