Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9CHJ60JV6V3PEYNYRBXXD

The deadbolts clacked open one by one—three heavy turns that echoed through the narrow hallway of Eva's flat like reluctant confessions. Rory's fingers lingered on the brass knob, her heart thudding against her ribs in a rhythm she couldn't quite name. It was late, past midnight on a drizzly Brick Lane evening, the kind where the curry house below sent up the sharp tang of cumin and garlic through the floorboards. She hadn't expected anyone. Eva was out chasing leads on some obscure occult text, leaving Rory alone with Ptolemy the tabby, who now wound around her ankles with indifferent curiosity. The door creaked inward, and there he stood, framed in the sodium glow of the streetlamp outside. Lucien Moreau. The sight of him hit her like a sudden downpour—slicked-back platinum hair catching the light, his tailored charcoal suit impeccable even in the rain-slicked night, the ivory-handled cane hooked over his arm like an afterthought. One amber eye gleamed with that unnatural warmth, the other black as polished obsidian, pulling her gaze and refusing to let go. He was thirty-two going on eternal, a half-demon fixer who'd woven himself into the frayed edges of her life six months ago, only to unravel it all when she needed him most. "Rory," he said, his voice a low murmur laced with that Marseille accent, smooth as aged cognac. He didn't smile, but his lips twitched, as if the word alone carried some private weight. She gripped the doorframe, her knuckles whitening. The small crescent scar on her left wrist itched under the sleeve of her oversized sweater—a remnant from a childhood tumble off her father's garden wall, back when life in Cardiff felt safe and scripted. Now, at twenty-five, nothing felt scripted anymore. "Lucien. What the hell are you doing here?" He glanced past her into the cramped flat, taking in the chaos of books stacked like defiant towers on every surface: Eva's endless research notes pinned to the walls with thumbtacks, scrolls unfurled across the sagging kitchen table, the faint scent of incense clinging to the air from some half-forgotten ritual. Ptolemy paused his circuit, eyeing the intruder with slit-eyed suspicion before darting under the couch. Lucien stepped forward, uninvited, his cane tapping lightly on the worn floorboards as he crossed the threshold. The door swung shut behind him with a soft thud, sealing them in together. "I needed to see you," he replied, leaning the cane against the wall. Up close, she could smell him—bergamot and something darker, like smoke from a realm she pretended not to believe in. His heterochromatic eyes locked onto hers, bright blue meeting amber and black, and for a moment, the hurt flared anew, sharp as the night he'd walked away. Rory crossed her arms, her straight shoulder-length black hair falling forward to curtain her face. She was five-foot-six to his five-eleven, but she held her ground in the tiny entryway, the space between them crackling with unspoken history. Six months ago, they'd collided in the supernatural underbelly of London. She'd been delivering takeout for Yu-Fei Cheung's Golden Empress, dodging rain-swept alleys, when Lucien had slipped her a tip not in pounds, but in whispers—warnings about shadows that hunted her after Evan, her abusive ex, had dragged her into dealings she never signed up for. Attraction had sparked then, fast and forbidden: stolen nights in hidden clubs where he spoke four languages in her ear, his half-demon heritage a thrill she convinced herself she could handle. But when things with Evan escalated—bruises hidden under long sleeves, threats that echoed her father's courtroom battles—Lucien had pulled back. "You're too human for this world, ma chérie," he'd said, his voice cracking like thin ice. Things left unsaid piled up like Eva's books: her pleas for him to stay, his fear of dragging her into Avaros's demons, the way she'd screamed that he was just like Evan, running when it got real. Now, here he was, unannounced, forcing the past into the present. "See me? After you ghosted? I don't need your intel brokering tonight, Luc. Or whatever alias you're hiding behind this time." He winced at the nickname, the one she'd whispered in the dark, but didn't retreat. Instead, he shrugged off his sodden coat, hanging it on the hook by the door with deliberate care. Water dripped from the hem, pooling on the floor. "It's not about work. Though I hear you've been asking questions—about the sigils on those packages you deliver. Eva's notes are spreading like wildfire in certain circles." Rory's pulse quickened. She had been asking, piecing together the odd symbols that appeared on some of Yu-Fei's orders, ever since Silas mentioned whispers from his bar downstairs. But that wasn't why he was here; she could see it in the way his jaw tightened, the flicker of vulnerability in his amber eye. Ptolemy emerged from hiding, sniffing at Lucien's polished shoes before batting at the cane's ivory handle. Lucien knelt smoothly, scratching the cat's ears with a gentleness that twisted something in her chest. "Damn it, Lucien," she muttered, turning away to busy herself in the kitchenette. The flat was too small for this—bookshelves groaning under tomes on Welsh folklore and demonic pacts, the single bedroom door ajar to reveal Eva's unmade bed piled with more papers. She flicked on the kettle, more for the noise than the tea, her hands trembling slightly as she rummaged for mugs. "You show up at Eva's place like this, after everything? We ended it. Complicated terms, remember? You said I couldn't handle your world." He rose, his presence filling the space behind her like a shadow she couldn't outrun. "And you said I was a coward for not fighting harder." His voice was closer now, warm breath brushing her neck. She froze, the mug clinking against the counter. Memories flooded in: his fingers tracing the scar on her wrist that first night, calling it a mark of resilience; the way he'd kissed her in the rain outside Silas' bar, promising secrets but delivering only half-truths. Attraction had always simmered between them, a pull as inevitable as the Thames tide—his otherworldly allure against her quick, out-of-the-box mind. But the hurt lingered, raw and unhealed, from the night he'd vanished after Evan's threats turned demonic, leaving her to fend off shadows alone. Rory spun to face him, her blue eyes flashing. "You were. You left me to deal with Evan twisting into... whatever that was. Half-demon deals, Lucien. I thought we had something real, not just another underworld transaction." His black eye darkened, but the amber one softened, searching her face. He reached out, hesitating before his fingers grazed her arm, light as a whisper. The touch ignited sparks, old and familiar, pulling her back to tangled sheets in his Mayfair safehouse, where languages melted into moans. "It was real, Rory. More real than anything in Avaros or Marseille. My father... his blood calls me back sometimes. Demons don't love cleanly. But I never stopped thinking of you. The way you see through the suits and the cane—straight to the man underneath." She pulled away, but not far; the kitchen table pressed against her hips, trapping her in his orbit. Ptolemy jumped up, weaving between them, purring as if to mediate. The kettle whistled, shrill and insistent, and Rory poured water with unsteady hands, steam rising like a veil. "Then why now? Eva's out, but she'll be back. And I live above Silas'—this isn't my place to drama-bomb." Lucien took the mug she offered, their fingers brushing, sending a jolt up her spine. He sipped, wincing at the heat, then set it down. "Because I heard about the sigils. And about you digging deeper. The underworld's stirring, Rory. Evan's old contacts—they're half-demon like me, but twisted. I couldn't stay away. Not when you're in it again." The words hung heavy, laced with concern she hadn't heard from him since their parting. Hurt twisted in her gut, mingling with the undeniable pull—the way his suit clung slightly from the rain, outlining the lean strength she'd once mapped with her hands. She wanted to shove him out, bolt the three deadbolts, but her feet stayed rooted. Things left unsaid bubbled up: how she'd missed his voice in four languages, his quiet protection in a city that chewed up the unwary. "You think I can't handle it? After Cardiff, after Evan? I'm not the girl who fled anymore." He stepped closer, the cane forgotten by the door, his height forcing her to tilt her head. "I know you're not. That's what terrifies me." His hand cupped her cheek, thumb tracing her jawline, and she didn't pull away this time. The amber eye burned with longing, the black one with shadows of regret. Attraction reignited, fierce and unbidden, her body leaning into his touch despite the storm in her chest. Rory's breath hitched. "Lucien..." He closed the gap, lips brushing hers tentatively, a question wrapped in warmth. She answered by kissing him back, hard and hungry, fingers curling into his shirt. The flat faded—the books, the cat, the drizzle pattering against the window—like the world narrowed to this: the taste of rain and bergamot, the press of his body against hers. Hurt dissolved into heat, words unspoken pouring out in the tangle of limbs as she backed toward the bedroom door, pulling him with her. They stumbled over a stack of scrolls, laughing breathlessly—her cool-headed facade cracking under his gaze. Ptolemy yowled in protest from the table, but neither cared. On Eva's bed, amid the chaos of notes, Lucien peeled away her sweater, his lips finding the scar on her wrist. "Beautiful," he murmured, in French this time, the word a caress. She arched into him, tracing the line of his jaw, the slick platinum strands falling loose. "Stay this time," she whispered, the plea raw. "No more running." He paused, heterochromatic eyes meeting hers, amber promising dawn, black holding the night. "I swear it, Rory. No more." Outside, Brick Lane hummed with late-night life—the sizzle of curries, the distant laughter from pubs—but inside Eva's flat, time suspended. Attraction mended what hurt had torn, words forming in the quiet aftermath: apologies, confessions, the slow rebuild of trust. Rory lay against his chest, listening to his heartbeat—human-fast, demon-strong—knowing this reunion was no fairy tale, but perhaps the start of one worth the complications. The deadbolts held firm, guarding their fragile peace against the underworld's encroaching shadows.