Run: 2026-02-19-01KHVP5QZ7WR3Y220Z1DNX9VRB

The brass tumblers of the third deadbolt clicked into place. Rory pulled the heavy wooden door inward, a stack of translated Aramaic scrolls shifting dangerously against her hip. The heavy scent of roasted cumin and garam masala drifting up from the curry house below immediately washed over her. Standing in the dim hallway was Lucien. The flickering overhead bulb caught the platinum blond hair slicked back from his face. He leaned on an ivory-handled cane, the tailored shoulders of his charcoal suit filling the narrow doorframe. His gaze locked onto hers. One eye gleamed sharp amber. The other remained pitch black, a void absorbing the terrible hallway lighting. Rory's grip tightened on the edge of the door. The crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist pressed hard against the wood. "You have a terrible habit of forgetting to check peepholes, chérie." "You have a terrible habit of showing up uninvited." Lucien stepped forward. Rory held her ground for a fraction of a second before stepping back, granting him entrance to the cramped one-bedroom flat on Brick Lane. He stepped over a precarious stack of hardcovers detailing Sumerian blood rites. Ptolemy, Eva’s overweight tabby cat, wove his way out from beneath a pile of research notes. The cat took one look at Lucien, hissed, and scattered onto the top of the kitchen cabinets. Lucien tapped the polished tip of his cane against the scuffed floorboards. "Eva is not here." Rory pushed the door closed. The three deadbolts slammed back into place under her hands. "I have not come for Eva." Rory turned, leaning back against the door. The thud of her pulse hammered in her throat. The last time they stood in the same room, glass shattered against brick, and the rain in Marseille washed away any chance of a cordial goodbye. The scent of him—sandalwood and ozone—clung to the stale air of Eva’s flat. "Then you took a wrong turn." Rory crossed her arms over her chest, burying her hands to hide a tremble. "My flat is in Soho. Above Silas’s." "I checked Silas's bar. He informed me you were on cat duty." Lucien swept his volatile gaze across the mess of the tiny living room. He nudged an overflowing ashtray aside with the silver tip of his cane, clearing a pristine square of real estate on the coffee table. "We must discuss what happened." Rory scoffed, pushing off the door. She navigated the labyrinth of books scattered across the rug. "There is nothing to discuss. You made your choice. You chose Avaros. You chose the broker rules over..." "Over what?" Lucien stepped closer. The amber eye flared, bright and dangerous, while the black absorbed the tension in the room. "Over throwing away months of careful alliances for a single delivery runner? Over risking both our lives?" "Over trusting me." Rory slammed a rogue ledger onto the kitchen counter. Ptolemy jumped at the sound. "I had the route planned. You decided I wasn't capable, sold the information to the highest bidder, and left me stranded." "I ensured you survived the night!" Lucien abandoned his cane. It clattered against a pile of leather-bound tomes. His hands snapped out, gripping the edge of the counter, trapping Rory between his arms. The heat radiating off his half-demon skin scorched through the thin fabric of her cotton t-shirt. She refused to retreat another inch. "I survived because I outran them." Rory met his gaze. The dual colors of his eyes flickered, betraying the stone-cold facade he projected to London’s supernatural underworld. "I ran through the gutters. Alone." "The route was compromised." His voice dropped, a low rumble vibrating in his chest. "I traded the intel to buy you hours. If I had stayed, if I had fought beside you, the entire syndicate would have descended upon us. I played the role of the traitor so they would stop hunting you." Rory let out a harsh breath, shaking her head. The reasoning sounded pristine. Flawless. It stung worse than a straight betrayal. "You took my agency." Her fingers curled into fists upon the counter, the crescent scar on her wrist flashing under the harsh kitchen strip-light. "You didn't inform me. You didn't ask." "I made the tactical choice." "You made a coward's choice." Lucien flinched. The minute tightening of his jaw and the fracture in his polished armor gave him away. He leaned in, the ozone smell intensifying, sharp like an oncoming thunderstorm. His gaze traced the line of her jaw, dropping to the pulse beating frantic against her throat before snapping back to her eyes. "I made the choice of a man terrified of losing the mortal woman who somehow anchored his sanity." Rory held her breath. The confession hung in the air, heavy and suffocating in the cramped kitchen. The constant rumble of traffic from the rainy London streets below faded into white noise. "Words." Rory pushed against his chest, her palms flattening against the hard muscle beneath the expensive charcoal wool. "You're a fixer, Lucien. You broker information. Words are cheap to you." He caught her wrists. His broad hands wrapped around her forearms. He did not let go. His thumbs brushed the delicate skin above her pulse points, lingering over the crescent scar. "Then let me show you," he murmured, stepping into her space, eliminating the gap between them. Rory's hands unclenched. Her palms smoothed up the lapels of his suit. The ache in her chest, the festering wound, warred with the undeniable, gravitational pull dragging her toward him. "You left me in the rain." "I will never let you near the rain again." He leaned down. The platinum strands of his slicked-back hair brushed against her forehead. The heat of him enveloped her, burning away the chill of the damp London evening. "I hate you," Rory whispered, closing her eyes. "I know." Lucien kissed her. It held none of the pristine control he exerted over his life. It was a chaotic, desperate clash of teeth and bruised lips. Rory grabbed the lapels of his suit, pulling him closer, anchoring him to the spot. Her fingers twisted into the fabric, grounding herself. He tasted like expensive whiskey and bitter regret. Lucien’s hands moved from her wrists to her waist, hoisting her up onto the counter. Papers rustled and pens scattered across the linoleum floor. He crowded between her knees, his hands bracketing her hips. Rory broke the kiss, gasping for air. She pressed her forehead against his shoulder. His breathing mirrored hers, ragged and irregular. "You cannot keep making decisions for me." Rory stared at the ivory cane discarded on the floor. "I am not one of your chess pieces." Lucien buried his face in the crook of her neck. His lips pressed against her rapid pulse. "You are the queen." His voice resonated against her collarbone. "I am merely the board." "Such a romantic." Rory slid her hands up to cup his face, forcing him to look at her. The amber and black eyes locked onto hers, stripped of the unreadable mask he wore for the underworld. "You have to promise." "Anything." "No more lies. No more deals behind my back. If we burn, we burn together." Lucien covered her hand with his, his thumb tracing the knuckles. He pressed a kiss to her palm. "Together." A loud crash echoed from the living room. Ptolemy had knocked over the Sumerian blood rites stack, sending ancient lore spilling across the floorboards. The cat unleashed a low yowl, glaring at the two of them from atop the cabinets. Rory let out a short, cracked laugh, resting her chin on the top of Lucien's head. The tension drained out of her, replaced by an exhaustion pulling at her bones. She needed sleep. She needed a hot shower. She needed the man currently leaning against her to not disappear into the shadows the moment she closed her eyes. "You need to pick up your cane." Rory nudged his side with her knee. "Ptolemy hates it when things clutter his floor." Lucien did not move. His hands remained firmly locked onto her waist. "The cat will have to suffer my clutter." Lucien lifted his head, a ghost of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "I am exactly where I need to be." Rory slid her fingers into the platinum hair at the nape of his neck, undoing the perfect styling. The pristine fixer looked thoroughly ruffled, entirely out of place in Eva's chaotic, book-filled apartment. "You owe me a new route." Rory traced the line of his jaw. "Golden Empress runs require discretion. I am behind schedule." "I will chart the shadows themselves for your noodles, Rory." "Yu-Fei will have my head." Rory let her heels tap against the wooden cabinets beneath her. "She expects the deliveries to run smooth." "Yu-Fei Cheung knows my reputation. I will smooth over her irritation." Lucien pulled back enough to inspect her face. "You look tired, chérie." "I had to cover an extra shift." Rory deflected his gaze, looking toward the window. Rain lashed against the streaked glass, blurring the neon glow of the Brick Lane curry houses. "Plus, Eva's notes require organization. She left for Edinburgh in a panic over a localized haunting." "You distract yourself." "I stay busy." Lucien stepped back, offering her space. The cold air rushed in to replace his heat. Rory suppressed a shiver. She slipped off the counter, her sneakers hitting the linoleum with a soft thump. "Let me help." Lucien retrieved his cane from the floor. He leaned on it, rolling his shoulders to adjust the fit of his charcoal jacket. Rory raised an eyebrow, gesturing to the absolute disaster of leaning towers of books, loose parchment, and half-empty mugs of cold tea. "You?" Rory smirked, a real smile fighting its way onto her face for the first time since she opened the door. "The impeccably dressed Frenchman, sorting through dust and cat hair? You will ruin your suit." "The suit is replaceable." Lucien walked toward the coffee table. He lifted a heavy, leather-bound volume, eyeing the title. "'Methods of Spirit Confinement in Fourteenth Century Iberia'. Fascinating." "Put it on the armchair." Rory pointed to a chair buried under mismatched throw pillows. "Eva sorts by century, then by lethality." Lucien placed the book on the chair, moving with a fluid grace that always caught Rory off guard. Despite the cane, his half-demon heritage granted him an unnatural agility. He navigated the obstacle course of Eva's eccentric life without a single misstep. "Why did Eva not take this with her to Edinburgh?" "Because Scottish ghosts don't appreciate Iberian traps." Rory moved into the living area, grabbing an armful of loose papers from the floor. "And she was in a rush. Left me with Ptolemy and strict instructions not to let him eat the summoning chalk." Lucien paused, watching her stack the papers. The intensity returned to his dual-colored eyes. "You did not answer my calls." Rory stiffened. The playful banter evaporated, crushed under the weight of the last three weeks. "I changed my number." She kept her focus on evening out the edges of the parchment. "Silas refused to pass on my messages." "I told him to throw you out if you showed up." Lucien rested both hands on the ivory handle of his cane. "I deserved that." Rory dropped the stack on the table. She turned to face him, the anger simmering back up to the surface. "You vanished." Her voice grew sharp, cutting through the heavy smell of spices and stale paper. "I woke up in a safe house three miles from the docks. You were gone. The syndicate was gone. All I had was a note and a train ticket." "To stay would have drawn them back to you." "I don't care about the risk!" Rory stepping over a stack of books, closing the distance. "I care about the fact that you decided I was a liability. You looked at the situation, crunched the numbers, and removed me from the equation." "I removed the target from your back!" Lucien's composure cracked again. He slammed the cane onto the floor, the thud echoing in the small flat. "You are human, Aurora. You possess a sharp mind and exceptional cunning, but you break. Demons do not hesitate to snap human bones. They revel in it."