Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9DF2QP52DW57DBCV2E4HM

Aurora's fingers trembled on the third deadbolt, the metal cold and unyielding under her scarred wrist. Ptolemy twined around her ankles, his tabby fur brushing her bare calves like a whispered warning. The flat reeked of cumin from the curry house below, mingling with the musty papery scent of Eva's endless stacks of books and scrolls. She'd crashed here after another brutal shift at Golden Empress, dodging Evan's ghost texts and the gnawing void Silas's bar flat offered tonight. Eva was out chasing leads on some occult relic—three deadbolts for a reason in this city—and Rory had the place to herself. Or so she'd thought. The knock came again, sharper this time, insistent. Not Eva's hesitant tap. She yanked the door open, the hinges groaning in protest. Lucien Moreau stood there, framed by the dim flicker of Brick Lane's streetlamps. His platinum blond hair gleamed slicked back, not a strand astray, and his charcoal suit hugged his frame like it was tailored by devils themselves—which, given his lineage, it might've been. The ivory-handled cane tapped once against the threshold, a subtle claim. One amber eye caught the light like molten honey; the other, black as abyss, swallowed it whole. He looked every inch the fixer, the information broker who'd slithered into her life six months ago and slithered out just as smoothly, leaving claw marks on her heart. "Rory," he said, voice like aged cognac, smooth with that Marseillaise lilt. Four languages, he'd boasted once, but English on him sounded like sin. "May I?" Her pulse kicked like a mule. She gripped the doorframe, nails digging into peeling paint. The last time she'd seen him, they'd been tangled in a Soho alley after a deal gone bloody—his blade flashing from that cane, her quick thinking saving his half-demon arse from a pack of ghouls. Attraction had ignited then, hot and reckless: his hand on her throat not to choke but to pull her close, lips crashing in the rain-slick shadows. Three nights of fevered what-ifs in his Mayfair bolt-hole, bodies mapping hurts neither voiced. Then nothing. A note: *Complications. Stay safe, chérie.* She'd crumpled it, told herself it was for the best. Cool-headed Rory Carter didn't chase demons. "What the hell are you doing here?" The words scraped out, sharper than intended. Ptolemy hissed from the floor, tail lashing. Lucien's mismatched gaze flicked over her—tank top clinging from the humid night, shorts riding high on her thighs, black hair tousled from futile attempts at sleep. A ghost of a smile tugged his lips. "You always answer doors armed with questions. Charming." "I'm not inviting you in." But her body betrayed her, hip easing the door wider. The flat's chaos spilled into the hall: towers of grimoires teetering on the side table, Eva's research notes pinned to every wall like conspiracy wallpaper. He didn't move, just leaned on his cane, the ivory handle catching the light. "Eva's flat. Bold choice for a midnight rendezvous." "It's not—" She bit off the denial. Heat crawled up her neck. "Eva's out. And you're not welcome." "Liar." That black eye pierced her, seeing too much. "You know why I'm here." She did. Whispers in the underworld: Rory Carter, the Pre-Law dropout turned delivery girl with a knack for outmaneuvering supernaturals. Lucien had used her once, fed her scraps of info to bait a rival. She'd played along, thinking it mutual. Until the hurt settled in, realizing she was just another pawn in his fixer games. "Spit it out, Frenchman, then leave." Ptolemy leaped onto the arm of the sagging sofa behind her, yellow eyes fixed on the intruder. Lucien stepped forward, uninvited, his cane preceding him like a scepter. The door clicked shut behind him—three deadbolts? She'd forgotten to relock. Amateur. He filled the cramped space, the scent of his cologne—sandalwood and brimstone—overpowering the curry haze. "Evan's back in London." Her stomach plummeted. Ex-Evan, the bruise-leaver who'd driven her from Cardiff. "How—?" "Avaros connections." His demon father's realm, no doubt. "He's dabbling. Hired muscle from the pits. Targeting you." She laughed, brittle. "Let him. I'm not the girl he broke." Lucien's jaw tightened, the amber eye flaring. "You're precisely that girl if you think bravado saves you." He set his cane against the wall, freeing his hands—long fingers, scarred knuckles from fights she hadn't witnessed. He closed the distance, stopping inches away. Heat radiated off him, unnatural. "I came to warn you." "Warn me? Or collect?" She jabbed a finger at his chest, firm under silk. Mistake. Touching him ignited memories: those hands pinning hers above her head, breath hot against her scar as he traced it with his tongue. His hand captured hers, thumb stroking the crescent mark. "Both." Voice dropped, velvet over gravel. "I never stopped watching, Rory. Even after." "After you ghosted?" The words cracked. Hurt surged, raw. "Complications, was it? Bollocks." He released her wrist but didn't retreat. Ptolemy watched from the sofa, tail twitching. The flat felt smaller, air thick with unsaid things. Books loomed like silent judges—Eva's occult tomes on demons, bindings frayed from use. "I had to." Lucien's free hand rose, hesitating before cupping her jaw. Calluses rough against her skin. "My world... it chews up humans. Your ex sniffed too close after Soho. I cut ties to protect—" "Patronizing shite." She slapped his hand away, but her body leaned in, traitor. Blue eyes locked on his mismatched stare. Amber warmth, black void—drawing her like gravity. "I don't need your protection. Never did." "Liar again." He surged closer, cane forgotten, bodies brushing. Her tank top whispered against his vest. "You needed me that night in the alley. Needed this." His mouth claimed hers before she could retort—fierce, demanding. She gasped into it, hands fisting his lapels. Taste of him: smoke and salt, forbidden. Six months of pent-up fury melted into hunger. She shoved him back, but only to the sofa's edge, tumbling with him onto sagging cushions. Ptolemy yowled and fled to the kitchen. Lucien's arms banded her waist, pulling her astride him. "Tell me to stop," he murmured against her lips, heterochromatic eyes blazing. She didn't. Instead, she ground down, feeling his hardness through wool trousers. "Complicated enough for you?" A growl rumbled from his chest, demonic edge vibrating through her. His fingers tangled in her black hair, angling her head for deeper plunder. Tongues battled—hers defiant, his conquering. Hurt twisted with want: the ache of abandonment, the thrill of reunion. She raked nails down his neck, drawing a hiss. "You left," she panted, breaking free. "No note would've sufficed." "Would've dragged you under." He nipped her earlobe, breath ragged. "Avaros blood calls to chaos. I fought it—for you." Her hands roamed, unbuttoning his shirt. Platinum chest hair peeked, muscled planes etched from half-demon vigor. The scar on her wrist brushed his skin; he kissed it, reverent. "Evan marked you here?" "Childhood." Lie by omission—Evan's bruises faded faster than this old mark. But the vulnerability spilled anyway. "You think you're better?" His black eye darkened. "I'll kill him for you." Promise, not hyperbole. Fingers dipped under her tank, thumb circling her nipple through lace. She arched, moan escaping. "Don't." But her hips rolled, friction sparking stars. Books toppled nearby—some demonology treatise thudding to the floor. "Just... this." He flipped them, pinning her beneath his weight. Sofa springs protested. His cane clattered nearby, blade half-unsheathed in the fall. "This?" Mouth trailed fire down her throat, sucking at collarbone. "Months of regret, chérie, and you want half-measures?" She yanked his hair, forcing his gaze. "All of you terrifies me." Truth, stark. Intelligent Rory saw the abyss in his black eye—his father's realm, pulling. "Good." He shed his jacket, vest following. Tailored perfection discarded for raw need. Her shorts vanished next, his hands everywhere—knowing, possessive. Skin on skin, slick heat building. Ptolemy peered from the kitchen archway, judgmental. They moved like enemies turned lovers: bites marking old hurts, thrusts claiming new ground. Her legs hooked his waist, urging deeper. "Say it," she demanded, nails scoring his back. "Why now?" "You." He buried his face in her neck, rhythm faltering. "Always you. The human who outthinks demons." Amber eye met her blue—vulnerable. "I parted to save us. Failed." Climax shattered her first, waves crashing. He followed, growl primal, body shuddering. They clung, sweat-slick, breaths mingling amid the flat's clutter. Reality crept back: deadbolts unlocked, Eva due any minute, Evan's shadow looming. Lucien withdrew gently, heterochromatic gaze soft. He fetched her shorts, knelt to slide them on—tender fixer. "Stay," she whispered, surprising herself. His smile crooked. "Complications remain." But he lingered, pulling her against his chest. Ptolemy jumped up, kneading his thigh. The cat approved? Outside, Brick Lane hummed—drunk laughter, curry scents wafting. Inside, books whispered secrets, scrolls rustled like conspirators. Rory traced his cane's handle, blade glinting. History tangled anew: attraction reborn, hurts half-mended, words unsaid hovering. "I won't leave again," he vowed, lips to her scar. "Not without you." She believed him. For tonight, in Eva's book-strewn sanctuary, it was enough. Tomorrow's demons could wait.