Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPC8B3ZM9QW3MDQDMDWGAH

The door swung open before Rory could knock a second time, and there he stood—Lucien Moreau, leaning against the frame like he’d been expecting her. His heterochromatic eyes flicked over her, one amber, one black, sharp as the blade hidden in his cane. The scent of bergamot and something darker, something like smoke, curled into the hallway. “Aurora,” he said, voice smooth as the whiskey he favored. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten where I live.” She hadn’t. That was the problem. Rory adjusted the strap of her messenger bag, fingers brushing the crescent scar on her wrist. “I was in the neighborhood.” A lie. She’d taken the long way, circling the block twice before working up the nerve to climb the stairs to his flat. The last time she’d seen him, she’d walked out without a word, leaving only a note on his kitchen counter—*I can’t do this.* Three words, no explanation. Cowardly, maybe, but safer than facing the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t watching. Lucien stepped aside, gesturing with a sweep of his hand. “Then by all means, come in.” The flat was exactly as she remembered—immaculate, minimalist, the kind of place that looked like no one lived there at all. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows over the polished hardwood. The only sign of life was the half-empty glass of whiskey on the coffee table and the open book facedown on the sofa, its pages ruffled by an absent thumb. Rory hesitated in the doorway. “I didn’t know if you’d still be here.” “Where else would I be?” He shut the door behind her, the click of the lock too loud in the silence. “You made it clear you didn’t want me following you.” She flinched. “That’s not—” “Isn’t it?” His voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it, something raw beneath the usual polish. He moved past her, the faintest brush of his sleeve against her arm, and picked up his glass. “You left, Aurora. No warning, no discussion. Just a note.” “I had to.” “Why?” Because every time he touched her, she forgot why she shouldn’t let him. Because the way he looked at her—like she was something precious, something rare—terrified her more than any demon ever could. Because she’d spent years building walls, and Lucien had a way of slipping through the cracks. She swallowed. “It was complicated.” “Everything with you is complicated.” He took a sip of whiskey, watching her over the rim of the glass. “But you’re here now. So either you’ve come to explain, or you’ve come for something else.” The air between them was thick, charged. Rory’s pulse thrummed in her throat. She should have rehearsed this. Should have planned what to say. But all she could think about was the last time she’d been in this room, the way his hands had tangled in her hair, the way his mouth had tasted like sin and salvation. “I needed to see you,” she admitted. Lucien set the glass down with a sharp *clink*. “Why?” “Because I—” She stopped. Because she missed him. Because she’d spent the last three months jumping at shadows, and the only time she’d felt safe was when he was near. Because she was tired of pretending she didn’t want him. But the words stuck in her throat. Lucien closed the distance between them in two strides. His fingers brushed her jaw, tilting her face up to his. “Tell me,” he murmured. “Or I’ll have to guess.” She should have pulled away. Should have remembered all the reasons this was a bad idea. But the heat of his body, the scent of him—it unraveled her. “I don’t know how to do this,” she whispered. “Do what?” “This. *Us.*” She gestured between them, helpless. “I don’t know how to want someone and not be afraid of it.” Something flickered in his eyes—understanding, maybe, or pity. “You think I’m not afraid?” His thumb traced the line of her cheekbone. “You think I don’t lie awake at night wondering when you’ll realize I’m not worth the trouble?” Her breath hitched. “That’s not—” “It’s true.” His voice was rough. “I’m half-demon, Aurora. I’ve done things, seen things. I’m not the kind of man you build a future with.” “And what if I don’t want a future?” The words slipped out before she could stop them. “What if I just want *now*?” Lucien went still. Then, slowly, his hand slid into her hair, fingers curling against her scalp. “You don’t mean that.” “I do.” She reached for him, her hands fisting in the lapels of his suit. “I mean it more than I’ve ever meant anything.” For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Then his mouth crashed down on hers, hot and desperate. Rory melted into him, her fingers twisting in the fabric of his jacket as he backed her against the wall. His cane clattered to the floor, forgotten. The kiss was bruising, punishing—like he was trying to brand her, like he was afraid she’d disappear again. When he finally pulled away, his breath was ragged. “This changes nothing,” he said, voice rough. “You still walk out that door, and I still let you go.” Rory shook her head. “I’m not leaving.” “You will.” His forehead pressed against hers. “You always do.” She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he was wrong. But the truth was, she didn’t know if she could stay. Didn’t know if she was strong enough to face the demons—hers and his. So she kissed him again, pouring everything she couldn’t say into it. And for now, that would have to be enough.