Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7HB3BQDWAQW8YX0M650XN

Aurora's fingers hesitated on the third deadbolt, the metal cool and unyielding under her palm. Ptolemy, Eva's tabby cat, twined around her ankles with an insistent meow, his fur brushing her bare calves like a whispered demand for dinner. The flat above the curry house on Brick Lane hummed with the distant sizzle of woks and the sharp tang of cumin drifting up from the street. Books teetered in precarious stacks on every surface—ancient grimoires cheek-by-jowl with dog-eared paperbacks—research notes fluttering like trapped moths in the draft from the cracked window. She'd come here straight from her shift at the Golden Empress, her delivery bag still slung over the chair, smelling faintly of soy and sesame. Eva was out chasing some lead on a cursed amulet, leaving Rory to mind the fort and the cat. It was a relief, really—no prying questions about why she'd bolted from Cardiff, or that fresh bruise of a breakup with Evan still throbbing under her skin. Just quiet, and the illusion of control. The knock came again, sharper this time, insistent. Not Eva; her friend texted first, always. Rory's pulse quickened, an old instinct from too many nights jumping at shadows. She twisted the final bolt and yanked the door open, the hinges groaning in protest. Lucien Moreau stood there, framed in the dim hallway light like a shadow given form. His platinum blond hair gleamed slicked back, not a strand astray, and his charcoal suit hugged his frame with the precision of a second skin. The ivory-handled cane tapped once against the threshold, a deliberate punctuation. One amber eye caught the light, glowing faintly like embers in dusk; the other, black as pitch, swallowed it whole. Heterochromia, he'd called it once, with that half-smile that promised secrets. Half-demon secrets. "Rory," he said, voice smooth as aged cognac, laced with that Marseille lilt that always made her name sound like a caress. No preamble, no apology for the unannounced drop-in. Just her name, hanging between them like smoke. Her breath caught, a traitor hitch. Five months. Five months since he'd vanished after that night in the alley behind Silas' bar—lips crashing, hands desperate, his cane forgotten against the brick as he'd pressed her into the wall. Then nothing. A whisper in the underworld that Lucien Moreau had business in Avaros, his father's realm. No note, no call. Just silence, sharp as the blade hidden in that cane of his. "What the hell are you doing here?" The words tumbled out sharper than she intended, her bright blue eyes narrowing. She gripped the doorframe, knuckles whitening, the small crescent scar on her left wrist pulling taut—a childhood reminder of fragility she rarely acknowledged. Lucien's gaze flicked down to it, then back up, unreadable. "Eva's not in?" "Bullshit. You knew she wasn't." Ptolemy darted past her legs, sniffing at Lucien's polished shoes before sneezing disdainfully. Rory didn't move to let him in, blocking the cramped entryway with her body. Shoulder-length black hair fell forward, curtaining her face; she shoved it back, chin lifting. Cool-headed Rory Carter, quick thinker. Don't let him see the fracture. He leaned on his cane, the ivory handle carved with subtle infernal runes that shimmered if you knew to look. "I need to speak with you. Privately." His amber eye softened, just a fraction, while the black one bored into her like it could peel back her defenses. "May I come in? Or shall we discuss demon politics in the hallway, with your neighbor's vindaloo as ambiance?" She wanted to slam the door. Wanted to. But the pull was there, magnetic, that same reckless attraction that had snared her before. Hurt simmered beneath it—nights staring at her phone, wondering if she'd been just another mark in his fixer games. Things left unsaid: Why me? Why then? Why leave without a word? Against her better judgment, she stepped aside. "Five minutes. Then you're gone." The door clicked shut behind him, three deadbolts sliding home with finality. Lucien filled the space, his presence eclipsing the clutter. He scanned the flat—books, scrolls, Ptolemy now perched on a stack of Eva's notes, tail flicking—before settling his gaze back on her. "Charming as ever. Eva's aesthetic suits you." "Don't." She crossed her arms, leaning against the kitchenette counter scarred from years of takeout spills. The air thickened, charged like the moments before a storm. Up close, he smelled of sandalwood and smoke, faint brimstone undercut with expensive cologne. Her pulse thrummed in her throat. Lucien set his cane against the wall, the blade inside humming faintly—or was that her imagination? He shrugged off his jacket, draping it over a chair buried under grimoires, revealing the crisp white shirt beneath, sleeves rolled to expose forearms corded with subtle strength. Half-demon, he'd said. Stronger than he looked. "I heard about Evan. That he's... persistent." Her stomach twisted. "Stalking your contacts now? How cozy." "Not stalking. Networking." He moved closer, not crowding, but deliberate. Stopped just shy of her space, close enough she could see the faint scar above his black eye, a memento from some underworld skirmish. "He came to me. Offered a deal to find you. Said you'd run because of him." Rory laughed, brittle. "And you what, turned him down out of the goodness of your heart?" The attraction flickered, unbidden—memory of his mouth on hers, urgent, his heterochromatic eyes half-lidded in the rain-slick alley. She'd melted then, Pre-Law logic dissolving into want. Hurt had followed, a cold chaser. Lucien's jaw tightened. "I turned him down because he's a liability. And because..." He trailed off, amber eye flaring briefly. His hand lifted, hesitated, then brushed her hair back—fingers lingering at her temple. Electricity sparked, her skin humming. "Because I couldn't bear the thought of him touching you again." The words landed like a blow, soft and devastating. Rory's breath shallowed, her body betraying her with heat pooling low. "You don't get to say that. Not after you disappeared. No word, Lucien. Nothing." The unsaid things clawed up: I waited. I wondered if I imagined it. If I was just a distraction from your demon daddy issues. His black eye darkened, the room seeming to dim with it. "Avaros called me back. My father—debts unpaid. I couldn't drag you into that hell." His thumb traced her jawline, callused from cane work, igniting nerves. "I thought distance would keep you safe. Stupid, perhaps." "Stupid?" She grabbed his wrist, not pulling away, holding him there. The scar on hers pressed against his pulse, beating steady. "I fled Cardiff for London thinking I'd outrun my messes. Then you. And you left me wondering if I was another mess to you." Lucien's free hand cupped her face, tilting it up. His breath ghosted her lips, warm, spiced. "Never." The word rumbled low, vibrating through her. Ptolemy yowled from the table, ignored. "You were the one bright thing, Rory. Amid the shadows. I came back because I couldn't stay away." Her resolve cracked. Attraction surged, molten, drowning the hurt in a tide of need. She surged up, lips crashing into his—fierce, demanding answers her words couldn't wring. Lucien groaned, a sound from deep in his chest, half-demon hunger breaking free. His arms banded around her, lifting her effortlessly onto the counter. Scrolls scattered, forgotten. She fisted his shirt, pulling him closer, legs wrapping his waist. His mouth was fire—teeth nipping her lower lip, tongue delving with precision, tasting of sin and longing. One hand tangled in her black hair, tugging just enough to arch her neck; the other slid under her shirt, palm hot against her ribs, tracing the curve of her waist. Skin remembered skin, bodies slotting like puzzle pieces long separated. "Lucien," she gasped, breaking for air, foreheads pressed. Hurt lingered, a shadow, but desire burned brighter. "Don't vanish again." His amber eye glowed, black one fathomless. "I won't. Swear it on Avaros." He kissed her throat, pulse jumping under his lips, then lower, buttons parting under deft fingers. Her shirt whispered open, cool air kissing heated skin. Ptolemy leaped down, tail lashing as he stalked to his bowl. The flat narrowed to them—books blurring, curry scents fading. Rory's hands roamed his back, nails digging through fabric, mapping the lean muscle honed by underworld deals and demon blood. He lifted her again, carrying her to the sagging couch buried under notes. They tumbled, a tangle of limbs and whispers. His cane clattered forgotten; her delivery bag hit the floor. Lucien hovered above, shirt half-unbuttoned, platinum hair tousled for once. "Tell me to stop," he murmured, voice rough, hand splayed over her heart, feeling its wild beat. "Don't you dare." She pulled him down, mouths fusing, hands exploring. Skin slid against skin, barriers falling. His body was a revelation—scarred faintly from infernal wars, warm where demons ran cold. She traced the line of his hip, eliciting a shudder; he worshipped her with lips and fingers, drawing moans that echoed off book-strewn walls. Time fractured. Minutes or hours—his heterochromatic gaze locked on hers as they moved together, slow then frantic, chasing release amid the chaos. Hurt transmuted to healing, unsaid words breathed into gasps: "Missed you." "Need you." Attraction reignited, a bonfire from embers. After, they lay tangled, sweat-slick and sated, Ptolemy curling at their feet with a judgmental purr. Lucien's fingers traced her scar, gentle. "Stay with me this time," she whispered, vulnerability raw. He kissed her temple, amber eye soft. "Always, Rory. No more running." Outside, Brick Lane buzzed on, oblivious. Inside Eva's flat, two fractured souls mended, history rewritten in touches and truths. The deadbolts held the world at bay, for now.