Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQHRAHDTV7NW7QERDPB8M6

The third deadbolt clicked. A pause. Then the door swung open just enough for Eva’s tabby, Ptolemy, to slink through the gap, tail flicking in irritation at the disturbance. Aurora didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stared at the man on the other side of the threshold, his platinum hair slicked back despite the damp London air, his heterochromatic gaze—one eye amber, the other black—fixed on her with the same unreadable intensity as always. Lucien exhaled through his nose, a sound that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so controlled. "You’re blocking the doorway, *chérie*." Her fingers tightened around the takeout bag from Golden Empress, the scent of chilli oil and fried garlic sharp between them. "What the hell are you doing here?" He leaned against the doorframe, cane resting against his shoulder like an afterthought. The ivory handle gleamed under the flickering hallway bulb. "Can’t a man visit an old friend?" "Friends don’t vanish for six months without a word." A muscle in his jaw twitched. "No. They don’t." Ptolemy wound between his ankles, purring, and Lucien absently scratched behind the cat’s ears. The gesture was too casual, too *domestic*, and it sent a jolt through her chest. She stepped back, letting the door swing wider—not an invitation, just refusal to be crowded. "Eva’s not here." "I know." His voice dropped, rougher than she remembered. "I came to see you." The flat smelled of old paper and the jasmine incense Eva burned when she was stress-translating Sumerian tablets. Aurora dumped the takeout on the kitchen counter, the plastic containers clattering. "You’ve got a hell of a way of showing it." He shut the door behind him, the click of the deadbolts engaging one by one. Methodical. Deliberate. The way he did everything. "I had my reasons." "Reasons you couldn’t share?" She turned, arms crossed. "Or did you just forget my number?" His cane tapped once against the floorboards. "You think I don’t know every digit by heart?" The words hit like a physical blow. She looked away, her gaze snagging on the scarred wooden table where they’d once shared cheap wine and even cheaper takeaway, his thigh pressed against hers under the pretense of reaching for the last spring roll. "Then why—" "Why didn’t I call?" He cut her off, stepping closer. The heat of him radiated through the thin fabric of her hoodie. "Because some things aren’t fixed with a phone call, Rory. Some things need to be said in person." She swallowed. "So say them." His free hand lifted, hovered near her face—close enough that she felt the ghost of his touch before he dropped it. "I was in Avaros." The name of his father’s demonic realm hung between them, heavy as a curse. "You *went home*?" "Not by choice." His lips pressed into a line. "My father summoned me. And when the Lord of the Obsidian Throne calls, even his bastard son answers." Aurora’s pulse hammered in her throat. "For six *months*?" "Time moves differently there." His fingers flexed around the cane. "A week in Avaros is a month here. I was gone sixty days. I came back to find you’d moved out of Silas’ place, changed your number, and the only lead I had was Eva’s flat." She should’ve been relieved. Should’ve been *understanding*. But the old hurt still burned, sharp and bright. "You could’ve left a message. A *note*. Something." "And say what?" His voice cracked, just slightly. "That I was trapped in a realm where the sky bleeds and the rivers run with molten silver? That I didn’t know if I’d make it back?" Her breath came faster. "You’re here now." "Yes." His gaze darkened. "I am." The air between them thickened, charged with everything they’d never said. His cologne—bergamot and something darker, like gunpowder—filled her lungs. She should’ve stepped back. Should’ve told him to leave. But her body refused to obey, rooted in place by the memory of his hands on her skin, his mouth against hers, the way he’d whispered her name like a prayer the last time they’d been alone. Ptolemy yowled, breaking the spell. Aurora jerked away, putting the kitchen island between them. "You want a drink or something?" Lucien’s smile was slow, bitter. "You’re offering me hospitality now?" "Fine. Don’t have one." She grabbed a chipped mug from the drainer, filled it with tap water. Her hands shook. He watched her, unblinking. "You’re angry." "Damn right I am." The water sloshed over the rim. "You don’t get to waltz back in here after half a year and expect—" "Expect what?" He closed the distance again, his cane thudding softly against the floor. "That you’d still want me?" The mug slipped from her fingers. It hit the counter, cracked, water pooling around the base. Neither of them moved to clean it up. Aurora’s chest ached. "I don’t *want* anything from you, Lucien." Liar. His thumb brushed her wrist, right over the crescent scar. "Liar." She flinched. "Get out." "No." Her palm connected with his cheek before she registered moving. The crack of skin on skin echoed in the small flat. Lucien didn’t so much as blink. Just turned his head back, his black eye gleaming. "Again, if it’ll make you feel better." Her breath hitched. "You’re *impossible*." "And you’re still terrified of what you feel for me." His voice dropped. "Admit it." She wanted to deny it. Wanted to shove him out the door and never look back. But the truth clawed its way up her throat, raw and bleeding. "I *hated* you for leaving." "I know." "And I *missed* you." Her voice broke. "Every damn day." His cane clattered to the floor. His hands cupped her face, thumbs smoothing over her cheekbones. "Rory—" She kissed him. It wasn’t gentle. It was six months of rage and longing, of sleepless nights and whispered curses into her pillow. Her fingers tangled in his hair, disrupting the careful slick, and he groaned against her mouth, his grip tightening. The taste of him—dark, spiced, *his*—sent her senses reeling. He walked her backward until her hips hit the counter, his body pinning hers. "Tell me to stop," he murmured against her lips. She bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. "Never." A growl rumbled in his chest. His hands slid under her hoodie, calloused palms mapping the dip of her waist, the flare of her ribs. "You’re going to be the death of me, *mon ange*." She arched into his touch, her nails digging into his shoulders through the fine wool of his suit. "Then die happy." The laugh he let out was dark, desperate. His mouth trailed down her throat, teeth grazing the pulse point that fluttered wildly beneath his lips. "I’ve dreamed of this. Every night." Her head fell back, exposing more of her skin to him. "Liar." His breath was hot against her collarbone. "I’d sooner lie to the Devil himself than to you." The words sent a shiver through her. She grabbed his face, forced him to meet her eyes. "Then don’t ever leave me like that again." Something fractured in his expression—pride, maybe, or the last remnants of his control. "I won’t. *Je te le jure.*" She didn’t know French. Didn’t need to. The vow in his voice was enough. His cane lay forgotten on the floor as he lifted her onto the counter, his hands sliding up her thighs. The takeout containers teetered, forgotten. The world outside Eva’s flat ceased to exist. And for the first time in six months, Aurora Carter stopped missing him.