Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8AGKNT9X4NGQQVRX5B3WX

Rory twisted the third deadbolt with a grunt. The door creaked open into the humid haze of Brick Lane, where cumin and garlic hung thick in the air from the curry house below. Steam from a passing kebab van slicked the night. Lucien Moreau stood there, framed in the sodium glow of a streetlamp. His platinum hair gleamed slicked back, not a strand astray. Charcoal suit hugged his frame, crisp despite the drizzle beading on his shoulders. Ivory-handled cane tapped once against the stoop. One amber eye caught the light like molten glass; the black one swallowed it whole. Her breath hitched. Fingers tightened on the doorframe. Those eyes drilled into her bright blues, past the shoulder-length black strands framing her face. "Rory." The word slithered out, laced with that Marseille lilt, four languages woven into velvet menace. She blocked the threshold, one hand on her hip, crescent scar on her left wrist peeking from her rolled sleeve. Ptolemy wove between her ankles, tail flicking a question at the intruder. "What the hell are you doing here, Luc?" He leaned on his cane, silver head catching lamplight. Rain dotted his lapels, but he ignored it. "Eva let slip you'd be here. Research, she said. Something about Avaros runes." "Bullshit." Rory's jaw clenched. Books towered behind her in precarious stacks, scrolls unrolled across the coffee table like spilled entrails. Ptolemy hopped onto a pile, kneaded once, settled. Lucien's lips curved, not quite a smile. He glanced past her shoulder into the cramped flat, eyes tracing the chaos—notes pinned to walls, a half-eaten naan on the kitchenette counter. "Always the skeptic. Invite me in, then. It's drizzling." "No." His amber eye narrowed. Black one stayed void. "You look well. London suits you." Heat crawled up her neck. Last time she'd seen him, three months back in that shadowed Soho alley. His hand on her waist, breath hot against her ear, promises murmured in French. Then the fight—his demon half slipping the leash, shadows coiling from his skin. She'd shoved him away, heart pounding, fled without a word. Hurt festered since, sharp as the scar on her wrist. Ptolemy meowed, insistent. Lucien tilted his head. "Your sentinel disapproves." "Smart cat." Rory crossed her arms. The flat's single bulb buzzed overhead, casting jagged shadows over yellowed pages and Eva's scrawled marginalia. He stepped closer. Cane rapped the doorsill. "We need to talk." "Talk's cheap. You vanished after—" "After you ran." His voice dropped, edged steel. Rain pattered harder, drumming the awning above. Her pulse thrummed. Memories flooded: his fingers tracing her scar that night, lips brushing it, whispering she'd never break. Lies, all of it. Half-demon fixer, playing her like one of his underworld deals. "Get out." But her feet stayed planted. Body betrayed her, leaning into the door's edge. Lucien extended a hand, palm up. Water glistened on his cufflinks. "Five minutes. For old times." Old times. God, the pull. His scent cut through the curry—sandalwood, smoke, something infernal. Ptolemy arched, hissed low. She sighed, stepped aside. Door swung wide. He entered smooth as sin, cane sweeping a path through the clutter. Shoulders brushed a bookshelf; volumes teetered but held. He scanned the room, amber eye lingering on a rune sketch pinned crooked. "Nice lair. Eva's taste, I presume." "Sit or leave." Rory slammed the door, bolted it twice—third stayed open, defiance. She grabbed two mismatched mugs from the sink, filled them with tap water. No tea for him. Not yet. Lucien lowered into the sagging armchair, legs crossed. Cane rested against his knee. "You've been dodging Silas's bar. My sources say." "Your sources can sod off." She thrust a mug at him. Water sloshed. He took it, fingers brushing hers. Electric jolt shot up her arm. She yanked back, perched on the sofa arm. Ptolemy claimed her lap, claws kneading denim. "Why now?" Her voice cracked the air. "Three months. Nothing. Then you pitch up at Eva's door like some lost puppy." His black eye fixed on her. "Puppy? Harsh, Rory. I gave you space." "Space? You scared the shit out of me." Words tumbled. That alley—his eyes flashing full demon, shadows wrapping her throat not in threat but hunger. She'd panicked, bolted. Hurt pride, deeper wounds from Evan still raw. Lucien set the mug down untouched. Leaned forward, elbows on knees. "I lost control. Avaros blood surged. You saw." "Saw enough." Heart hammered. Attraction clawed back, unbidden. His jawline sharp, lips parted just so. He rose, slow. Crossed to her in two strides. Towered at 5'11" to her 5'6". Ptolemy fled. "Rory." Hand cupped her chin, thumb grazing her lower lip. "You felt it too. That night." She slapped his hand away. Stood, chest bumping his. "Felt what? Your demon side choking me out?" "Embracing." His breath warmed her cheek. "No harm. Never to you." "Liar." But she didn't retreat. Flat's walls closed in, books whispering forgotten spells. His cane clattered to the floor. Arm snaked her waist, pulled flush. Bodies aligned—his hard lines against her curves. Heat bloomed where they touched. "Tell me you don't want this." Voice roughened, accent thickening. Her hands fisted his lapels. Pushed? Pulled? "Complicated, Luc. You know that." "Kiss me, then." Challenge lit his amber eye. Lips crashed. Hungry, no preamble. His mouth claimed hers, tongue delving deep. Taste of rain and secrets. She gripped his hair, platinum strands slipping silk. He groaned into her, hands roaming—down her back, cupping hips. Pinned her against the bookshelf. Volumes dug into her spine. She broke free, gasped. "Eva could walk in." "Let her." He nipped her earlobe. Fingers traced her scar, reverent. Shiver wracked her. "Stop." He froze. Pulled back an inch. Eyes searched hers—amber pleading, black devouring. "Not stopping unless you mean it." Hand stayed on her wrist, thumb circling the crescent. She swallowed. Hurt swirled with want. "What are we, Luc? Fixer and delivery girl? Demon and human?" "More." He kissed her palm. "Always more." Ptolemy yowled from the kitchenette, batting a fallen scroll. Rory laughed, breathless. Pushed him toward the sofa. He sank down, pulled her astride his lap. Skirts hiked—wait, jeans. Hers tangled as she straddled. His hands slid under her shirt, palms hot on bare skin. She arched, nails raking his neck. "Tell me why you're really here." She ground down, teasing. Lucien hissed. Gripped her thighs. "Needed you. Underworld's stirring. Avaros whispers my name." "Danger?" Alarm spiked, but she rocked harder. "Always." His hips bucked. Friction sparked. She captured his mouth again, slower. Tongues danced, exploratory. His heterochromatic gaze locked on her blues when they parted, intense. "You left things unsaid." Fingers tangled in her black hair, tugged gentle. "So did you." She bit his lip. Drew blood—copper tang. He licked it away. "Je t'aime, Rory. Since Cardiff whispers reached me." Her heart stuttered. Love? From him? "Bullshit." "Truth." Hand pressed over her chest, felt the thunder. Flat creaked—pipes groaning from the curry house below. Street noise filtered: laughter, car horns. She softened, forehead to his. "Hurt me once, Luc. Don't again." "Never." Promise sealed with a kiss, tender now. Ptolemy leaped between them, wedged his tabby bulk. Meow shattered the haze. Rory chuckled, scooped the cat. Lucien stroked Ptolemy's flank, surprisingly gentle. "Truce with the guard?" "For now." She slid off his lap, straightened clothes. Heat lingered. He retrieved his cane, stood fluid. Suit rumpled—first time she'd seen it so. "Stay." Words escaped unbidden. Lucien's brow arched. "Eva's flat. Your rules?" She glanced at the runes. "Help with these. Then... talk." His smile flashed true. "Deal." Door rattled—keys jangled outside. Eva's voice mumbled through the deadbolts. Rory shot him a look. "Behave." He winked, amber eye twinkling. Settled back, legs sprawled. She unbolted the door, pulse racing anew. Eva burst in, arms laden with kebabs and scrolls. Curly hair wild, glasses askew. "Rory, you won't believe—" She froze. Eyes darted to Lucien. "Moreau. What fresh hell?" Lucien raised his mug in salute. "Evening, Eva. Smells divine." Ptolemy purred approval. Rory smirked, tension coiling fresh. Night stretched ahead, tangled as the notes on the table. Eva dumped her haul, hands on hips. "Explain. Now." Lucien leaned forward. "Avaros runes. You mentioned." Eva's gaze flicked to Rory, sharp. "Heard that, did you?" Rory shrugged, heat flushing her cheeks. Lucien's knee brushed hers under the table—accidental? Never. "Team effort," he said. "For her." Eva snorted, unwrapped a kebab. Steam rose, lamb glistening. "Complicated pair, you two." Rory snatched a piece, popped it in her mouth. Spice bloomed. Lucien's eyes tracked her lips. "History," Rory muttered. "Ancient," Lucien added, voice low. Eva rolled her eyes, spread scrolls. "Fine. Rune here—matches your father's realm, Moreau." Lucien nodded, traced a glyph. Finger steady. "Seal's cracking." Rory leaned in, shoulder to his. Scent enveloped. Focus frayed. "Tell us," she said. He did. Words wove lore—demons slipping veils, London underworld fracturing. His free hand found her knee under the table. Squeezed. Eva droned on, pointing symbols. But Rory heard half. Lucien's touch burned promises. Hours blurred. Kebabs devoured, notes scribbled. Ptolemy curled on Lucien's lap, traitor. Eva yawned, stretched. "Crashing. Guest room's yours, Luc—if you behave." He inclined his head. "Obliged." Eva vanished behind a curtained nook. Flat hushed. Rory faced him. Blues met hetero stare. "Stay tonight." Not question. Lucien stood, drew her close. "All night." Lips met soft. Hands explored anew—down backs, under hems. Bed waited in the shadows, books guarding secrets. He backed her toward it, cane propped forgotten. Whispers traded—names, hurts aired. "Evan left scars," she confessed against his neck. "Erased." Kiss trailed her collarbone. His shirt peeled away, revealing inked runes glowing faint on pale skin. She traced them, mesmerized. "Demon marks." "Ours now." He stripped her top, mouth following. Skin met skin. Heat built, bodies entwining on the narrow bed. Gasps echoed off walls lined with lore. No rush. Touches lingered—fingers mapping scars, lips soothing old wounds. Aftershocks faded. He held her, chin on her hair. "Things unsaid," she murmured. "All said now." Arm tightened. Ptolemy scratched at the door. Dawn crept, gray light filtering blinds. But they lingered, tangled. Conversation drifted—Cardiff memories, Marseille nights, futures unspoken. Door buzzed downstairs. Eva's voice called up. "Breakfast! Rune hunt later?" Rory stirred. Lucien kissed her temple. "Go." His hand stroked her back. "I'll wait." She rose, pulled on clothes. Glanced back—him sprawled, sheet low, eyes devouring. Promise hung, unfinished. Attraction reignited, hurts mending slow. Flat stirred alive. Curry scents mingled with new beginnings.