Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8XP8XMAHRXGVTGSD4YZKF

The door creaked open on its overworked hinges, revealing a sliver of the chaotic Brick Lane night outside—curry scents wafting from the shop below, distant laughter from pub crawlers, the flicker of neon signs. Rory blinked, her hand still gripping the knob, one deadbolt flipped back but the other two steadfast. There he stood, Lucien Moreau, impeccable as ever in his tailored charcoal suit, the ivory-handled cane tucked under his arm like an afterthought. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—locked onto hers with that unnerving intensity, as if he'd been expecting her all along. "Rory," he said, his voice smooth, laced with that faint Marseille accent that always made her name sound like a secret. He didn't smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched, a ghost of amusement or regret—she couldn't tell which. She froze, her pulse kicking up like it'd been dormant for months and suddenly remembered how to race. The last time she'd seen him, it had been in the dim glow of Silas' bar, words hurled like weapons, her walking out with her heart in shreds. That was six months ago. Now, here he was, unannounced, on Eva's doorstep, while Eva was off chasing some arcane lead in Edinburgh. Rory had been crashing here for the week, minding Ptolemy the tabby and drowning in Eva's endless stacks of books to avoid her own empty flat above the bar. Of all places, why here? How had he even known? "What the hell are you doing here?" she managed, her voice sharper than intended. She didn't open the door wider, keeping the chain latched, a flimsy barrier between them. Her bright blue eyes narrowed, taking in the slicked-back platinum blond hair, the way his suit hugged his 5'11" frame like it was made for sin. He looked unchanged, untouched by time or whatever demonic lineage coursed through his veins. Unlike her, with her straight black hair tousled from a long day of deliveries for the Golden Empress, a smudge of soy sauce still on her sleeve. Lucien's gaze flicked to the chain, then back to her face. "May I come in? It's not safe to discuss this on the street." He glanced over his shoulder, as if the shadows themselves might be listening. Always the fixer, the information broker, paranoid in ways that had once thrilled her and now just exhausted her. "Discuss what? You vanished, Lucien. No calls, no messages. Just poof—gone like smoke." Hurt laced her words, old wounds reopening. She'd thought they had something real, back when he'd first pulled her into London's supernatural underbelly. Stolen kisses in alleyways, whispered secrets about his half-demon heritage, nights where his amber eye glowed softly in the dark as he traced the crescent scar on her left wrist. But then came the arguments—the lies he'd spun to protect her, the jobs that pulled him into danger, the way his demonic side made him pull away just when she needed him close. The final blow: Evan, her abusive ex, resurfacing with threats, and Lucien handling it his way, bloody and final, without telling her. She'd called him a monster. He'd agreed and left. He exhaled, a rare crack in his composure. "I didn't vanish. I gave you space. After what happened with Evan... you were right. I'm not safe to be around." His black eye seemed to deepen, absorbing the light from the hallway bulb. "But things have changed. I need your help, Rory. And you need mine." She scoffed, but curiosity gnawed at her. Cool-headed Rory, always thinking out of the box—that's what her friends called her. But with him, logic frayed. "My help? You're the one with connections in every shadowy corner of this city. What could you possibly need from a part-time delivery girl?" He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a murmur that sent unwelcome shivers down her spine. "It's about Avaros. My father's realm. There's a rift opening, and it's tied to something here in London. Eva's notes—I know she's been researching it. I tracked you here because I figured you'd be the one holding down the fort." Ptolemy chose that moment to slink up behind her, his tabby fur brushing her ankle with a low purr that turned into a hiss at the sight of Lucien. The cat's green eyes fixed on the intruder, tail flicking like a warning flag. Rory scooped him up instinctively, his warmth grounding her. "Eva's out of town. And even if she weren't, what makes you think I'd let you rifle through her stuff? You show up after all this time, and that's your opener?" Lucien's expression softened, the amber eye warming like embers. "It's not just that. Rory, I've missed you." The words hung there, raw and unexpected, stripping away his polished veneer. He reached out, fingers brushing the doorframe, close enough that she could smell his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, infernal. "Every day. I thought staying away was the right thing, but it gutted me. The things I didn't say... I should have fought for us." Her breath caught. There it was, the attraction that had always simmered between them, flaring back to life like a struck match. Hurt mingled with it, a tangle of emotions she'd buried under work and routine. Things left unsaid: how she'd loved the way he spoke French in quiet moments, translating poetry while his hand traced patterns on her skin; how his cane, with its hidden blade, had saved her life once; how his half-demon blood made him vulnerable in ways he'd never admit. But the pain—god, the pain of waking up alone, wondering if he'd chosen his underworld dealings over her. She unlatched the chain, stepping back to let him in, though every instinct screamed caution. "Fine. Come in. But if this is some ploy, Lucien, I swear—" He stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him, sealing them in the cramped flat. Books towered on every surface—ancient tomes on demonology, scrolls yellowed with age, Eva's research notes scribbled in frantic handwriting. The air smelled of old paper and curry spices seeping up from below. Ptolemy wriggled free from her arms, darting to a perch on a stack of grimoires, watching Lucien with suspicion. Lucien set his cane against the wall, his movements deliberate, like he was trying not to spook her. "No ploy. I promise." He turned to face her, closer now in the confined space, his height making the room feel smaller. "The rift—it's pulling things through. Demons, artifacts. One of them is linked to your family, Rory. Your father's old cases, something about a barrister who tangled with the occult in Cardiff." Her stomach dropped. Brendan Carter, the Irish barrister—always so proper, but there were stories, whispers from her childhood about cases that bent reality. "How do you know that?" "I'm good at what I do." He smirked faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "But I can't stop it alone. And I won't drag you in without explaining everything this time. No more secrets." She crossed her arms, leaning against the kitchenette counter to steady herself. The flat's single bedroom loomed in the background, a messy haven of blankets and more books, but here in the living area, it felt intimate, charged. "You say that now. But last time, you decided what was best for me. Treated me like I couldn't handle your world." His jaw tightened, and he took a step toward her, closing the gap. "I was wrong. Scared, maybe. My father— the demon side—it's not just power. It's a curse. It makes me... destructive. I didn't want to destroy you too." His hand lifted, hesitating, then gently tucked a strand of her black hair behind her ear. The touch was electric, familiar, igniting memories of nights when his fingers had mapped every inch of her. Rory's resolve wavered. She didn't pull away. "You didn't. You leaving did." Her voice softened, vulnerability slipping through. At 25, she'd fled Cardiff, left Pre-Law and Evan behind, rebuilt in London with Eva's help. But Lucien had been the one to make her feel alive, seen. "I thought we were partners. Equals. Not some fragile human you had to shield." He cupped her cheek, his palm warm despite the infernal blood. "We were. We are, if you'll let us be." The black eye searched hers, deep and unending, while the amber one burned with restrained heat. "I've spent months regretting not saying this: I love you, Aurora Carter. All of you—the quick thinker, the fighter, the woman who sees through my bullshit." The words hit like a punch, stealing her breath. Attraction surged, pulling her toward him, but hurt anchored her. "Lucien..." She placed her hand over his, feeling the steady beat of his pulse—human enough to remind her he wasn't all monster. "You hurt me. Badly." "I know." He leaned in, forehead resting against hers, his breath mingling with her own. "Let me make it right. Starting tonight." The kiss came naturally, inevitable, her lips meeting his in a rush of pent-up longing. It started soft, tentative, his mouth tasting of mint and secrets, but deepened as she responded, her fingers threading into his slicked-back hair, disrupting the perfect order. He pulled her closer, hands sliding to her waist, lifting her slightly onto her toes despite their close heights. The world narrowed to this—the press of his body, the way he murmured her name like a prayer, "Rory," between kisses. Ptolemy meowed indignantly from his perch, breaking the spell momentarily. Rory laughed against Lucien's lips, a breathless sound that eased the tension. "Jealous cat," she whispered. Lucien chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "He has good instincts." But he didn't let go, his arms wrapping around her fully now, holding her as if afraid she'd slip away again. They sank onto the sagging couch amidst the books, the weight of unsaid things finally spilling out. She told him about the lonely months, the deliveries that kept her moving, the fear that Evan wasn't truly gone. He confessed his wanderings through Avaros's fringes, seeking ways to control his demonic urges, all while thinking of her. The attraction rebuilt itself, brick by brick, laced with forgiveness. Hours passed in murmured conversations, his cane forgotten by the door, the three deadbolts securing them from the outside world. Outside, Brick Lane bustled on, oblivious, but inside Eva's flat, something mended. Hurt lingered, but so did hope—the kind that comes from things finally said, from two people forced together again, choosing to stay. As dawn crept through the grimy window, Rory traced the lines of his face, her head on his shoulder. "Don't leave this time," she said, not a plea but a demand. He kissed her forehead, his heterochromatic eyes soft in the growing light. "I won't. We're in this together." And for the first time in months, she believed him.