Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQ07X9QN0XZNHS4BGT3G41

The rain had been falling for hours, a relentless drumming against the grimy window of Eva’s flat, the kind of sound that made the walls feel smaller, the air thicker. Rory sat cross-legged on the floor, Ptolemy the tabby curled against her thigh, his purr a low vibration as she traced her fingers over the spine of an old leather-bound grimoire. The scent of cumin and coriander from the curry house below seeped through the floorboards, mingling with the musty smell of yellowed paper and dried herbs hanging in bundles from the ceiling. She should’ve been working—Yu-Fei had texted about a last-minute delivery to Camden—but the thought of pedaling through the downpour made her shoulders ache before she even stood. A sharp *rat-tat-tat* at the door made her jump. Ptolemy’s ears twitched. Rory froze, listening. Not Eva’s knock—too precise, too *measured*. Eva hammered like she was trying to wake the dead. This was something else. Three slow raps, a pause, then two more. A pattern. Her pulse kicked up. She knew that knock. Setting the grimoire aside, she wiped her palms on her jeans and stood, the wooden floor creaking underfoot. The deadbolts gleamed dully in the dim light of the single bulb swaying overhead. She hesitated, fingers hovering over the first lock. *He wouldn’t.* Not after six months. Not after the way they’d left things—him with that infuriating half-smile, her with her pride burning like a brand in her chest. But no one else knocked like that. She undid the first bolt. The second. The third. The door swung open before she could turn the handle. Lucien Moreau filled the frame, his charcoal suit damp at the shoulders, his platinum hair slicked back despite the rain. Water beaded on the sharp line of his jaw, caught in the stubble there. His cane—ivory handle glinting—rested against his thigh, the other hand tucked into his pocket like he hadn’t just barged into her life unannounced. His eyes, one amber, one black, flicked over her face, lingering on the scar at her wrist before meeting her gaze. “Bonjour, *malphora*,” he said, voice low, rough-edged. The nickname sent a jolt through her, stupid and unwanted. *Malphora*. His little joke. A twist on her surname, something he’d called her the first time she’d outmaneuvered him in a deal. *Carter. Malphora. Bad luck.* She didn’t step aside. “What the hell are you doing here, Luc?” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Can’t a man visit an old friend?” “You’re not my friend.” The words came out sharper than she intended, but she didn’t take them back. Friends didn’t leave you standing in the middle of a warehouse district at three a.m., watching their taillights disappear. Friends didn’t kiss you like they were memorizing the shape of your mouth, then act like it meant nothing the next day. His smile didn’t waver, but something flickered in his gaze—amusement, maybe, or the echo of an old argument. “No?” He leaned forward just enough that she caught the scent of him, bergamot and gunpowder, the faint metallic tang that always clung to him, like ozone before a storm. “Then what am I?” *A mistake*, she almost said. But the air between them was too thick with the weight of everything unsaid, and Ptolemy chose that moment to wind himself around Luc’s ankles, purring. Traitor. Rory exhaled through her nose and stepped back, letting him in. “You’ve got three minutes before I throw you back out.” Luc’s cane tapped softly as he crossed the threshold, his movements fluid, controlled. He shed his damp overcoat with a flick of his wrists, draping it over the back of Eva’s armchair—the one piled with scrolls. Rory bit back a protest. The flat was a disaster, but it was *her* disaster. “Still living like a scholar in a monk’s cell, I see,” he murmured, eyes roving over the stacks of books, the half-empty teacups, the map of London’s ley lines pinned to the wall with a dagger. “And you’re still dressing like you’re about to negotiate a treaty.” She folded her arms. “Talk. Why are you here?” He turned to face her, the heterochromatic glare of his eyes unsettling in the low light. For a second, she thought he might reach for her. Instead, he pulled a slim silver case from his inner pocket and flipped it open, offering her a cigarette. Rory stared at it. “You know I don’t smoke.” “Since when?” One eyebrow arched. “You used to steal mine.” “*Used* to.” She didn’t take one. “Cut the crap, Luc. It’s late.” He snapped the case shut and tucked it away, then reached into his other pocket. This time, he pulled out a folded slip of paper, worn at the edges. He held it out to her. She didn’t move. “What’s that?” “Your name.” His voice was quiet now, the teasing edge gone. “On a list.” Her fingers twitched. “What list?” “The kind that gets people killed.” He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the rainwater darkening the collar of his shirt, the pulse at his throat. “A client of mine intercepted a shipment meant for the Obsidian Circle. Inside was a ledger. Names, addresses, *details*. Yours was third from the top.” The Obsidian Circle. The name settled in her stomach like a stone. She’d heard whispers—Eva’s paranoid ramblings about a cabal of warlocks trafficking in cursed artifacts, dabbling in blood magic. Rory had assumed it was just another boogeyman, like the time Eva swore the toaster was possessed. “You’re lying,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction. Luc’s jaw tightened. “I don’t lie to you.” “*You don’t tell me the truth either.*” The words slipped out before she could stop them. His expression darkened, and she knew he was remembering the same thing she was—the warehouse, the way his hands had gripped her hips, the way he’d whispered *trust me* against her ear before vanishing into the night. He exhaled sharply, breaking the tension. “Fair enough.” He tossed the paper onto the pile of books beside her. “But I’m not lying about this. They’ve got your flat address. Your work schedule. The fact that you ride a bike with a broken chain and a habit of cutting through Hyde Park after dark.” A cold prickle ran down her spine. “How do you know about my bike?” “Because I *pay attention*, Rory.” His voice dropped, rough-edged. “Unlike some people.” She swallowed. “What do they want with me?” “I don’t know.” He dragged a hand through his hair, disrupting the careful slick of it. “But it’s not good. The Circle doesn’t collect names for fun.” Ptolemy chose that moment to leap onto the windowsill, tail flicking. The rain had eased to a drizzle, the rhythmic patter doing little to ease the sudden pressure in Rory’s chest. She picked up the paper, unfolded it. Her name stared back at her in precise, looping script: *Aurora Carter*. Below it, details she’d never given anyone—her route, her habits, the scar on her wrist. “Shit,” she breathed. Luc’s cane thudded against the floor as he shifted. “You can’t stay here.” “I’m not running.” She crumpled the paper in her fist. “Not again.” His eyes flashed. “This isn’t about Evan.” The name hit her like a slap. She flinched, then glared at him. “Don’t.” “Then don’t be stupid.” He closed the distance between them in two strides, his hand coming up to cup her face before she could pull away. His thumb brushed over her cheekbone, his touch warm, calloused. “You want to play hero? Fine. But you’re not doing it alone.” Her breath hitched. His scent wrapped around her, intoxicating. She should’ve pushed him away. Should’ve told him to go to hell. But the memory of his mouth on hers was a brand she couldn’t ignore, and the way he was looking at her now—like she was something precious, something worth fighting for—made her knees weak. “Why do you even care?” she whispered. His fingers tightened, just for a second. Then he let his hand drop, stepping back like she’d burned him. “Because I’m a selfish bastard, *malphora*.” His voice was a growl. “And I’d rather you owe me your life than some black-market warlocks.” She laughed, sharp and humorless. “That’s it? Debt?” His eyes darkened. “You know it’s not.” The air between them crackled, charged. She could’ve reached for him. Could’ve closed the gap and pressed her mouth to his, just to see if he’d kiss her back the way he had before—like she was the only thing keeping him grounded. But the moment stretched, taut as a wire, and then snapped when Ptolemy knocked a stack of books off the shelf with a yowl. Luc cursed under his breath and bent to pick them up. Rory turned away, pressing her palms to her eyes. She was tired. Tired of running, tired of secrets, tired of the way her body betrayed her every time he was near. “Fine,” she said, dropping her hands. “What’s the play?” He straightened, the books clutched in one hand. “We find out who sold you out. Then we make them regret it.” She almost smiled. Almost. “And if it’s you?” Something dangerous flickered in his gaze. “Then I’ll let you carve out my heart yourself.” The promise hung between them, heavy and real. Rory looked at him—the tailored suit, the cane, the way his eyes never quite hid the demon blood running through his veins—and knew, with a certainty that terrified her, that she trusted him. And that was the most dangerous thing of all.