Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQ12BNFN7DJZ193N6NR00M

The third deadbolt clicked. A chain rattled. The door swung open just wide enough to reveal a sliver of Eva’s face—eyes narrowed, one eyebrow arched. “You’ve got some nerve.” Lucien didn’t flinch. His cane tapped once against the threshold, the sound crisp in the hallway’s dim light. “I do. Often.” The door didn’t budge. “Last time I saw you, you were walking out of here like the place was on fire.” “And yet, here I am.” His voice was smooth, unhurried. The kind of voice that made promises sound like facts. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Eva’s fingers tightened around the doorframe. “Why would I do that?” “Because it’s raining.” A single drop slid from his hairline, traced the sharp angle of his jaw. “And because you’re curious.” She exhaled through her nose, a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. The door opened another inch, just enough to let the scent of old paper and jasmine tea spill into the hallway. “Fine. But wipe your feet.” He stepped inside, shaking the rain from his coat before draping it over the back of a chair already buried under a stack of books. The flat was exactly as he remembered—chaotic, alive with the hum of a dozen half-finished thoughts. Scrolls unrolled across the coffee table like sleeping serpents. A teacup, long cold, sat beside an open tome, its pages marked with scribbled marginalia in Eva’s sharp, slanting hand. Ptolemy, the tabby, lifted his head from his perch on the windowsill, gave Lucien a slow blink of disdain, and went back to licking his paw. Eva crossed her arms. “Well?” He turned, the heterochromatic glare of his eyes catching the lamplight—amber and void. “I need your help.” “No.” “You haven’t heard what for.” “I don’t need to.” She reached for the kettle, filled it under the tap with more force than necessary. “Last time you needed my help, I ended up with a knife wound and a lecture from Rory about my terrible life choices.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re still alive. That’s more than most can say after tangling with the Vesper Court.” The kettle clattered onto the stove. She spun around. “Oh, so now it’s *funny*?” His expression sobered. “No.” A pause. The cane rotated between his palms, ivory handle gleaming. “It’s not.” Silence stretched, thick with the weight of things unsaid. The kettle began to whistle, a shrill counterpoint to the rain drumming against the windows. Eva yanked it off the heat. “Tea?” “If you’re offering.” She tossed a teabag into a chipped mug, sloshed hot water over it. The steam curled between them, a fragile barrier. “What do you want, Luc?” His fingers stilled on the cane. “Aurora’s in trouble.” The mug paused halfway to her lips. “What kind of trouble?” “The kind that involves a blood contract, a demon lord from the Seventh Circle, and a deadline that expires at midnight.” Eva set the mug down hard enough to slosh tea over the rim. “You’re joking.” “I don’t joke about blood contracts.” She wiped her palm on her jeans, leaving a damp streak. “Why come to me?” His gaze flicked to the scar on her wrist—the one she’d gotten the last time she’d trusted him. “Because you’re the only one who can talk her out of whatever reckless plan she’s hatching.” “And why can’t *you* talk her out of it?” A muscle feathered in his jaw. “She won’t listen to me.” Eva barked a laugh. “Can’t imagine why.” Lucien’s voice dropped, low and rough. “I made a mistake.” “One?” She shook her head. “You walked out. You left her to deal with the fallout alone. Again.” “I had my reasons.” “Reasons you never bothered to explain.” His fingers tightened around the cane. “Would it have mattered?” The question hung there, raw and honest. Eva looked away first, her throat working. “No,” she admitted finally. “Probably not.” Lucien exhaled, slow and controlled, like he was letting go of something heavy. “She’s at Silas’ bar. Waiting for someone who isn’t going to show.” Eva’s stomach twisted. “Who?” “A contact. One who’s already dead.” She grabbed her jacket off the hook by the door, shoved her arms into the sleeves. “Then what the hell are we standing here for?” His hand shot out, fingers closing around her wrist. Not tight. Just enough to stop her. “Eva.” She froze. “If we walk in there like this”—he gestured between them, to the space crackling with old anger and something far more dangerous—“she’ll bolt. You know she will.” Eva yanked her arm free. “So what do you suggest? Pretend we’re best friends?” “Pretend we’re not at each other’s throats.” She laughed, sharp and humourless. “That’ll be a first.” His mouth quirked, just slightly. “Worth a try.” The rain had eased to a drizzle by the time they reached the alley behind Silas’ bar, the cobblestones slick underfoot. The back door was propped open with a crate of empty bottles, the warm glow of the interior spilling out like a beacon. Eva hesitated on the threshold, her pulse hammering in her throat. Lucien’s voice was a murmur at her ear. “Ready?” She shot him a glare. “No.” Then she stepped inside. The bar smelled of whiskey and old wood, the air thick with the low hum of conversation and the clink of glasses. Rory sat at the far end, hunched over a half-empty tumbler, her black hair falling forward to hide her face. She didn’t look up as they approached. Eva slid onto the stool beside her. “You look like hell.” Rory’s fingers tightened around the glass. “Flattering as always, Ev.” Lucien took the seat on Rory’s other side, his movements deliberate, unhurried. “Aurora.” She finally lifted her head. Her bright blue eyes were bloodshot, her usual sharpness dulled by exhaustion. “Luc.” A beat. “What are you doing here?” “Saving your neck.” He signalled Silas for a drink. “Again.” Rory’s laugh was a hollow thing. “Didn’t take you for the heroic type.” “Good thing I’m not.” He accepted the whiskey Silas slid across the bar, took a slow sip. “I’m the practical type. And practically speaking, you’re about to do something monumentally stupid.” She swirled the amber liquid in her glass. “Such as?” “Handing yourself over to Malphas on a silver platter.” The glass stilled. “How do you know about that?” Eva leaned forward. “Because Luc here has a bad habit of sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.” Rory’s gaze flicked between them, sharp as a blade. “And yet, here you both are.” Lucien set his drink down. “Here we are.” Silence. The kind that hummed with unspoken things. Rory broke first. “I don’t have a choice.” “There’s always a choice,” Eva snapped. “Not this time.” Rory’s voice was quiet, but the steel beneath it was unmistakable. “The contract’s ironclad. If I don’t show, he takes someone else. Someone who can’t fight back.” Lucien’s fingers drummed against the bar. “Who?” She didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. Eva’s stomach dropped. “Oh, *fuck*.” Rory’s smile was bitter. “Yeah.” Lucien’s cane thudded against the floor as he stood. “Then we change the terms.” Rory’s head snapped up. “You can’t just—” “I can.” His voice was low, dangerous. “And I will.” Eva grabbed his arm. “Luc, even *you* can’t outmanoeuvre a blood contract with Malphas.” His heterochromatic gaze locked onto hers, fierce and unyielding. “Watch me.”