Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8DW5Z3BR2V34KYS93N07Q

The door swung open before the second knock even landed, as if the flat itself had been waiting for this moment. Rory stood there, her fingers still curled around the brass handle, the crescent scar on her wrist catching the dim light from the hallway. For a heartbeat, she just stared—because there, framed in the doorway like some kind of cruel joke, was Lucien Moreau. He leaned against the jamb, one hand resting on the ivory handle of his cane, the other tucked into the pocket of his tailored charcoal suit. The amber eye tracked her, unreadable, while the black one flickered over the threshold, as if assessing whether to step inside or bolt. His platinum hair was slicked back, just slightly rumpled, like he’d run a hand through it more times than he’d admit. The scent of rain and something darker—something like ozone and old leather—drifted toward her. “You,” Rory said, because *hello* wasn’t cutting it. Lucien’s mouth quirked, just barely. “Me.” The silence stretched, thick and charged, like the air before a storm. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, chose that exact moment to weave between Rory’s ankles, his tail puffed up like a dandelion gone to seed. She stepped back instinctively, breaking the eye-lock, and the cat slunk past her, circling Lucien’s polished shoes with the wariness of a man who’d just been served an ultimatum. Lucien followed, gliding inside like he owned the place. Which, Rory reminded herself, he *almost* did. Not anymore. Not since she’d walked away from the last job they’d done together—from *him*. The flat was exactly as she’d left it: books stacked precariously on every surface, scrolls pinned to the walls with bent paper clips, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and Earl Grey gone cold. The only difference was the tension, coiled tight enough to snap. Lucien paused in the middle of the room, turning slowly, as if committing the chaos to memory. “You’ve been busy,” he observed. “Not as busy as you, apparently.” Rory crossed her arms, the movement drawing his gaze to the scar on her wrist. His expression didn’t change, but the way his fingers twitched against his cane told her he remembered. Remembered the night she’d cut herself open trying to bind a demon’s mark, remembered the way he’d held her hand and hissed in French about *imbécile* women who thought they could outrun their own blood. “Busy enough,” he said, voice smooth as aged whiskey. “Though I didn’t expect to find you holed up in *this* particular den of madness.” Rory bristled. “Eva’s flat is *not* a den of madness. It’s a *library*.” “A library with three deadbolts and a cat that looks like it’s plotting your murder.” He tapped his cane against the floorboards. “You always did have a flair for the dramatic.” She wanted to snap back, to throw something—preferably him—out the door. But the words died in her throat because, damn it, he was *right*. She *had* always been dramatic. And he’d always been the one to call her on it. Lucien exhaled, slow and deliberate, like he was counting to ten in his head. “I need your help.” The words hit like a physical force. Rory’s back hit the wall behind her, her pulse jumping. “No.” “Rory—” “No.” She said it again, firmer this time. “You show up here after *months*, after I’ve spent the last six weeks scrubbing your name out of my life, and you think I’m just going to—what? Drop everything and pick up where we left off?” His jaw tightened. “I didn’t come here to pick up anything.” “Then what?” She pushed off the wall, stepping closer, close enough that she could see the faintest darkening of his skin where his demon blood ran near the surface. Close enough to remember the way his hands had felt on her waist, the way his mouth— She cut the thought off before it could take root. Lucien’s gaze dropped to her lips, just for a second, before snapping back up. “There’s a job. A big one. The kind that pays enough to make both our lives a hell of a lot easier.” Rory laughed, sharp and humorless. “You’re offering me money like I’m some kind of mercenary.” “Aren’t you?” She opened her mouth to deny it, but the words faltered. Because yes. Yes, she was. She’d been scraping by on restaurant deliveries and the occasional black-market favor, living in a flat above a bar that smelled perpetually of spilled beer and regret. She was *exactly* the kind of person who’d take a job from a half-demon fixer if it meant she wouldn’t have to watch her savings account dwindle another month. Lucien must have seen the hesitation in her eyes because his voice softened, just a little. “I need you, Rory. And not just for the job.” The words hung between them, heavy and dangerous. She remembered the way he’d looked at her in that safe house in Marseille, the way his hands had trembled when he’d kissed her—like he was afraid she’d disappear if he let go. She remembered the way he’d *left* her, without a word, without an explanation, just a note on the nightstand that read *This isn’t forever. But neither is this.* She swallowed. “You don’t get to walk back in here and act like none of that happened.” “I’m not.” His voice was low, rough. “I’m here because I made a mistake. And I’m asking you to let me fix it.” Rory wanted to believe him. God, she *wanted* to. But trust was a luxury she couldn’t afford, not with him. Not with anyone. Ptolemy chose that moment to leap onto the couch, tail lashing, and Rory used the distraction to step around Lucien, putting the coffee table between them. “You want my help? Fine. But we do this *my* way.” Lucien’s smile was slow, dangerous. “Oh, *chérie*,” he murmured, “you have no idea what you’re offering.” She ignored the way her skin prickled at the nickname. “Tell me about the job.” He did. And by the time he finished, Rory was leaning against the wall again, her fingers digging into the grooves of the plaster. It was exactly the kind of job she’d been waiting for—high stakes, high risk, the kind that could finally get her name off the radar of the people who’d been hunting her since Evan. But it was also the kind of job that required *trust*. And Lucien Moreau was the last person on Earth she trusted. “So?” he prompted, watching her too closely. Rory exhaled, slow and steady. “So what’s in it for *you*?” His smile was all teeth. “Revenge.” She should have known. Lucien had always been a man who collected debts. And she was the one who owed him the biggest one of all. “Fine,” she said, pushing off the wall. “But we do this *together*. No secrets. No disappearing in the middle of the night.” His eyes darkened. “No disappearing.” “And no touching.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “No touching.” She held out her hand. “Deal.” Lucien looked at her hand like it was a live wire. Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a key—old, tarnished, the kind that looked like it had been dug up from a grave. He pressed it into her palm. “Meet me at the docks tomorrow at midnight,” he said. “And Rory?” She looked up. “Don’t be late.” She didn’t answer. She couldn’t, because her throat had gone tight, and the key in her hand was burning like a brand. Lucien turned to leave, but at the door, he paused. “Oh, and *Laila*?” She stiffened. He glanced over his shoulder, his black eye gleaming. “Bring the cat.”