Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9FSDANQSHQ5A9B4E5PZ96

Rory twisted the third deadbolt’s brass knob, her left wrist’s crescent scar stretching as she leaned into the effort—childhood bike crash, Brendan’s fumbling bandages still vivid in her mind. She’d been sorting Eva’s research scrolls when the rapid, sharp raps hit the door; Eva was out running errands, so she’d assumed a curry house delivery mix-up. The door creaked open an inch, and she pulled it wide before her brain caught up. Lucien stood on the brick step, tailored charcoal suit clinging to his 5’11” frame, platinum hair slicked back so every strand lay precise against his scalp. His ivory cane tapped once against the damp pavement, the sound cutting through the curry house’s distant clatter. One amber eye locked on hers, the black one a void that dragged her back to the night she’d screamed his name into a Marseille alley, his shadow vanishing before she could grab his sleeve. You don’t get to turn up here. She stepped back, her boot catching the edge of a stack of leather-bound books stacked by the door. The top volume—Eva’s research on Avaros demon hierarchies—slammed to the floor, its pages fanning out to reveal scribbled notes about half-demon bloodlines. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, trotted from the cramped bedroom, his tail flicking as he pressed against her calf, hissing once at the figure in the doorway. The Avaros emissary tracking your Golden Empress deliveries has already spoken to my father’s lieutenants. Rory’s fingers tightened around the doorframe, her bright blue eyes narrowing. She’d taken the delivery job to lay low after fleeing Cardiff, Evan’s shouts still ringing in her ears when she’d boarded the train to London. Lucien’s disappearance had come three months later, right after she’d stumbled on one of his fixer jobs—a supernatural debt collection that had left her hiding in a dumpster for four hours, her delivery bag crumpled beside her. You bailed on me when I needed you most. You left a note scrawled on a napkin and vanished. Lucien stepped over the threshold without invitation, his cane’s tip gliding over a scroll that had fallen from the windowsill. He adjusted his suit’s cuff, the movement deliberate, and his heterochromatic eyes scanned the flat—every surface coated in books, scrolls, and Eva’s research notes, the air thick with the smell of stale coffee and curry drifting up from the shop below. I didn’t have a choice. My father’s men had Eva’s address. They told me to leave you or they’d hand you over to Evan. Rory’s breath caught. She’d never known Eva’s flat had been compromised; Eva had installed the three deadbolts after Rory’s arrival, but she’d never mentioned a demon threat. Ptolemy jumped onto a stack of ancient scrolls, his weight making them creak, and stared at Lucien like he could see the demon blood coursing through his veins. You never told me that. Lucien’s cane tapped the floor again, this time harder. He’d spent the last year tracking the Avaros emissary, learning every detail of their plan to blackmail Rory into working for them—her pre-law training made her a valuable asset for their human-world schemes. He’d spoken four languages to gather intel, bargained with a vampire in Soho, and broken into a witch’s library in Hampstead to find Eva’s current address. I couldn’t. If I’d said a word, they’d have acted faster. They knew you’d trust me enough to follow a warning, and that would have led them straight to you. Rory turned away, her straight shoulder-length black hair sweeping over her shoulder as she knelt to pick up the fallen book. Her crescent scar caught the light from the window, and Lucien’s gaze locked on it—he’d traced that scar with his thumb once, on a night they’d hidden in a London park, watching the stars, his demon side quiet for the first time in years. I thought you’d chosen your fixer work over me. That you’d decided I was just another job. Lucien stepped closer, his suit brushing against a stack of scrolls that teetered but didn’t fall. He’d forgotten how it felt to be in a space that smelled like something other than smoke and supernatural bargains, how the clutter of human research could feel like a shield instead of a cage. You were never a job. You were the only thing that made this human world worth staying in. Ptolemy hissed again, then suddenly trotted over to rub against Lucien’s leg—a sudden shift that made Rory’s eyes widen. She’d never seen the tabby warm up to a stranger, let alone a half-demon. He likes you. That’s a miracle. Lucien smiled for the first time, a small, tight curve of his lips that made Rory’s chest ache. He’d forgotten how to smile without a mask, how to feel something other than the weight of his fixer duties and his demon heritage. He’s smarter than most humans. He can see I’m not here to hurt you. Rory leaned against the window sill, the cool glass pressing against her back as she stared at him. The flat’s clutter surrounded her—Eva’s research notes on Avaros, her delivery bag by the couch, the stack of books she’d been sorting—and she realized she’d been hiding from more than Evan and the Avaros emissary. She’d been hiding from the feelings she still had for Lucien, the hurt that hadn’t faded, the things left unsaid. What do you want from me? Lucien reached into his suit pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper—an intelligence report on the Avaros emissary’s next move. He’d typed it in Welsh, knowing it was her mother’s native language, so no one else could read it if it was found. The emissary will be at the Golden Empress tomorrow at 7 PM. He’ll offer you a deal: help him forge legal documents for his demon smuggling ring, or he’ll send Evan to your flat. Rory took the paper, her fingers brushing his. The contact sent a jolt through her—she’d tried to forget the way his hands felt, the way his lips had pressed against hers on that park night, but the memory flooded back. She unfolded the paper, her cool-headed pre-law training kicking in as she scanned the Welsh text, noting the emissary’s weaknesses, the locations of his hidden stashes. You risked your father’s wrath to get this. Lucien’s cane shifted, the ivory handle twisting slightly—a subtle sign he was ready to draw the hidden blade if needed. He’d already faced his father’s lieutenants once, taking a knife wound to the side that had left him limping for a month, but he’d do it again to keep Rory safe. I’d risk worse. Ptolemy jumped from the floor to the kitchen table, knocking over a half-empty mug of coffee that Eva had left out. The liquid spilled over a stack of scrolls, and Rory darted forward to blot it with a crumpled napkin. Great. Eva’s going to kill me. Lucien knelt beside her, his suit’s knee brushing the floor, and grabbed a handful of paper towels from the counter. He dabbed at the coffee stain, his movements careful not to tear the fragile scrolls—he’d handled ancient documents enough in his fixer work to know their value. I’ll replace them. I know a book dealer in Covent Garden who trades in Avaros scrolls. Rory paused, her napkin hovering over the stain. She’d never seen him be gentle with anything other than her, never seen him set aside his fixer’s edge to help with a trivial mess. You don’t have to do that. Lucien’s heterochromatic eyes locked on hers. He’d spent so long making excuses for his absence, so long hiding his feelings behind a wall of suits and cane taps, that he didn’t know how to be anything other than direct now. I want to. It’s a start. Rory went back to blotting the stain, her bright blue eyes focused on the scroll’s inked text—notes about Avaros demon hierarchies, about the way they manipulated human laws to cover their smuggling rings. She’d spent her pre-law years analyzing loopholes, and she realized she could use that skill to take down the emissary without involving the supernatural underworld. I can draft a tip for the police. Use my pre-law training to make it sound credible. They’ll raid the warehouse where he’s storing the forged documents before he can offer me the deal. Lucien nodded, his platinum hair catching the light. He’d never thought to use human law enforcement—his fixer work had always relied on supernatural bargains—but Rory’s quick, out-of-the-box thinking made perfect sense. That’s why I came to you. No one else could tie his supernatural schemes to human crimes that fast. Rory stood up, tossing the soiled napkin into the trash. She gestured to the stack of scrolls on the table, the ones Eva had spent months compiling. Eva’s got more notes on his human contacts. We can cross-reference them with the police database—she’s got a friend in the Met who owes her a favor. Lucien stood too, his cane leaning against the table. He reached across to take her hand, his fingers wrapping around hers, his thumb brushing her crescent scar. The contact sent a jolt through both of them, a reminder of the attraction that had never faded, the history that tied them together. I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I made you feel like you were alone. Rory’s breath caught. She’d waited three months to hear those words, to hear him acknowledge the hurt he’d caused. She looked at his hand, at the ivory cane beside him, at Ptolemy curled on the couch, and she knew she couldn’t turn him away. You have to promise me one thing. Lucien’s grip tightened slightly. He’d promise her anything, as long as he could stay by her side. Name it. You don’t leave again without telling me why. No more napkin notes. No more vanishings. Lucien nodded, his eyes serious. He’d keep that promise, even if it meant facing his father’s full wrath, even if it meant giving up his fixer work, even if it meant staying in the cramped Brick Lane flat surrounded by Eva’s books and Ptolemy’s chaos. I promise. Rory pulled her hand away, but not before she squeezed his. She knelt to grab a stack of Eva’s research notes, spreading them out on the table beside the Welsh report. She’d spent so long hiding from her feelings, so long convincing herself she didn’t need anyone, but now she had a plan—one that included Lucien, one that could fix the mess they’d both been trapped in. Let’s go over the warehouse details. The report says the guards change at 8 PM. That’s our window to send the tip. Lucien pulled a map from his suit pocket, spreading it out beside the notes. It was marked with the warehouse’s location, the guard positions, and the hidden exits he’d learned about from the vampire in Soho. I’ve got a contact who can distract the emissary while the police raid. He’s a werewolf who owes me a favor. Rory studied the map, her cool-headedness kicking in as she noted the warehouse’s proximity to a train station—perfect for the emissary to flee, but also perfect for the police to block all exits. She’d draft the tip to include that detail, to make sure the police were prepared. We’ll need to time the tip so it reaches the Met an hour before the raid. That gives them time to mobilize. Lucien nodded, his fingers brushing the map’s edge. He’d forgotten how it felt to work with someone who matched his intensity, who could keep up with his quick plans and his hidden fears. He looked at Rory, at her bright blue eyes focused on the map, at her crescent scar visible on her wrist, and he knew he’d found his way back to the only thing that mattered. Let’s get to work.