Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8PG07TXR918NZJW6C2VW9

The door to Eva’s flat creaked open before Aurora could even reach for the deadbolt, the hinges protesting like an old man’s joints. The scent of cardamom and spiced lamb hit her first—Eva’s cooking, always lingering even when the kitchen was empty. Then came the sound of laughter, low and rich, cutting through the usual hum of the flat’s cluttered energy. Aurora froze, her fingers still curled around the brass knob. She knew that voice. Knew the way it slithered through her like a knife between ribs, sharp and precise. *Lucien.* Her pulse hammered in her throat as she stepped inside, the door swinging wide enough for her to see him—tall, impossibly so, his platinum blond hair slicked back like he’d just stepped out of a tailor’s parlor. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, one ankle crossed over the other, a glass of something amber in hand. The amber light from the streetlamp outside spilled through the half-drawn curtains, catching the gold in his left eye and making it look like a flame trapped behind glass. “Rory,” he said, as if she were a ghost he’d half-expected to see. The name rolled off his tongue like a secret. “You look like hell.” She exhaled through her nose, a laugh bubbling up before she could stop it. “And you look like you’ve been to hell and back and still have time to iron your cuffs.” His lips quirked, just for a second, before smoothing into something dangerously polite. “You’re welcome.” Aurora shut the door behind her, the weight of it final. “What are you doing here?” Lucien set his glass down with deliberate care, as if he were placing a bomb on the counter. “I need your help.” “With what?” She crossed her arms, the movement instinctive, protective. The flat was hers now, even if it still smelled like Eva’s books and the faintest trace of her perfume. She wasn’t letting him in that easily. “Information.” He tilted his head, studying her. “About a man named Evan.” The name hit her like a punch to the gut. Her fingers twitched at her sides. “Why?” “Because,” he said, stepping forward, “he’s asking questions about you.” Aurora’s breath caught. She hadn’t thought about Evan in months—not since she’d burned his letters, since she’d left London behind. But the way Lucien said it, like it was a fact, not a threat, sent a chill down her spine. “What kind of questions?” “Where you are. What you’re doing.” He reached into his jacket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and slid it across the counter. It landed with a soft *thunk* between them. “He’s been asking around. At the bar. At the restaurant. People talk when they think no one’s listening.” Aurora picked up the paper, her fingers brushing against his. The contact was electric, jarring. She unfolded it carefully, her stomach twisting as she read the scrawled words—*Find her. She owes me.* Evan’s handwriting was sloppy, desperate, the kind of thing a man writes when he’s lost control. When he’s not just angry anymore. When he’s dangerous. “You shouldn’t have come,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended. Lucien’s gaze flicked to her wrist, where the scar from her childhood accident peeked out from beneath her sleeve. She pulled her arm back instinctively, as if she could hide it from him. “I had to.” “Why?” she demanded. “Because you’re a sentimental fool, or because you think you can fix this?” His expression darkened, just for a second, before he schooled it. “I think you’re in danger.” Aurora laughed, sharp and bitter. “And you care?” Lucien’s jaw tightened. “I care about people who can’t protect themselves.” She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him she didn’t need protecting. But the words died in her throat because she knew, deep down, that he was right. Evan wasn’t the kind of man who forgot. And if he was asking questions, that meant he was getting closer. She set the paper down, her hands steady now. “Fine. But I’m not doing this for you.” “No,” he said, stepping closer, “you’re doing it because you’re still the only person who can get me what I need.” Aurora’s breath hitched as he reached out, his fingers brushing against the scar on her wrist. The touch was light, almost reverent, and it sent a shiver down her spine. “What do you need?” Lucien’s gaze locked onto hers, his amber eye gleaming in the dim light. “A favor.” And just like that, she was back in the middle of it—of him, of the way his voice could make her pulse race, of the way his presence filled the room until there was no space left for anything else. She should have walked away. Should have told him to leave and never come back. But she didn’t. Because some favors weren’t just about what you gave. They were about what you took in return.