Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY95644T89APQSCYRQP8GN1

The door creaked open, its three deadbolts retracting with a series of heavy clicks that echoed in the narrow hallway. Rory peered through the gap, her bright blue eyes narrowing against the dim light from the stairwell. The scent of curry wafted up from the shop below, spicy and insistent, mingling with the faint must of old books that permeated Eva's flat. She hadn't expected anyone—Eva was out of town, off chasing some obscure lead on ancient grimoires in Edinburgh, leaving Rory to mind the place and feed Ptolemy, the indolent tabby who now lounged on a stack of yellowed scrolls like a furry paperweight. But there he stood, impeccable as ever in his tailored charcoal suit, the ivory-handled cane hooked over one arm. Lucien Moreau. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, glowing faintly like embers in a dying fire, the other black as midnight—locked onto hers with that infuriating mix of amusement and intensity. His platinum blond hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place, as if the chaos of London's supernatural underbelly couldn't touch him. He looked like he'd stepped out of a film noir, all sharp lines and shadowed secrets. "Rory," he said, his voice a smooth French lilt that sent an unwelcome shiver down her spine. "Or should I say Aurora? It's been too long." She froze, her hand gripping the doorframe, the small crescent scar on her left wrist itching under her sleeve as if remembering old wounds. Two years. Two years since that night in the fog-shrouded docks of the Thames, when everything had unraveled. They'd been allies then, tangled in a web of demon deals and stolen artifacts. Attraction had sparked between them like flint on steel—stolen glances across smoke-filled rooms, brushes of hands that lingered too long, a kiss in the rain that had tasted of whiskey and regret. But then the job went south. Lucien's demon father had interfered, pulling strings from Avaros, and Rory had walked away, hurt and furious, words lodged in her throat like thorns. Things left unsaid: accusations of betrayal, confessions of something deeper. She'd fled back to her flat above Silas' bar, burying herself in deliveries for the Golden Empress, pretending the supernatural world—and him—didn't exist. Now here he was, unannounced, forcing the past into the cramped confines of Eva's flat. She wanted to slam the door, but curiosity—or something stupider, like the pull of unfinished business—held her back. "What the hell are you doing here, Lucien?" she asked, her Welsh accent clipping the words sharp as a blade. She didn't open the door wider, keeping the chain latched, though she knew it wouldn't stop a half-demon if he truly wanted in. He tilted his head, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Charming as ever. May I come in? Or shall we discuss matters on the landing, where every nosy neighbor can eavesdrop?" "Matters? What matters?" She crossed her arms, her straight black hair falling over one shoulder like a curtain she could hide behind. Ptolemy chose that moment to meow from inside, a low, demanding rumble that broke the tension. Traitorous cat. Lucien's mismatched eyes flicked toward the sound, then back to her. "Eva's not here, I gather. But you are. And I need your help, Rory. Desperately." The word "desperately" hung in the air, laced with a vulnerability she hadn't heard from him before. It tugged at her, against her better judgment. She unlatched the chain with a reluctant sigh and stepped back, letting him enter. The flat was a labyrinth of clutter: books towers teetered on every surface, scrolls unfurled across the worn sofa, notes pinned to the walls like a mad scholar's conspiracy board. The air smelled of ink and old paper, undercut by the faint tang of cat food. Lucien navigated it with graceful precision, his cane tapping lightly on the hardwood floor as he closed the door behind him. "Help with what?" Rory demanded, not offering him a seat. She leaned against the kitchen counter, arms still folded, putting as much distance as the tiny space allowed between them. The flat felt even smaller with him in it, his presence filling the room like smoke. He set his cane against a chair and ran a hand through his hair, disrupting the perfect slick for a moment. "A relic. From Avaros. It's surfaced in London—something my father wants back. Badly. It's causing... disturbances. Rifts opening in the veil, demons slipping through. I need someone I can trust to help retrieve it." "Trust?" She laughed, bitter and short. "That's rich, coming from you. Last time we 'retrieved' something together, you vanished when things got hot. Left me holding the bag with those shadow wraiths. I nearly died, Lucien." His face tightened, the amber eye flaring brighter. "I didn't vanish. I was pulled back—my father's doing. I tried to warn you, but you were already gone. Running, as you do." The accusation stung, echoing the hurt she'd buried. She'd run from Evan, from Cardiff, from anything that smelled of complication. And Lucien had been the biggest complication of all—a half-demon with secrets deeper than the abyss, who made her feel seen in ways that terrified her. That kiss in the rain had been electric, his hands framing her face, his body pressing close as thunder rolled overhead. But afterward, doubt had crept in. Was it real, or just another broker's manipulation? She'd never asked, and he'd never explained. "I don't run," she said now, her voice low. "I survive. And I survived you." He stepped closer, closing the gap she'd tried to maintain. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, infernal—wrapped around her. "Is that what you think? That I was a threat to survive?" His black eye searched her face, intense and unblinking. "Rory, that night... I didn't want to leave. There were things I should have said." Her heart pounded, the air between them thickening with unspoken history. She could feel the heat radiating from him, half-human warmth mingled with something otherworldly, like standing too close to a flame. "Then say them now," she challenged, her chin lifting defiantly. "Or get out." Lucien hesitated, his elegant fingers flexing at his sides. For a moment, he looked almost human—vulnerable, stripped of his fixer facade. "I cared for you. More than I should have, given what I am. My father's blood... it complicates things. I thought staying away would protect you. But seeing you now, I realize I was a fool." The admission hung there, raw and unexpected. Rory's breath caught. Attraction flared again, hot and insistent, pulling her toward him like gravity. She remembered the way his lips had tasted, the strength in his arms when he'd shielded her from a collapsing ward during that doomed job. Hurt mingled with it—the sting of abandonment, the ache of words unsaid. But here he was, showing up, forcing them together in this cluttered haven. "You think that's enough?" she whispered, her voice trembling despite herself. "Just show up after two years and say you cared?" "No," he murmured, reaching out to tuck a strand of her black hair behind her ear. His touch was gentle, electric. "But it's a start. Let me prove it. Help me with this relic, and I'll show you everything I couldn't before." She should pull away. Slam the door on him again, metaphorically this time. But his hand lingered on her cheek, thumb brushing her skin, and she leaned into it instead, the pull too strong to deny. Their eyes met, amber and black holding her bright blue gaze. The room seemed to shrink further, the stacks of books blurring into irrelevance. Before she could second-guess, she closed the distance, her lips crashing into his. It was fierce, hungry—a collision of pent-up emotion. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, his cane clattering forgotten to the floor. She tasted the same whiskey regret, but now laced with promise. His hands roamed her back, fingers tracing the line of her spine through her shirt, igniting sparks she'd thought long extinguished. They broke apart, breathless, foreheads pressed together. Ptolemy watched from his perch, unimpressed, tail flicking lazily. "Why now?" Rory asked, her voice husky, fingers tangled in his suit lapels. "Because I couldn't stay away any longer," Lucien replied, his French accent thickening with emotion. "And because the relic... it's tied to my past. To us, in a way. My father knows about you now. He sees you as a loose end." Fear flickered through her, but so did resolve. The supernatural world had a way of dragging her back in, and Lucien was its most compelling hook. "Then we handle it together," she said, surprising herself. "No more running. For either of us." He smiled, genuine and warm, the amber eye softening. "Together." They talked then, properly, as the evening deepened. Lucien perched on the edge of the sofa, displacing a pile of notes, while Rory brewed tea in Eva's mismatched mugs. He explained the relic—a obsidian amulet that amplified demonic rifts, stolen from Avaros decades ago and now in the hands of a rival broker in Whitechapel. His father wanted it to consolidate power, but retrieving it could sever those ties, free Lucien from paternal strings. Rory listened, her quick mind piecing together angles, out-of-the-box ideas forming like they always did under pressure. As they plotted, the conversation shifted, weaving in the personal. He asked about her life since—the deliveries, the flat above Silas' bar, the scars from Evan that went deeper than the one on her wrist. She opened up, haltingly at first, then with a rush of words she'd held back for years. He shared snippets of Marseille, his human mother's quiet strength, the pull of two worlds that left him forever divided. The attraction simmered beneath it all, building with every shared glance, every accidental brush of hands over maps and notes. When the clock struck midnight, the curry scents fading into night, Rory stood and extended a hand. "You can stay. Couch is lumpy, but it's yours." Lucien's eyes darkened with intent. "The couch?" She smirked, pulling him toward the bedroom, the decision impulsive but right. "Don't push your luck, Frenchman." They fell into bed, a tangle of limbs and rediscovered passion. His kisses trailed fire down her neck, hands exploring with a reverence that spoke of time lost. She arched into him, fingers raking through his platinum hair, pulling him closer. It was more than physical—a mending of fractures, a bridging of the chasm that had separated them. Hurt dissolved in waves of pleasure, unsaid things finally voiced in whispers between gasps. "I never stopped thinking of you," he murmured against her skin, his voice rough. "Prove it," she challenged again, and he did, thoroughly, until exhaustion claimed them. Morning light filtered through the flat's grimy window, casting golden motes on the disheveled bed. Rory woke first, Ptolemy curled at her feet, Lucien still asleep beside her, his face relaxed in a way she'd never seen. The relic loomed, dangers ahead, but for the first time, she didn't feel alone in facing them. Complicated terms had given way to something real, forged in the fire of reunion. She traced the line of his jaw, watching him stir. Whatever came next, they'd face it together—no more things left unsaid.