Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQC25MR7QP3XJB8612M8F4

The door swung open before Rory could turn the last deadbolt, the chain rattling like a warning. There he stood—Lucien Moreau, leaning against the doorframe with the effortless grace of a man who had never once in his life been kept waiting. His platinum hair caught the dim hallway light, sharp as a blade, and his heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—locked onto hers with the precision of a predator. Rory’s breath hitched. She hadn’t seen him in six months. Six months of silence, of pretending she didn’t still wake up some nights with the ghost of his touch on her skin. “Bonjour, *chérie*,” he said, voice smooth as aged whiskey. The French rolled off his tongue like he’d never stopped speaking it, like he’d never stopped speaking *to her*. His gaze flicked over her—barefoot, in an oversized Cardiff University hoodie, hair piled messily atop her head—and something dark and knowing flickered in his eyes. “You look like hell.” Rory’s fingers tightened around the edge of the door. “And you look like you’ve got a death wish, showing up here unannounced.” Lucien smirked, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored charcoal suit. The ivory handle of his cane glinted as he shifted his weight. “If I wanted to die, *ma belle*, I’d have let the vampires at the Black Dahlia finish the job last week.” He tilted his head, studying her. “May I come in? Or are we doing this in the hallway like common thugs?” Rory hesitated. The last time they’d been in a room together, things had ended with a slammed door, a shattered glass, and a promise—his, not hers—that he’d never darken her doorstep again. But Ptolemy chose that moment to wind himself around her ankles, purring like a traitor, and the scent of curry from the restaurant below curled into the flat, rich and familiar. She stepped back. Lucien moved past her, the faintest brush of his sleeve against her arm sending a jolt through her. The door clicked shut behind him, the three deadbolts sliding home with finality. The flat was exactly as he remembered it—books stacked in precarious towers, scrolls unrolled across the coffee table, the air thick with the scent of old paper and Eva’s incense. But something was different. A photograph on the wall, one she didn’t recognize: Rory and Eva at Brighton Beach, arms slung around each other, grinning like idiots. Lucien’s fingers twitched toward it before he caught himself. “You’ve been busy.” “And you’ve been *gone*,” Rory said, crossing her arms. “So. What’s so important it couldn’t wait for a phone call?” He turned, the amber of his left eye catching the light like a struck match. “I need your help.” Rory laughed, sharp and humorless. “Of course you do.” Lucien’s jaw tightened. “This isn’t a game, Aurora. The Obsidian Covenant is moving against the London Conclave. They’ve already taken three of the lesser houses. If they succeed—” “—the city burns, the supernatural world implodes, yada yada.” Rory waved a hand. “I’ve heard this song before, Lucien. You’ll forgive me if I’m not exactly rushing to dance.” His cane tapped against the floor, a slow, deliberate rhythm. “I’m not here for your forgiveness.” “Then why *are* you here?” The words came out harsher than she intended, but she didn’t take them back. Lucien exhaled through his nose, a sound like a bull about to charge. Then, in one fluid motion, he closed the distance between them. Rory’s back hit the bookshelf, a cascade of paperbacks tumbling to the floor. Lucien braced one hand against the shelf above her head, the other gripping his cane so tightly his knuckles whitened. His breath was warm against her lips, his voice a low growl. “Because I *missed* you, *putain*. Because every time I close my eyes, I see you walking out that door. Because I am *tired*, Aurora, of pretending I don’t give a damn.” Rory’s heart hammered against her ribs. She should push him away. She *should*. But the scent of him—bergamot and something darker, something like smoke—wrapped around her, familiar and intoxicating. “You have a funny way of showing it,” she whispered. Lucien’s free hand cupped her face, his thumb brushing over the crescent scar on her wrist. His touch was fire and sin, and Rory hated how much she’d missed it. “I know,” he murmured. “And I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you, if you’ll let me.” The air between them crackled, charged with all the things they’d left unsaid. Rory’s gaze dropped to his lips, then back to his eyes. “The rest of your life is a long time, Lucien.” His mouth quirked. “Not long enough.” And then he kissed her. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was hunger and heat and six months of pent-up frustration, his lips crashing against hers with a desperation that stole her breath. Rory’s hands fisted in his lapels, pulling him closer, her body betraying every logical thought in her head. Lucien groaned against her mouth, his cane clattering to the floor as he pressed her into the bookshelf, his hands sliding down to grip her hips. When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing hard. Lucien rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed. “I should have come sooner.” Rory swallowed, her fingers still tangled in his shirt. “You should have.” A beat of silence. Then Lucien pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “I’m not leaving again, Aurora. Not unless you tell me to.” Rory studied him—the sharp angles of his face, the way his heterochromatic eyes burned with something like hope. She thought of all the nights she’d lain awake, wondering if she’d made a mistake. Wondering if he’d ever come back. She exhaled, slow and steady. “Then I guess you’d better start talking. What’s this about the Obsidian Covenant?” Lucien’s smile was slow, triumphant. He bent to retrieve his cane, then offered her his arm like they were about to step into a ballroom, not a war. “Where would you like me to begin, *ma belle*?”