Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQJ5E0ZDYCPGJMWM3JBCSY

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, from the messy bun holding her black hair in place to the oversized Cardiff University hoodie she’d stolen from her ex and never returned. His gaze lingered on the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist before snapping back to her face. “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 just enough to let him in, because the alternative was slamming the door in his face, and she wasn’t sure she could do that either. Not yet. Lucien straightened, smoothing a hand over his tailored charcoal suit as he stepped inside. The ivory handle of his cane gleamed under the flat’s flickering overhead light. “You’ve added more locks,” he observed, nodding at the three deadbolts. “Paranoia suits you.” “Eva’s idea.” Rory shut the door harder than necessary, the latch clicking like a gunshot. The flat was exactly as she’d left it—books stacked on every available surface, scrolls unrolled across the coffee table, Ptolemy’s fur clinging to the armchair. She crossed her arms. “You didn’t answer my question.” Lucien turned, his cane tapping lightly against the floorboards. “I need your help.” Rory laughed, but there was no humor in it. “That’s rich. You ghost me for six months, and now you waltz in here like nothing happened?” His jaw tightened, just for a second. “I had my reasons.” “Oh, I’m sure you did.” She stepped closer, close enough to see the faint stubble along his jaw, close enough to remember how it had felt against her skin. “Reasons that involved not returning a single one of my calls. Not even a text. Just—poof. Gone.” Lucien exhaled through his nose, a sound like a held breath finally released. “You think I wanted to leave?” “You did leave.” “Because I had to.” “Bullshit.” Rory’s hands curled into fists at her sides. “You could’ve said something. Anything. Instead, you just—disappeared. Like I was nothing.” For a moment, neither of them spoke. The hum of the curry house downstairs seeped through the floorboards, the scent of turmeric and cumin thick in the air. Lucien’s amber eye burned brighter, the black one swallowing the light. “You were never nothing,” he said quietly. Rory’s chest ached. She wanted to believe him. Wanted to, but— “Then why?” Lucien’s fingers flexed around the handle of his cane. “Because if I’d stayed, I would’ve ruined you.” The words hung between them, heavy and impossible. Rory’s breath caught. “That’s not your choice to make.” “It was.” His voice was rough. “You don’t know what I am, Rory. What I’m capable of.” “Then tell me.” She stepped closer, close enough that the hem of her hoodie brushed against his polished shoes. “Tell me now.” Lucien’s gaze dropped to her mouth. “You should be afraid of me.” “I’m not.” “You should be.” Rory reached up, her fingers hovering just shy of his cheek. “I’m not.” A sound escaped him—something between a growl and a groan—and then his hand was in her hair, his mouth crashing down on hers. There was nothing gentle about it. His kiss was heat and hunger, his teeth nipping at her lower lip, his tongue demanding entry. Rory gasped, her hands fisting in the lapels of his suit as she kissed him back just as fiercely. Six months of silence, of missing him, of wondering—it all poured out of her in that kiss. Lucien’s cane clattered to the floor as he backed her against the wall, his body pressing hers into the peeling floral wallpaper. His hands slid under her hoodie, calloused fingers tracing the curve of her waist, the dip of her spine. Rory arched into him, her nails digging into his shoulders. She’d forgotten how good he felt—how right. Then, just as suddenly as he’d kissed her, Lucien pulled away. His breath came in ragged bursts, his forehead resting against hers. “This changes nothing,” he said, but his voice was unsteady. Rory’s lips were swollen, her pulse hammering in her throat. “Liar.” Lucien’s black eye flickered, the amber one dark with something like regret. “I came here for a reason.” “And it wasn’t this?” “No.” He stepped back, retrieving his cane from the floor. The space between them felt like a chasm. “There’s a job. A dangerous one.” Rory crossed her arms, suddenly aware of how exposed she was—how exposed she’d let herself be. “Of course there is.” Lucien’s mouth twisted. “You don’t have to help me.” “But you want me to.” “Yes.” “Why?” “Because you’re the only one who can.” Rory studied him—the way his suit jacket strained slightly over his shoulders, the way his fingers tightened around his cane, the way his eyes kept darting to her mouth like he was fighting the urge to kiss her again. She exhaled, long and slow. “You’re an asshole, Lucien.” “I know.” “And I’m still mad at you.” “I know that too.” Rory pushed off the wall, stepping around him to grab a half-empty mug of cold tea from the coffee table. She took a sip, buying herself time. “Tell me about the job.” Lucien’s shoulders relaxed, just a fraction. “There’s a relic. A dagger. It’s being auctioned off tonight at a private event in Mayfair.” “And?” “And it’s not just any dagger.” He reached into his jacket, pulling out a folded piece of parchment. “It’s the Blade of Avaros. A demon-forged weapon. Whoever wields it can open a gate to the underworld.” Rory’s fingers stilled around the mug. “You’re joking.” “I wish I were.” She set the mug down. “And you want me to—what? Steal it?” “Yes.” “Why me?” Lucien’s gaze locked onto hers. “Because the auction is invitation-only. And the only way in is with a plus-one.” Rory’s stomach twisted. “You want me to be your date.” “Yes.” She should’ve said no. Should’ve told him to leave and never come back. But the truth was, she’d missed him. Missed the way his mind worked, the way he challenged her, the way he looked at her like she was the only person in the room. And if she was being honest with herself, she wanted to know why he’d left. Really left. “Fine,” she said. “But we do this my way.” Lucien’s mouth quirked. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Rory ignored the way her heart skipped. “And after?” “After?” “After the job. What happens then?” Lucien was silent for a long moment. Then, softly: “Then we talk.” Rory nodded, even though her chest ached. “Okay.” Lucien reached for her hand, his fingers brushing over the scar on her wrist. “Thank you.” Rory pulled away. “Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t seen what I’m capable of.” Lucien’s smile was slow, dangerous. “Oh, I think I have.” Outside, the rain began to fall, tapping against the window like a warning. Rory ignored it. She had a job to do. And maybe, just maybe, she’d finally get the answers she needed.