Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9JEC22DX7WXBWNKAB346X

The third deadbolt clicked shut with a final, sharp *thunk*. Rory didn’t turn around. She knew that sound. Knew the way the air in the flat shifted, thickened, like someone had just walked into a room and sucked all the oxygen out of it. Ptolemy’s tail lashed against the armchair. His ears flattened. The cat never hissed—he just went still, all sleek muscle and wide, unblinking eyes, as if he’d already accepted this. Rory exhaled through her nose, slow and controlled. “You’re early.” The door swung open before she could finish. Lucien Moreau stood there, filling the frame in his tailored charcoal suit, the amber eye catching the dim light of the hallway first, then the black one. His cane leaned against the doorjamb, the ivory handle gleaming. No blade out. Not yet. “You said midnight,” he said. Voice smooth, like whiskey poured over ice. “It’s twenty past.” Rory didn’t move. Didn’t invite him in. “You’re not here for the meeting.” A beat. Then, slow, deliberate, he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with a quiet *click*. “No. I’m not.” The flat was small, cluttered with stacks of books and scrolls spilling over every surface. Ptolemy chose that moment to slink between Lucien’s legs, rubbing against his ankle. Lucien didn’t flinch. Just watched Rory, arms crossed, the fabric of his suit stretching over his shoulders. She finally turned, leaning against the kitchen counter. The scar on her wrist—small, pale—caught the light. “You could’ve called.” “Would you have answered?” No. She wouldn’t have. Lucien moved deeper into the room, his polished shoes clicking against the warped floorboards. He stopped at the bookshelf, running a finger along the spines. “Still reading up on demonic bloodlines?” “Still useful,” she said. He glanced at her. “You’re not scared.” “Should I be?” A smirk, quick and sharp. “Depends. Are you going to try and stab me first?” Rory pushed off the counter. “I don’t need a reason.” Lucien’s gaze flicked to her wrist again. The scar. The one from the night they’d— No. She wouldn’t think about that. “You look tired,” he said. “Funny. You don’t.” He didn’t deny it. Just tilted his head, studying her like she was a puzzle he hadn’t quite solved yet. “You’ve been working late.” “Delivery job. Golden Empress.” “Still?” “Still.” A pause. The air between them was thick, charged. She could feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing down, the way it always did when they were in the same room. Lucien finally broke the silence. “You didn’t answer my last message.” Rory crossed her arms. “I saw it.” “And?” “And nothing.” He stepped closer. Too close. She could smell the faint scent of bergamot on his skin, the same cologne he’d worn the last time they’d been in this flat. The last time they’d— “You’re avoiding me,” he said. “Am I?” “You haven’t returned any of my calls.” “You know why.” His jaw tightened. “Because of what happened.” “Because of what *you* did.” Lucien’s hand twitched toward his cane, then stopped. “You walked out.” “I walked out because you—” “Because I what?” His voice was low, dangerous. “Because I told you the truth?” Rory’s fingers curled into fists. “You told me you were something else. Something *more*.” “And you ran.” “I didn’t run.” Her voice was quiet, deadly calm. “I left.” Lucien exhaled sharply. “You always leave.” The words hit like a punch. She flinched, but didn’t back down. “You always push.” “And you always run.” Silence. Ptolemy chose that moment to leap onto the couch, curling into a tight ball. The only sound in the room was their breathing. Lucien finally spoke, softer now. “I missed you.” Rory didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He reached out, brushing his knuckles against her cheek. She didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. His thumb traced the line of her jaw, rough and warm. “I should’ve told you sooner.” “You should’ve told me *anything*.” His hand dropped. “I was afraid.” “Of what?” “Of losing you.” She laughed, sharp and bitter. “You already did.” Lucien didn’t argue. Just stood there, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the way his breath hitched when she didn’t move away. Then, slowly, he closed the distance between them. His hand cupped her face, fingers tangling in her hair. “I’m sorry.” Rory’s heart pounded. She should’ve pushed him away. Should’ve told him to leave. But she didn’t. His mouth found hers, hard and demanding. She kissed him back just as fiercely, her hands gripping his suit jacket, pulling him closer. The taste of him was familiar, intoxicating—like old memories and new promises. Lucien’s hands slid down her back, pulling her against him. She could feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of her shirt, the way his heart raced beneath her palm. Then, just as suddenly, he pulled away. Rory’s breath came in ragged gasps. “What—?” Lucien’s eyes were dark, intense. “We can’t do this.” “Why not?” “Because you’ll leave again.” She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he was wrong. But the words died in her throat. Lucien stepped back, adjusting his cuffs. “I came here to tell you something.” Rory’s stomach twisted. “What?” He hesitated. “There’s a job. Dangerous. Needs someone with your skills.” “And you?” “I’ll be there.” She studied him, searching for any hint of what was really going on. “Why now?” “Because I need you.” The words hung between them, heavy with meaning. Rory exhaled slowly. “When do we leave?” Lucien’s smirk returned, sharp and knowing. “Tomorrow.” She nodded, once. “Good.” He turned toward the door, then paused. “Rory?” She looked up. “Don’t run this time.” She didn’t answer. But she didn’t promise either.