Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8ETPTFN622FENP6KPRQ65

Rory’s fingers fumbled with the third deadbolt, the metal catching on her scuffed nail polish—chipped black, a cheap bottle she’d bought from a corner shop after her first delivery shift at Golden Empress. The knock had come faint at first, lost to the rumble of curry house exhaust fans below and the scratch of Ptolemy’s claws on Eva’s bookshelf, but it had persisted, sharp and insistent, until she’d abandoned Eva’s half-sorted scrolls and padded barefoot to the door. Her delivery apron still slung over her shoulders, a neon soy sauce stain blazoned across the chest (from a customer who’d dropped their kung pao chicken mid-delivery), she’d stuffed a crumpled one-pound tip receipt into the apron pocket before answering. Eva was out picking up more research books from a secondhand shop in Camden, so Rory had assumed it was a neighbor with a noise complaint or a wrong-number delivery—until she’d twisted the final deadbolt and pulled the door open. The sight of him hit her like a fist to the sternum. Lucien Moreau stood on the step, impeccably tailored charcoal suit clinging to his 5’11” frame, platinum blond hair slicked back so neatly it looked painted on, save for a single strand that had fallen across his forehead, a tiny crack in his usual armor. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—locked onto hers, and Rory’s breath caught. She’d forgotten how the black one seemed to swallow light, how the amber one warmed when he smiled, a smile she hadn’t seen in three months. His ivory-handled cane rested against his thigh, his fingers curled tight around the grip, and she knew without looking that the thin blade inside was probably loose in its sheath—an old habit when he was on edge, one he’d picked up after a run-in with a vampire gang in Soho. “Rory,” he said, his voice low, laced with a Marseille lilt she’d once found intoxicating, the same lilt he’d used when he’d taught her to order coffee in French on their first date. She stepped back, her bare heel catching on a stack of Eva’s ancient history books—titled *Avaros: Demon Realms Unveiled*—and grabbed the doorframe to steady herself. Her straight black shoulder-length hair fell in front of her bright blue eyes, and she brushed it away with a hand that shook. The scar on her left wrist throbbed—from the childhood accident (falling off a bike at 7, cutting it on a broken bottle in her father’s Cardiff garden) but lately, from the memory of Evan’s hand wrapped around it, his voice sniping that she’d never escape him—and she tugged her apron sleeve down to cover it, a nervous tic she’d developed after Lucien had first asked about it, after he’d traced the crescent shape with his thumb and told her it looked like a moonbeam broken in two. “What are you doing here?” she snapped, her voice sharper than she’d intended. The smell of garam masala from the curry house below mixed with old parchment, and it made her head spin—she’d been breathing in that scent for three days straight, ever since she’d crashed at Eva’s flat to avoid Evan’s latest threats. “I thought you vanished off the face of the earth. The supernatural underworld’s golden fixer, gone without a trace.” Lucien didn’t move, his polished leather shoes planted firmly on the rain-slicked step. “I need to talk to you. About Evan. About why I left.” Rory’s jaw tightened. She gestured to the three deadbolts, to the map of London taped to Eva’s wall with supernatural hotspots marked in red ink, to the stack of self-defense manuals she’d been reading at night. “I called you. Texted you. Begged you to help when he showed up, when he banged on my door above Silas’ bar and screamed that he’d find me no matter where I ran. You didn’t answer. You didn’t even leave a note. I had to beg Eva to let me stay here, to help me install these deadbolts, to teach me how to read those scrolls to ward off ghosts and demons and whatever else you lot have running around.” A flash of something like guilt crossed his face—quick, but she caught it, the amber eye softening for a split second before the black one slammed shut. He shifted his weight to his cane, and the ivory handle glinted in the streetlight. “I had no choice. My father—he found me. The demon from Avaros.” Rory froze. She’d known Lucien was half-demon, had known his father was a creature from some far-off realm of fire and shadow, but he’d never talked about him, never let her see that part of himself. He’d called it a “family curse,” something he kept locked away to protect the people he cared about. Or so he’d said, back when they’d spent nights on a rooftop bar, drinking cheap wine and talking about their families—her Irish barrister father who’d pressured her to finish Pre-Law, his human mother in Marseille who’d died when he was 10, leaving him to fend for himself against his demon father’s whispers. “He tracked me to my office in Covent Garden,” Lucien continued, his voice dropping so low she had to lean in to hear it over the exhaust fans. “Said he’d tear your throat out if I didn’t cut all ties with you. Said he’d find Evan, give him power to hunt you down faster, make you suffer for what I’d done—for choosing a human over my own kind. He said he’d make you watch as he destroyed everything you loved: your mother in Cardiff, Eva, even the Golden Empress where you work.” Rory’s left wrist throbbed again, and she pressed her sleeve harder against the scar. She thought of the night Evan had found her, of the way he’d grabbed her wrist and squeezed until she’d cried out, of the moment she’d realized Lucien wasn’t coming. She’d hidden in Eva’s flat for a week after that, Ptolemy the tabby curling up on her chest while she cried into Eva’s research notes, the samosas on the coffee table going stale because she couldn’t bring herself to eat. “You could have told me,” she said, her voice breaking. “You could have warned me. I would have understood. I would have helped you fight him.” “I couldn’t,” Lucien said, and this time, he stepped forward, his cane tapping against the step. “If I’d told you, he would have known. He can read thoughts, Rory. He can smell fear. I had to vanish without a trace, make him think I’d abandoned you so he’d leave you alone. I spent three months running from him, hiding in Marseille with old contacts, learning how to block his mind-reading, how to fight back. I only came back when I was sure he couldn’t track me—when I was sure he couldn’t track you.” Rory stared at him, at the strand of platinum hair still out of place, at the way his fingers trembled slightly around his cane—something she’d never seen before, not in the fixer who’d once talked his way out of a gang fight with four words in fluent Arabic, not in the man who’d once carried her home when she’d gotten drunk at a Halloween party. He looked tired, worn thin, despite his impeccable suit, and she felt a flicker of the attraction she’d tried to bury, the way she’d once loved the way he’d laugh at her bad jokes about law school, the way he’d bring her steamed dumplings from Golden Empress after her late shifts, the way he’d trace her scar and tell her she was braver than she thought. Ptolemy chose that moment to dart out from behind the door, his tabby tail fluffed up, and hiss at Lucien. He skidded across the floor, knocking over a stack of Eva’s Arabic scrolls (Lucien’s eyes flicked to them, a small nod of recognition—he spoke four languages, after all), and Rory jumped, her hand flying to her chest. Lucien stepped back, his eyes widening slightly at the cat, and Rory couldn’t help but laugh—a small, bitter sound. “That’s Ptolemy,” she said, nodding at the cat, who’d curled up on a stack of history books and was glaring at Lucien. “Eva’s cat. He hates strangers. Hates supernatural creatures even more—Eva says he can smell them.” Lucien’s lips twitched into a faint smile, the first she’d seen in three months. “I can’t blame him. My father’s scent is probably still on me.” Rory stepped aside, her bare foot brushing against a scroll titled *Warding Spells for Human Refugees*, and gestured to the flat. “Come in. But if you so much as touch one of Eva’s research notes, she’ll kill you with a quill to the throat. And I’ll let her. She’s been working on those scrolls for six months to help me lay low from Evan and your father.” Lucien stepped inside, his polished shoes clicking against the floorboards, and Rory closed the door behind him, twisting the three deadbolts back into place—one by one, slow, deliberate, each click a reminder of how fragile her safety was. The smell of garam masala was thicker inside, mixing with the scent of old parchment and Lucien’s expensive cologne—woodsmoke and cinnamon, a scent she’d once worn on her shirt for days after a night spent in his office, curled up on his leather couch while he sorted through information on supernatural criminals. He looked around the flat, his eyes scanning the stacks of books and scrolls, the map of London with red ink marks, the half-eaten plate of samosas on the coffee table, the crumpled receipt from Golden Empress stuck in the edge of the table. “Eva’s been busy. She’s always been better at this research stuff than I am.” “She’s doing it for me,” Rory said, stepping past him to take off her delivery apron, hanging it on a hook by the door next to Eva’s leather jacket. “She knows what it’s like to run—her sister was hunted by a vampire a year ago. She’s determined to make sure no one else has to go through that.” Lucien turned to her, and his eyes fell to her left wrist, where her sleeve had slipped down slightly, revealing the crescent scar. He took a step forward, his cane tapping against the floor, and reached out a hand, but he stopped halfway, his fingers hovering in the air—afraid to touch her, she realized, afraid his demon side would hurt her. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice soft. “For everything. For leaving you. For making you suffer. For not telling you the truth. I thought I was protecting you, but I only made it worse.” Rory stared at his hand, at the way his fingers trembled, and she remembered the first time he’d touched her scar—on that rooftop bar, the wine making her courage bolder, her telling him about the bike accident, him tracing the scar with his thumb and saying, “You’re a survivor, Rory. Don’t ever let anyone make you forget that.” She thought of the night they’d kissed, the stars above them, the sound of his heartbeat against her chest, the way he’d whispered that he’d never let anyone hurt her. “You left me alone,” she said, her voice quiet. “I thought I’d never see you again. I thought you’d chosen your demon father over me.” “I could never choose him over you,” Lucien said, and this time, he took another step forward, his hand finally brushing against her left wrist, his thumb tracing the scar. “I left because I loved you. Because I couldn’t bear to see you hurt because of me.” Rory’s breath caught. She’d never heard him say that before—never heard him say he loved her, not in the three months they’d been together. She looked up at him, at the strand of platinum hair still out of place, at the way his amber eye was warm with love, the black eye soft with regret, and she felt the walls she’d built around herself start to crumble. She leaned into him, her head resting against his chest, and she could hear his heart beating, fast and uneven, a sound she’d thought she’d never hear again. Ptolemy hissed again from the bookshelf, but Rory didn’t care. She closed her eyes, and for the first time in three months, she felt safe. She thought of the scrolls on the floor, of the deadbolts on the door, of the demon father and the abusive ex, but none of it mattered. All that mattered was the feel of Lucien’s hand on her wrist, the sound of his heart, the words he’d finally said—words she’d been waiting to hear for three months. “I love you too,” she whispered, and she felt him smile against her hair, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her closer, as if he’d never let her go again. His cane clattered to the floor, forgotten, and his fingers tangled in her straight black hair, his lips pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. Outside, the curry house exhaust fans rumbled on, and inside, Ptolemy jumped down to curl up on the stale samosas, but Rory didn’t notice. She was too busy memorizing the feel of Lucien’s arms around her, the way his breath fanned her neck, the quiet promise in his touch that this time, he’d stay—no more vanishing, no more secrets, no more letting anyone come between them.