Run: 2026-02-19-01KHVPEJBNWFSXEAGYXWWAT7ZC

The heavy brass tumblers engaged with loud, metallic clacks. One, two, three. Rory twisted the knob and yanked the peeling door open. The thick aroma of garam masala from the curry house downstairs rolled into the cramped hallway. Lucien Moreau stood on the threadbare carpet. A bespoke charcoal suit draped flawlessly across his broad shoulders. He leaned both hands on the smooth ivory handle of his cane. The dim, flickering bulb above cast harsh angular shadows over his slicked-back platinum hair. He looked entirely out of place in residential East London. "Rory." "Lucien." She gripped the edge of the doorframe. The wood dug into her palm. His gaze drifted over her face. One amber eye. One pitch black. The heterochromatic stare pinned her in place, stripping away the months of distance in a single heartbeat. "You track me to my best friend's flat to stand in a drafty hallway?" "I track you because you possess a remarkable talent for vanishing." He shifted his weight. The sharp tip of his cane tapped the floorboards. "May I come in?" "No." "I lack the patience for a standoff. Move aside." "You lost the right to make demands three months ago." Her straight black hair fell forward as she tilted her chin up to meet his stare. "I deliver noodles nowadays. I don't run errands for demonic fixers." "This is not an errand." He stepped forward. The sheer physical presence of the half-demon forced her backward. Heat radiated from his chest, carrying the scent of expensive sandalwood and burning ash. Rory released the doorframe and retreated into the tight, claustrophobic expanse of Eva's flat. Lucien followed, pushing the door shut behind him. The three deadbolts slid back into place under his hand. Lock. Lock. Lock. "Cozy," he murmured. Stacks of crumbling leather-bound books and loose vellum scrolls built precarious towers across the living room carpet. Every available flat surface held teetering piles of Eva's occult research. A large tabby cat leapt from a stack of grimoires. Ptolemy trotted over, weaving between Lucien's polished oxford shoes. Lucien stared down at the feline. "An impressive beast." "Don't flatter him. He sheds everywhere." Rory backed up against the scratched kitchen counter. The one-bedroom flat felt suffocating. Lucien commanded too much of it. At five-foot-eleven, he loomed over her, a dark monolith among the scattered academic debris. "Speak your piece and get out. Eva will return from the archives soon." "Eva departed for a symposium in Edinburgh this morning. She intends to stay through the weekend." Lucien rested his cane against a stack of Latin translations. "Do not lie to an information broker. It insults us both." "You monitor her movements just to get to me." "I monitor everything." The silence stretched tight. Traffic noise from Brick Lane bled through the thin single-pane window. A siren wailed in the distance. Rory folded her arms over her chest, digging her fingernails into the fabric of her worn sweater. "Three months, Lucien." "Ninety-four days." "Who's counting?" "I assure you, I am." He navigated the labyrinth of books, closing the distance between them. "You walked away from a highly lucrative partnership." "I walked away from a suicide mission." Her voice snapped like a dry twig. "You knew the buyer at the Thames drop was an Avaros prince. You knew he dealt in human souls. You withheld that exquisite detail until the knives came out." "You survived." "Because I drove a stolen delivery van through a warehouse wall." "An unorthodox exit." A smirk played at the corner of his mouth. "Effective, nonetheless. Your out-of-the-box thinking defines our success." "Our success." She let out a harsh, breathless laugh. "I bleed, I run, I dodge hellfire, and you stand in the shadows wearing bespoke Italian wool, calculating the profit margins." "Charcoal worsted silk. English tailoring." He stopped inches from her. "I never calculated your life in the margin." "Could have fooled me." Lucien reached out. Rory flinched, but she held her ground. His thumb grazed her left wrist, pushing back the frayed cuff of her sweater. He found the small crescent-shaped scar on her skin. The pale curve stood out in stark relief against his long, sharp fingers. The touch sent a jolt of raw electricity up her arm. The demon heat in his blood seeped into hers. "A childhood accident," he whispered, his pitch-black eye studying the mark. "You fell from the garden wall in Cardiff. You cried for an hour. Your father bought you pistachio ice cream to stop the tears." "You combed through my background files." She stared at his hand. "Invading my past doesn't make up for ruining my present." "I do not invade. I observe." His grip tightened around her wrist. "And I observed you drowning under the weight of an abusive human before I pulled you into my world. Evan left deeper marks than a garden wall." Rory jerked her arm away. The air punched out of her lungs. "Don't bring him up. You don't get to use Evan as a weapon to make yourself look like a savior." "I am no savior, Rory. I am a demon. Half of one, at least." He dropped his hand to his side. "Saviors operate on principles. I operate on necessity. And I needed you alive." "Why didn't you inform me about the prince?" "Because you would not have accepted the job." "Exactly." "The prince held the ledger I needed. I required a distraction. Someone bright, unpredictable, and entirely human." Lucien stepped forward, backing her up against the counter edge. Her spine pressed into the Formica. "You possess a brilliant mind. You dazzled him." "I was bait." "You were the prize." His voice dropped, raw edges bleeding through the polished French accent. "He spent ten minutes watching your bright blue eyes and entirely ignored my approach. You secured the ledger. We won." "You won." She glared up at him. "I spent a week hiding in this flat, terrified Avaros assassins would come for me." "No assassin stepped foot in London." "How do you know?" "Because I slaughtered every scout the prince sent across the Veil." Rory froze. The words hung in the cramped space, heavy and dark. The amber of his right eye flared with a brief, violent light. He did not blink. He spent the last ninety-four days hunting demons to protect her. "You killed them." "I sent a clear message." Lucien picked a stray piece of lint off his lapel, his composure returning in an instant. The feral heat pulled back behind the flawless mask of the underworld fixer. "No one touches Aurora Carter. My property remains mine." A sudden wave of anger crashed through her. She slammed both hands against his chest. The solid muscle beneath the suit jacket surrendered no ground, but he let the force of her push break their proximity. "I am not your property." She pointed a finger at his face. "I am done belonging to men who think they hold the deed to my life. Evan forced it. You maneuvered it. Find another pawn to play your shadow games." "I am out of pawns." He reached for his cane and grabbed the ivory handle. His knuckles turned white. "And I am out of time. They found the ledger." "Your problem." "The ledger contained the coordinates to the Avaros vault." He leaned heavily on the cane. His dual-colored gaze bore into her. "And a lock of hair from the thief who lifted it." Rory touched her shoulder-length black hair. The memory hit her. The dock. The prince's clawed hand swiping near her face right before she triggered the van's ignition. A sharp tug on her scalp. "They possess your energetic signature." Lucien twisted the handle of his cane. The distinct ring of sliding steel hissed in the quiet room as he exposed an inch of the hidden blade. "They do not lack trackers. They will follow your blood." Ptolemy hissed from the corner, his fur puffing out in sharp ridges. The cat abandoned his spot on the grimoires and bolted under the sofa. The air pressure in the flat plummeted. The scent of ozone overpowered the curry spices. Lucien slammed the blade back into the sheath with a sharp click. "Pack a bag." Rory stared at the deadbolts on the door. Three brass tumblers holding back a world she abandoned. She turned her bright blue eyes back to the Frenchman. "You brought this to my doorstep." "I came to intercept it." He reached up and swept a stray strand of her dark hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her jawline. "We do not part ways until the debt is settled."