Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQFC6WHF4WNNKDVBB18VFV

The door swung open before Rory could turn the last deadbolt, and there he stood—Lucien Moreau, leaning against the frame like he owned the place, one platinum eyebrow arched in that infuriating way of his. The scent of bergamot and something darker, something like burnt sugar, curled into the flat before he did. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, hissed from the arm of the sofa and vanished into the kitchen. Rory’s fingers tightened around the edge of the door. “What the hell are you doing here?” Lucien’s heterochromatic eyes—amber and black—flickered over her, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing the way she looked in an old band T-shirt and leggings, her black hair still damp from the shower. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?” “You’re not my friend.” The words came out sharper than she intended, but she didn’t take them back. She stepped aside anyway, because Eva’s flat was small, and if she didn’t let him in, he’d just stand there, blocking the hallway like some kind of immovable, expensive obstacle. “And you didn’t answer the question.” He sauntered inside, his cane tapping against the floorboards, the ivory handle catching the dim light from the single lamp. The flat was a mess—books stacked on every surface, scrolls unrolled across the coffee table, Ptolemy’s fur clinging to the armchair—but Lucien didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t care. He never did. Rory shut the door harder than necessary, the three deadbolts clicking into place with finality. “Eva’s not here.” “I know.” He turned, his coat brushing against a tower of grimoires that wobbled but didn’t fall. “I came to see you.” Her pulse jumped. She crossed her arms, mostly to keep her hands from doing something stupid, like reaching for him. “Why?” Lucien’s mouth quirked. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything. “Can’t a man check on an old… associate?” “Cut the bullshit, Lucien. You don’t do anything without a reason.” He exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so dry. Then he reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Not just any paper—parchment, yellowed at the edges, the ink smudged like it had been handled too many times. He held it out to her. Rory didn’t take it. “What is that?” “A job.” “I don’t do jobs for you anymore.” “This one’s different.” “Why?” “Because,” he said, stepping closer, the parchment still extended between them, “it involves Evan.” The name hit her like a punch to the sternum. She hadn’t heard it spoken aloud in months. Hadn’t let herself think it. But here it was, hanging in the air between them, heavy and unavoidable. Lucien’s expression didn’t change, but his voice dropped, low and rough. “He’s back in London.” Rory’s fingers twitched. She wanted to snatch the parchment from his hand. Wanted to crumple it up and throw it in his face. Wanted to pretend she hadn’t heard him. But she did none of those things. Instead, she took the paper, her skin brushing against his for the briefest second—enough to feel the heat of him, the way it always seemed to radiate just a little too much, like his half-demon blood was always simmering beneath the surface. She unfolded it. The handwriting was familiar—Evan’s, looping and precise, the kind of script that looked elegant until you realized it was all a mask for something uglier. The note was short. Three lines. *I know what you are. I know what you’ve done. And I’m going to make sure everyone else does too.* Rory’s breath came a little faster. She’d been careful. So careful. But Evan had always been good at digging up secrets. And he’d always been good at using them against her. She looked up. Lucien was watching her, his face unreadable. “When did this arrive?” “This morning. Delivered to my office.” “Why you?” “Because,” he said, “he knows I’m the one who helped you disappear.” The words settled between them, thick with everything they weren’t saying. The way he’d shown up at her door that night, six months ago, when she’d been bleeding and shaking and half-convinced she was going to die. The way he’d driven her to Eva’s, no questions asked, no payment expected. The way he’d looked at her when she’d told him she never wanted to see him again. Rory swallowed. “I don’t need your help.” Lucien’s jaw tightened. “That’s not what I’m offering.” “Then what are you offering?” “A chance to end this.” He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the faint scar above his eyebrow, the one he’d gotten in Marseille years ago. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him again, like standing too near a fire. “Before he ruins you.” She should have stepped back. Should have put distance between them. But she didn’t. She stood there, the parchment crumpling in her fist, and let herself remember the way his hands had felt on her skin. The way he’d kissed her like he was trying to memorize the shape of her mouth. The way he’d walked away without looking back. “Why do you care?” she asked, her voice quieter than she intended. Lucien’s amber eye burned. The black one was just a void. “You know why.” She did. And that was the problem. Rory turned away, crossing to the window. The street below was slick with rain, the neon signs of the curry house reflecting in the puddles. She could feel him behind her, a presence like a live wire, dangerous and electric. “What’s the job?” she asked, staring at her own reflection in the glass. “There’s a relic,” he said. “A dagger. It’s being auctioned off tomorrow night at the Black Lily.” She knew the place. A high-end club for the supernatural elite, the kind of place where deals were made in back rooms and blood was spilled in the bathrooms. “And?” “And Evan’s going to be there. He’s the one selling it.” Rory’s fingers curled into her palms. “You want me to steal it.” “No.” Lucien’s voice was right behind her now, close enough that she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. “I want you to take it back.” She turned. He was closer than she expected, his face inches from hers, his heterochromatic eyes locked onto her own. She could see the faintest stubble along his jaw, the way his lips parted just slightly, like he was about to say something else. “Take it back,” she repeated. He nodded. “It’s yours, isn’t it?” Rory didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. They both knew the truth. The dagger had been her mother’s. A family heirloom, passed down through generations of Ellis women. Evan had taken it from her the night she’d left him, the night he’d broken her wrist and left her curled on the kitchen floor. She’d thought it was gone forever. Until now. She exhaled, long and slow. “What’s the catch?” Lucien’s mouth twisted. “No catch. Just… a favor.” “What kind of favor?” “The kind I’ll collect later.” Of course. Lucien never did anything for free. She should have known. She stepped back, putting space between them again. “And if I say no?” He didn’t answer right away. Just watched her, his gaze heavy, like he was trying to see straight through her. Then, quietly: “Then I walk out that door, and you never see me again.” The words hung in the air, sharp and final. Rory looked away, her throat tight. She’d spent six months trying to forget him. Six months telling herself she was better off without him. Six months pretending she didn’t still dream about the way his hands had felt on her skin, the way his voice had sounded in the dark. And now here he was, standing in Eva’s flat like no time had passed at all. She turned back to him. “Fine. I’ll do it.” Something flickered in his eyes—relief, maybe, or something darker. “Good.” “But,” she added, holding up a finger, “I’m not doing it for you.” Lucien’s mouth quirked. “Of course not.” She ignored the way her pulse jumped at the sight of that almost-smile. “And I’m not working with you.” “Wouldn’t dream of it.” “And if you touch me—” “I won’t,” he said, his voice low, rough. “Unless you ask me to.” The words sent a shiver down her spine. Rory swallowed hard. “Get out.” Lucien didn’t move. Just stood there, watching her, like he was waiting for something. She crossed her arms. “Now.” He exhaled, a sound that might have been a laugh. Then he turned, his coat swirling around him as he made his way to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob, looking back at her over his shoulder. “Tomorrow night,” he said. “Midnight. Don’t be late.” Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving Rory standing in the middle of Eva’s flat, her heart pounding, her skin still burning where his had almost touched hers. Ptolemy slunk back into the room, tail twitching, and let out a low, disapproving meow. Rory sank onto the sofa, the parchment still clutched in her hand. She was in trouble.