Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8XWGA5V2M8MHWD98CN5D8

The third deadbolt stuck, Rory’s thumbnail scraping the brass as she jiggled it loose—Eva’s obsession with security had turned every door opening into a minor battle. The knock had come soft at first, easy to dismiss over the curry house’s fenugreek hum below, but it had persisted, sharp and insistent, until she’d peeled herself from the floor where she’d been sorting Eva’s scrolls on London’s 19th-century ghost circuits. Her left wrist throbbed, the crescent scar there pulsing a faint reminder of the childhood bike crash that had taught her to distrust sudden noises, and she’d grabbed a heavy leather-bound grimoire from the nearest stack before approaching the door. When she wrenched it open, the air outside smelled like rain and roasted lamb, and Lucien Moreau filled the threshold. She froze. His platinum blond hair was still slicked back into that precise wave he favored, like he’d just run a comb through it before climbing the three flights of creaky stairs. His charcoal suit was tailored so sharp it could have cut the curry fumes drifting up from below, and his ivory-handled cane tapped once against the worn doormat, the hidden blade inside a secret she’d only guessed at after she’d seen him snap it open to slice through a demon’s tentacle during a run-in in Camden. His eyes—one amber, one black—locked onto hers, and for a second she forgot how to breathe. “You,” she said, the grimoire slipping a little in her hand. “Rory,” he said, his voice low and smooth, the Marseille lilt she’d grown to love still clinging to the edges of his words. “I need to talk.” She should have slammed the door. She should have relatched the three deadbolts and called Eva, who’d warned her months ago that getting tangled up with a supernatural fixer would only end in hurt. But when he’d vanished without a word six weeks prior, leaving only a crumpled Golden Empress fortune cookie wrapper on her flat’s windowsill (the one above Silas’ bar), she’d spent nights replaying their last conversation—him promising to keep Evan, her abusive ex, from tracking her to London, her letting him touch the scar on her wrist, the way his amber eye had softened when he’d kissed her forehead. Instead, she stepped back, her boot catching on a stack of books about demon summoning. “Come in. But if you bolt again, I’ll use Eva’s grimoire to hex your cane into a rubber chicken.” He chuckled, a dry, quiet sound, and stepped inside. The flat was so cramped his shoulder brushed a shelf of scrolls, sending one tumbling to the floor. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby cat, came slinking from the bedroom, his tail puffed up like a feather duster, and hissed—loud, sharp, the kind of sound he only made when he smelled something supernatural. He rubbed against Rory’s leg once before leaping onto a stack of history books, his eyes fixed on Lucien like he was ready to pounce. Rory set the grimoire on the kitchen counter, where a half-eaten plate of samosas from the curry house below sat next to her Golden Empress delivery bag. Her hands were shaking, and she folded them behind her back to hide it, the scar on her wrist peeking out from the cuff of her faded band T-shirt. She’d worn the shirt that day for delivery runs, its fabric thin from repeated washes, and she could still smell the soy sauce and garlic from the last order she’d dropped off in Hackney. “Six weeks,” she said, her voice harder than she’d intended. “You left me with a fortune cookie that said ‘Fortune favors the bold’ and a demon from Camden breathing down my neck. Evan’s been sending me text messages—anonymous, but I know it’s him. I’ve been checking the deadbolts twice a night. I’ve been carrying a meat cleaver from the Golden Empress in my delivery bag, just in case he shows up at Silas’ bar.” Lucien’s expression softened, the black eye narrowing a little like he was in pain. He leaned his cane against the wall, his fingers brushing the ivory handle, and ran a hand through his hair—something he only did when he was flustered. “I didn’t have a choice. My father’s realm—Avaros. A demon from there had tracked me to London. He was using Evan as a pawn, feeding him lies about where you were. If I’d stayed, he would have killed you. He would have taken you to Avaros to use as leverage against me, to force me to do his bidding in the supernatural underworld.” Rory stared at him. She’d suspected he had ties to something otherworldly—his ability to speak to ghosts outside Silas’ bar, the way he’d vanished in a cloud of smoke during that Camden run-in—but he’d never told her the full truth of his half-demon heritage. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’m not some helpless kid who needs to be protected. I dropped out of Pre-Law because I got tired of people making choices for me. I fled Cardiff because I refused to let Evan control my life. I could have helped.” “I know,” he said, stepping closer. The curry smell was fading, replaced by the scent of his cologne—sandalwood and cinnamon, the same one he’d worn the night they’d danced in Silas’ bar after closing, when he’d taught her a few phrases in French so she could order coffee without being recognized by Evan’s contacts. “But you were already carrying enough fear. You’d just started to settle into the delivery job, to stop looking over your shoulder every time a car honked. I didn’t want to add a demon from another realm to your list of worries. I didn’t want to see that bright blue fire in your eyes die out.” She glanced at the fortune cookie wrapper, which she’d tucked into Eva’s grimoire for safe keeping. It was crumpled at the edges, the ink smudged from the rain that had leaked through her window the night he’d left. “You left a Golden Empress wrapper. I deliver for them. I thought you were trying to send me a message that you’d been watching me, that you hadn’t forgotten.” “I was,” he said. “I was at the restaurant the night I left. I watched you deliver a order to a vampire’s lair in Hackney, your delivery bag slung over your shoulder, your left wrist scar visible when you handed over the fried rice. I wanted to talk to you, but the demon from Avaros was hiding in the alley, his eyes glowing red. I had to leave before he saw me, before he traced my scent back to you.” She felt a lump form in her throat. She’d spent so many nights hating him, so many nights replaying the way he’d vanished without a word, that she’d forgotten how much she’d trusted him—how he’d been the first person since Eva to make her feel like she could breathe again. She’d forgotten the way he’d held her when she’d had a nightmare about Evan, the way his amber eye had softened when he’d kissed the scar on her wrist, the way he’d laughed at her terrible jokes about demon summoning. Ptolemy hissed again, but this time it was softer, like he was starting to relax. He curled up on the stack of history books, his eyes closing for a second. Lucien stepped closer, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. He reached out, his fingers brushing the scar on her left wrist, and she didn’t pull away. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth. I was terrified of losing you. You’re the first person who’s ever seen me as Lucien, not the Frenchman, not the half-demon fixer, not the man who speaks four languages to barter with ghosts and vampires. You’re the first person who’s ever cared about me, not what I can do for them.” Rory’s eyes filled with tears. She’d never told anyone how scared she was—how she still woke up in the middle of the night thinking Evan was at her door, how she’d dropped out of Pre-Law because she couldn’t stand the sound of her father’s voice telling her to be strong, how she’d fled to London because Eva was the only person who’d ever loved her unconditionally. “I thought you didn’t care,” she said, her voice cracking. “I thought I was just another job to you, another favor to cash in later.” He shook his head, his thumb brushing the scar again. “You’re not a job. You’re the only thing that’s ever made this realm feel like home. I spent six weeks in Avaros, fighting that demon, and all I could think about was the way you laugh when you burn the fried rice at the Golden Empress, the way you read Eva’s scrolls until midnight, the way your bright blue eyes light up when you figure out a way to outsmart someone.” She leaned in, her lips brushing his. It was the same kiss she’d missed for six weeks—warm, gentle, the kind of kiss that made her forget about Evan, about demons, about the three deadbolts on the door. He wrapped his arms around her, his hands resting on her waist, and she tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling it loose from its slicked-back wave. When they pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers, his breath coming in shallow gasps. “I need to tell you everything,” he said. “About Avaros. About my father. About the demon who’s still watching, who’s still looking for a way to get to you.” “I’m listening,” she said, her hand resting on his chest. She could feel his heart beating, fast and steady, and for the first time in months, she didn’t feel scared. “But first, you have to eat a samosa. They’re from the curry house below, and they’re the only thing that’s kept me sane since you left. Eva says they’re the spiciest in East London.” He laughed, the sound louder this time, and nodded. “Deal. But if they’re so spicy I can’t speak French for a week, I’m blaming you. And I’ll hex your delivery bag into a purse full of glitter.” Ptolemy jumped from the stack of books and rubbed against Lucien’s leg, his tail no longer puffed up. Rory smiled, looking at the mess of books and scrolls around them, the curry smell drifting up through the floorboards, the man she’d thought she’d lost standing in front of her. For the first time in a long time, fortune felt like it might actually favor the bold—like she might finally be able to stop running, to stop looking over her shoulder, to start living again.