Run: 2026-02-19-01KHVP2FC9CRM3F1ZBJBN5JYVM

The heavy scent of roasted cumin and toasted mustard seeds drifted up through the floorboards, a permanent fixture of taking refuge above the Brick Lane curry house. Aurora ignored it, focusing instead on the steady, deliberate knocking at the front door. Three sharp raps. A pause. Three more. She paused with a stack of leftover takeaway containers from the Golden Empress in her hands. Most of the time, her delivery shifts for Yu-Fei Cheung left her too exhausted to entertain callers, let alone unexpected ones. Ptolemy, Eva’s massive tabby cat, wound himself in a figure eight around her ankles, letting out a low, demanding yowl that vibrated against her calves. Aurora set the containers down on a precarious stack of research notes and approached the door. She undid the bottom deadbolt with a loud clack. Then the middle lock. Finally, she twisted the top deadbolt, her shoulder pressed against the cheap wood. She opened the door just a crack, the chain still engaged, her cool logic demanding a buffer between her and the hallway. The air in the narrow corridor was thick and damp, but the man standing on the other side of the threshold looked entirely untouched by the London grime. Lucien Moreau stood beneath the flickering fluorescent light, a terrible vision of immaculate grace. His tailored charcoal suit fit him flawlessly, the sharply cut lapels framing a dark silk tie. His slicked-back platinum blond hair caught the sickly yellow glare of the bulb, making it look almost like a halo. But there was nothing angelic about Lucien. Aurora’s breath caught as she looked up into his eyes. One was a deep, bottomless black, the other a striking, molten amber. They had not spoken in six months. Not since the freezing night on the banks of the Thames when the unspoken gravity between them had fractured into something too dangerous to hold. Aurora stared at him, acutely aware of the messy state of her straight, shoulder-length black hair and the faint smell of sesame oil clinging to her clothes. He leaned slightly on his ivory-handled cane. To the untrained eye, it was an aristocratic affectation. Aurora knew it concealed a length of razor-sharp steel. Do you intend to keep me in the hallway all evening, Rory? Lucien asked. His voice was a low, melodic drawl, his French accent wrapping around her name in a way that made the hairs on her arms stand up. She did not move to unhook the chain. You do not exactly have an open invitation anymore, Lucien. Not after the way you vanished. A shadow passed over his features, brief but telling. The half-demon fixer of the London underworld was famously impassive, a man who brokered secrets and survived by never showing his hand. But looking down into her bright blue eyes, his mask slipped. Please, he said quietly. Let me come inside. Aurora wrestled with the instinct to slam the door. She had spent a long time rebuilding her life, escaping an abusive ex in Cardiff named Evan, fleeing to London, taking refuge with her friend Eva. She had finally carved out a quiet, predictable existence. Lucien was the opposite of predictable. He was chaotic, preternaturally dangerous, and he made her feel things that utterly ruined her prized cool-headedness. With a tight exhale, she slid the chain free and pulled the door open. Lucien stepped over the threshold, bringing with him the scent of rain, ozone, and expensive bergamot cologne. The flat was punishingly cramped for a man of his build. At five feet eleven inches, he did not tower, but his presence seemed to consume the available oxygen. Eva’s flat was a chaotic labyrinth. Every available surface—the meager dining table, the sagging sofa, even the kitchen counters—was buried under towers of esoteric books, crumbling scrolls, and frantically scribbled research notes. Lucien carefully navigated a stack of leather-bound tomes, his cane tapping lightly against the scuffed floorboards. Ptolemy immediately abandoned Aurora and trotted over to the Frenchman, purring like a flooded engine. Lucien reached down, his long, elegant fingers grazing the cat’s ears. Even the beasts of this city have missed you, he murmured, though his unblinking gaze remained fixed on Aurora. I doubt that, she countered, crossing her arms over her chest. Why are you here, Luc? The last time we spoke, you made it abundantly clear that my human life and your demonic ties were incompatible. You said it was a matter of survival. It was, he replied, straightening up. It still is. But circumstances have a way of rendering our best intentions useless. He took a step toward her. The tiny walkway between the kitchenette and the living area forced them into immediate, agonizing proximity. Aurora stood her ground, though her heart hammered against her ribs. She craned her neck to maintain eye contact. You do not get to do this, she said, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. You do not get to sever ties, leave me wondering if you were dead or alive in some Parisian alleyway, and then show up at Eva’s flat looking like you stepped out of a magazine. I never wanted to leave, Aurora. Then why did you? Because of you! he snapped, the sudden volume making Ptolemy dart under the sofa. Lucien closed his eyes, taking a breath to compose himself. When he opened them, the amber eye seemed to glow with an unnatural inner heat. Because you do not belong in the dark corners of the world I inhabit. You are intelligent. You see solutions where others hit walls. But the people I deal with, the things I am running from in Avaros... they would not hesitate to pull you apart just to see me bleed. He closed the remaining distance between them. Aurora’s back pressed flat against a towering bookshelf. A stray scroll dug into her shoulder blade, but she barely felt it. Every nerve in her body was painfully attuned to the man standing inches away. She could feel the unnatural warmth radiating from his skin, a hallmark of his half-fiend bloodline. I can take care of myself, she said stubbornly. I survived Evan. I survived running away. I am not some fragile glass doll you need to put on a shelf for safekeeping. I know you are not, Lucien said softly. His gaze dropped to her arms, still defensively crossed over her chest. Slowly, as if approaching a wild animal, he reached out and took hold of her left hand. Aurora stopped breathing. His thumb brushed over her wrist, tracing the small, crescent-shaped scar she had earned falling out of a tree in her childhood. His touch was burning hot, sending a jolt of electricity straight up her arm. She uncrossed her arms, letting him hold her hand. The fight drained out of her, replaced by a heavy, intoxicating pull. I remembered this scar every single day I was away, he confessed, his voice turning ragged. I sat in smoke-filled rooms in Marseille, listening to men barter over souls and blood, and all I could think about was the way you looked at me when you figured out a puzzle. All I could think about was the exact shade of your eyes. Aurora looked up at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Why did you come back tonight, Luc? Tell me the truth. His grip on her hand tightened just a fraction. He leaned in, his face so close she could feel the heat of his breath against her cheek. Because three hours ago, I learned that a demon prince from my father’s court has crossed over into London. He is looking for an artifact, one that your brilliant friend Eva has been foolishly researching. He brings violence, Rory. The kind you cannot outthink. Aurora’s analytical mind immediately sprang to life, sorting the pieces, scanning the room full of scrolls. But underneath the surge of adrenaline was something else, something terrifyingly vulnerable. You came to warn Eva, she deflected, her voice trembling slightly. Lucien raised his free hand, gently tucking a stray lock of straight black hair behind her ear. His knuckles brushed against her cheekbone, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. I came for you, he said, his heterochromatic eyes searing into hers. I told myself it was professional. I told myself it was duty. But the moment you opened that door, I knew the truth. I am a monster who brokers information, and the most vital secret I kept was from myself. I cannot stay away from you. Aurora stared at his lips, the scent of bergamot and rain washing over her, entirely drowning out the smell of the city outside. The flat was silent except for the frantic beat of her own heart. She had spent months trying to forget the exact pitch of his voice and the heavy, magnetic weight of his presence. She knew letting him back in meant chaos. It meant danger. But as she stepped forward, closing the last fraction of space between them and feeling the line of his tailored suit press against her, Aurora decided she was tired of playing it safe.