Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQ88Z5KQ39HRAY1PHEMD4T

The door swung open before Rory could even knock. Eva stood there, her dark curls wild as if she’d been running her hands through them all night, her usual sharp gaze softened by something like exhaustion. The scent of turmeric and old paper spilled into the hallway. "Took you long enough." Eva stepped aside, but her voice lacked its usual bite. "I was starting to think you’d bailed on me again." Rory hesitated on the threshold, the weight of the last six months pressing between them like a physical thing. "I got held up at the restaurant. Yu-Fei had me running double shifts." She adjusted the strap of her bag, fingers brushing the crescent scar on her wrist. "You said it was urgent." Eva’s flat was exactly as she remembered—cluttered, lived-in, the kind of chaos that made sense only to Eva. Ptolemy, the tabby, wound between her ankles, tail flicking. The cat’s purr was the only sound in the room until Eva shut the door with a quiet click, sealing them in. "You look like hell," Rory said. Eva barked a laugh, but it was hollow. "Charming as ever." She gestured to the couch, the cushions buried under a pile of books. "Sit. Or don’t. I don’t care." Rory didn’t move. "What’s going on, Eva?" Eva exhaled sharply, her fingers tapping against her thigh. "I need your help. And before you say no, just—listen." She turned, her gaze locking onto Rory’s. "It’s about Lucien." The name hit like a punch. Rory’s stomach twisted. "What about him?" Eva’s jaw tightened. "He’s in trouble. Bad trouble. And he won’t ask for help, so I’m asking for him." Rory’s pulse jumped. "Since when do you care about Lucien Moreau?" "Since he’s the only one who can get me the information I need to keep *you* safe." Eva’s voice was low, urgent. "Evan’s back in London. He’s been asking around about you." The air left Rory’s lungs. She’d spent months trying to forget that name, that voice, the way his hands had felt when they’d—no. She shoved the thought away. "How do you know?" Eva held up a phone, the screen glowing with a grainy photo. A man in a dark coat, his face half-hidden by the brim of a hat, but Rory would recognize him anywhere. "He was at the bar last night. Silas saw him." Rory’s fingers curled into fists. "And Lucien knows?" Eva nodded. "He’s the one who told me. But he’s got his own problems. Someone’s after him—someone with connections to the Avaros realm. He’s been hiding, but they’re closing in." Rory’s mind raced. Lucien. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been standing in the rain outside her flat, his heterochromatic eyes unreadable, his voice smooth as ever. *"You know where to find me if you change your mind."* She’d walked away. She’d had to. "Why me?" Rory asked, though she already knew the answer. Eva’s expression softened. "Because you’re the only one he’ll listen to. And because you owe him." Rory flinched. "I don’t owe him anything." "Don’t you?" Eva’s voice was quiet. "He helped you when no one else would. He got you out of that flat, got you away from Evan. And you just—left." Rory’s throat tightened. "I had to." "Did you?" Eva stepped closer, her voice dropping. "Or were you just scared?" Rory didn’t answer. The silence stretched between them, thick with everything they weren’t saying. Eva sighed. "Look, I’m not asking you to forgive him. I’m asking you to help him. For me. For yourself. Because if Evan’s back, and Lucien’s in danger, then you’re not safe either." Rory closed her eyes. She could still feel the weight of Lucien’s cane in her hand, the way he’d pressed it into her palm that night, his voice low. *"Take this. Just in case."* She’d left it on his desk the next morning. "Fine," Rory said, opening her eyes. "I’ll talk to him. But I’m not making any promises." Eva’s shoulders relaxed. "That’s all I’m asking." Rory turned toward the door, but Eva caught her arm. "Rory." She looked back. Eva’s grip tightened. "Be careful. With both of them." Rory nodded. She stepped into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind her. The weight of what she was about to do settled over her like a second skin. She knew where Lucien would be. The same place he always was when he was in trouble—his office above the old bookshop in Soho, the one with the ivory-handled cane leaning against the desk. She just had to decide what to say when she saw him.