Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYTBEZZEB04G4F1280Q0JA

The third deadbolt clicked. Rory's fingers hesitated on the brass knob, then pulled the door inward. Lucien Moreau filled the frame. Five-eleven, charcoal suit cut sharp as a blade, platinum hair slicked back to expose that face—angled cheekbones, the cruel line of his mouth. His eyes stopped her breath. One amber, warm as spilled honey. One black, reflecting nothing. He leaned on the ivory cane. The handle carved into something obscene and expensive. "Evening, Carter." She blocked the doorway. Her left wrist throbbed where the crescent scar sat beneath her sleeve. "You don't call first?" "I don't have your number." "Liar." He smiled. It didn't reach the black eye. "May I come in?" "No." Ptolemy wound between her ankles, the tabby's purr rumbling against the silence. Lucien's gaze dropped to the cat, then back to her face. "The curry house downstairs is burning," he said. She blinked. "What?" "Not yet. But it will be. Fifteen minutes. Gas leak." He checked a silver watch. "Fourteen now." Rory stepped back. Not because she believed him—because she knew his truths always came wrapped in violence. He entered. The flat swallowed him whole. Books towered on every surface, scrolls unspooling across the dinner table, her notes pinned to walls with Blu-Tack. The space smelled of old paper and tamarind from below. Lucien navigated the clutter without touching a thing. His cane tapped the floorboards, each rap precise. "You've made a nest," he said. "Eva's place. Not mine." "Yet here you are." He turned. The charcoal wool tightened across his shoulders. "Running deliveries for Yu-Fei by day. Hiding in research by night. When did you start sleeping again?" She shut the door. Clicked the deadbolts. Her heart hammered against her ribs—she ignored it, focused on the scar's dull ache instead. "You don't get to ask that." "I get to ask whatever I want." He moved closer. The heterochromatic gaze pinned her. "You left Marseille without a word. Three months, Rory. Not a postcard." "You told me to go." "To the hotel. Not out of the country." The space between them shrank. She smelled his cologne—something dark, resinous, like church incense and something sulphurous underneath. Demon blood. She remembered tasting it on his throat months ago, the salt and smoke. "Why are you here?" She crossed her arms. The movement pushed her sleeve up, exposed the scar. His gaze locked on the pale crescent. His jaw tightened. "Put that away." "It's a wrist, Lucien." "You're bleeding memories again." She looked down. The scar had flushed pink, the skin around it raised. It did that when he was near. When the binding ached. "The gas leak," she said. "Real or metaphor?" "Real." He reached into his breast pocket. Produced a vial of mercury-bright liquid. "And solvable. If you'll come with me." "I'm not your weapon anymore." "You were never a weapon." He set the vial on a stack of grimoires. It glowed against the leather. "You were the hand that held it. There's a difference." Ptolemy leaped onto the table, knocked a scroll. Lucien caught it before it hit the floor, his movements liquid, unhurried. The cane never left his hand. She noticed his grip on it—white-knuckled, though his face showed nothing. "You broke my lock," Rory said suddenly. He looked up. "Which?" "The wards. Three circles of salt on the threshold. You crossed them like they were chalk." "Your magic is sloppy when you're exhausted." He straightened the scroll, placed it back. "You haven't been eating. The circles were broken before I arrived." She wanted to hit him. Instead, she gripped the back of Eva's couch, knuckles white. "You can't just walk back in. You don't get to... to fix things." "I'm not fixing." He removed his gloves—grey silk, peeling back finger by finger. His hands were pale, elegant, the nails manicured. The right hand bore a burn scar across the palm, angry and fresh, a star-shaped mark she didn't remember. "I'm collecting. You owe me a conversation." "I owe you nothing." "Then why haven't you moved?" He gestured at the flat. "Eva invited you here six months ago. You've got a job. A cat. Roots. Yet you keep your bags packed under the bed. I checked." "You broke into my room?" "I break into everything, Laila." The old name slipped out, soft, Marseille-accented. Lai-la. "It's what I do." Her breath caught. He hadn't called her that since the docks. Since the explosion that wasn't her fault but was her responsibility. The amber eye softened. The black one remained pitiless. "I needed space," she said. "You needed protection." He stepped closer. His shadow fell across her. "From Evan. From the coven. From me." "You were the worst of them." "Yes." He admitted it freely. No hesitation. "I let you think I didn't care. Easier than admitting I couldn't keep you safe and keep my throne." She laughed. It sounded broken. "Throne? You're an information broker, Lucien. You sell secrets to vampires and fae." "And I am half-demon prince of Avaros." He touched her chin. She should have flinched. She didn't. "Two worlds, Rory. You were bleeding into both." His thumb traced her jawline. The contact burned. She remembered his mouth on hers in the rain outside that Marseille cathedral, the way he'd trembled—not from cold, from restraint. His hand dropped to the cane. He twisted the ivory handle. A six-inch blade emerged, thin as a needle, gleaming blue-white. Rory tensed. "Planning to stab me?" "Planning to cut the tether." He reversed the blade, offered her the handle. The metal caught the light, reflecting her own bright blue eyes back at her, the color washed out, exhausted. "The binding between us. It's killing you slowly. I can see it in your eyes—the blue is fading." She didn't take it. "Why now?" "Because the gas leak is a distraction." His voice dropped. "Someone's coming for Eva. Someone who remembers the binding we made. They'll use you to get to her." "Then warn her." "I am." His hand slid to her neck, thumb pressing the pulse point. The blade hovered between them, reflecting the overhead bulb in fractured light. "By warning you. By being here when I'd rather be anywhere else. When seeing you makes me want to break something expensive." "Then leave." "Can't." His forehead touched hers. The cane blade retreated, clicked back into place with a snick. "The door's locked." "I didn't—" "From the outside." He smiled, joyless. "We're trapped together until sunrise. Those are the rules of the binding you forgot to break." She pulled back. Looked at the door. The deadbolts were still clicked home, but she felt it now—the pressure in the air, the way the shadows had thickened against the windows, sealing the flat into a box. "You bastard," she breathed. "Oui." He removed his suit jacket, folded it over a stack of books. The charcoal wool surrendered to the mess. His shirtsleeves were crisp white, cufflinks silver. He rolled the right sleeve up, exposing the burn scar again, as if presenting evidence. "Now. Shall we discuss why you kept my shirt? Or shall we wait for the explosion?"