Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7NVDC6EY1X77Q2DCTRN5V

The door creaked open before Rory could fully turn the key, the hinges groaning like an old man’s bones. She froze, her fingers still wrapped around the brass handle, the cold metal biting into her palm. The flat’s dim glow spilled onto the pavement, illuminating the figure standing there—tall, broad-shouldered, his platinum hair catching the streetlamp’s sickly yellow light. Lucien. His cane tapped once against the pavement, the ivory handle gleaming. He didn’t smile. Didn’t move. Just stood there, dressed in that damn tailored charcoal suit like he owned the night, like he hadn’t just ruined her carefully constructed life. Rory exhaled through her nose, sharp and controlled. “What the hell are you doing here?” His amber eye flickered—just for a second—before he tilted his head, the black one catching the light. “I came to see you.” She stepped back, pressing her shoulder against the doorframe. “You’ve got the wrong flat.” “No.” His voice was smooth, like whiskey poured over ice. “This is yours.” Ptolemy chose that moment to slink out from behind the curtain, tail flicking, eyes narrow. He hissed, low and warning, before darting past Rory’s legs and straight for Lucien’s boots. The demon didn’t flinch. Just crouched slightly, letting the cat sniff his cuff before the tabby yowled and bolted back inside. Rory’s fingers twitched. “You’re not welcome.” Lucien’s lips quirked, just once. “I never asked.” She swallowed. The air between them was thick, charged. She could still remember the way he’d tasted—bitter and sweet, like stolen wine and something darker. Something she’d tried to forget. “You left,” she said, voice steadier than she felt. “No warning. No note. Just gone.” His gaze dropped to her wrist, where the scar from her childhood accident peeked out from beneath her sleeve. She pulled her arm back instinctively, as if he could see the past written there. “You always were good at disappearing,” she added, sharper this time. Lucien’s jaw tightened. “You’re the one who walked out.” The words hit like a punch to the gut. She hadn’t meant to say it. Hadn’t meant to let the old anger slip out. “That’s not how it happened,” she snapped. “Isn’t it?” His voice dropped, rougher now. “You left me a message. Said you couldn’t do this anymore. Said I was too much.” Rory’s chest burned. “You were *everything*.” Silence. The kind that hummed. Lucien exhaled, slow and controlled. “And now?” She looked away, at the flickering neon sign of the curry house below, at the way the rain had started to fall in fine, cold sheets. “I don’t know.” His hand shot out, gripping her wrist before she could pull away. His touch was warm, almost too warm, like he could burn her from the inside out. “You always did have a talent for saying the wrong thing at the right moment.” Rory’s breath hitched. She should’ve pulled away. Should’ve told him to get lost. But her fingers curled around his wrist instead, her pulse hammering in her throat. “You’re bleeding,” she murmured, tilting her head to look at the thin red line on his palm. It had come from her—from the way she’d gripped the doorframe when she’d first seen him. Lucien’s thumb brushed over the cut, his touch light. “It’s nothing.” “It’s not nothing.” She yanked her hand back, but not before she saw the way his black eye darkened, just for a second. “You’re always bleeding.” His lips twitched. “And you’re always bleeding too, *ma chérie*.” The nickname hit her like a blade. She’d forgotten how he said it—like it was a secret, like it was just for her. Rory stepped forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t call me that.” Lucien’s gaze locked onto hers, unflinching. “Why not?” “Because it’s not true.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Isn’t it?” She opened her mouth, then closed it. The words stuck in her throat. Because it *had* been true once. Before everything fell apart. Before *he* fell apart. Lucien’s hand lifted, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered, warm against her skin. “You’re still here,” he murmured. “That’s something.” Rory’s breath hitched. She should’ve pushed him away. Should’ve told him to leave. But her body didn’t listen to her mind. “Why?” she whispered. His thumb traced the line of her jaw, slow and deliberate. “Because you’re the only one who ever made me feel like I wasn’t alone.” The words hung between them, heavy and suffocating. Rory’s heart pounded in her chest, loud enough to drown out everything else. “You’re lying,” she said, but her voice was barely a breath. Lucien’s lips curved, just slightly. “Am I?” She should’ve walked away. Should’ve told him to go to hell. But she didn’t. Instead, she reached up and pressed her palm against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his suit. “Prove it.” His eyes darkened, the amber one burning into hers. “How?” She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Lucien’s hand cupped the back of her neck, his thumb brushing over her pulse point. His mouth crashed down onto hers, hard and demanding, like he’d been starving for this for years. Rory melted into him, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. The taste of him—smoky and sweet—filled her mouth, her body aching for him in a way she hadn’t let herself remember. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, his breath ragged. “You’re still here,” he repeated, his voice rough. Rory’s lips curved against his. “I’m always here.” Lucien’s hand slid down her back, pulling her flush against him. “Good.” The rain fell harder now, but neither of them noticed. Neither of them cared. Rory’s fingers traced the line of his jaw, memorizing the sharp angles, the way his skin felt beneath her touch. “You’re bleeding again.” Lucien’s lips quirked. “I told you. It’s nothing.” She tilted her head, studying the thin line of red on his palm. “It’s not nothing.” His hand lifted, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “It’s just a scratch.” Rory’s gaze locked onto his. “It’s not.” Lucien’s eyes darkened, the amber one burning into hers. “Then what is it?” She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Lucien’s hand slid down her back, pulling her closer. His mouth crashed down onto hers, hard and demanding, like he’d been starving for this for years. Rory melted into him, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. The taste of him—smoky and sweet—filled her mouth, her body aching for him in a way she hadn’t let herself remember. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, his breath ragged. “You’re still here,” he repeated, his voice rough. Rory’s lips curved against his. “I’m always here.” Lucien’s hand slid down her back, pulling her flush against him. “Good.” The rain fell harder now, but neither of them noticed. Neither of them cared. Rory’s fingers traced the line of his jaw, memorizing the sharp angles, the way his skin felt beneath her touch. “You’re bleeding again.” Lucien’s lips quirked. “I told you. It’s nothing.” She tilted her head, studying the thin line of red on his palm. “It’s not nothing.” His hand lifted, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “It’s just a scratch.” Rory’s gaze locked onto his. “It’s not.” Lucien’s eyes darkened, the amber one burning into hers. “Then what is it?” She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. His mouth crashed down onto hers again, deeper this time, like he was trying to drown in her. Rory wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, her body arching into his. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, his breath hot against her lips. “You’re still here,” he murmured. Rory’s fingers tightened in his hair. “I’m always here.” Lucien’s hand slid down her back, pulling her closer still. “Good.” The door creaked behind them, the sound sharp and jarring. Rory froze, her body going rigid. Lucien’s head snapped up, his gaze locking onto the door. “What the hell—?” A shadow moved in the hallway. A figure stepped into the dim light, silhouetted against the glow of the streetlamp. Rory’s breath caught in her throat. Lucien’s hand tightened around her wrist, his grip bruising. “Rory.” She didn’t look at him. Didn’t move. The figure stepped forward, the light catching the glint of a blade in their hand. Rory’s blood turned to ice.