Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9P7X2PJ7BPEX14SXQKQ1X

The sharp click of the third deadbolt echoed through the cramped hallway of Eva's flat, a sound that always made Rory feel like she was unlocking a vault rather than just stepping inside. She juggled the greasy paper bag from the curry house below—chicken tikka masala for her, lamb rogan josh for Eva, who was buried in some occult tome in the living room—and nudged the door open with her shoulder. The scent of spices wafted up from the stairs, mingling with the musty aroma of old books and Ptolemy's latest hairball hidden under the side table. It was a Thursday night in East London, the kind where the rain pattered against the window like impatient fingers, and Rory's shift at the Golden Empress had left her feet aching and her mind numb from dodging traffic. She kicked the door shut behind her, the wood groaning against the frame, and dropped the bag on the cluttered kitchen counter. Scrolls and dog-eared research notes teetered precariously, threatening to avalanche onto the floor. "Eva? You alive in there?" Rory called, her voice laced with mock exasperation. No answer, just the soft rumble of Ptolemy's purr from the bedroom, where the tabby cat no doubt lounged on Eva's bed like a deposed king. Rory shrugged off her jacket, the black leather one she'd splurged on after ditching Evan, and hung it on the hook by the door. Her straight shoulder-length hair fell forward as she bent to untie her boots, the small crescent scar on her left wrist catching the dim light from the single bulb overhead—a reminder of a playground tumble, innocent compared to the scars life had etched since. At 25, she prided herself on keeping her head cool, her thoughts quick, but tonight, exhaustion tugged at her edges. A knock rattled the door. Sharp, deliberate. Not the frantic buzz of a delivery gone wrong, nor Eva's scatterbrained tap when she forgot her keys. Rory froze, boot halfway off, her bright blue eyes narrowing. Who the hell would show up unannounced at this hour? She padded to the door in her socks, the worn floorboards creaking under her 5'6" frame, and peered through the peephole. Her breath hitched. Lucien. The sight of him through the fish-eye lens twisted something deep in her chest—attraction laced with the sharp sting of old hurt. He stood there in the rain-slicked hallway, impeccably dressed as always in a tailored charcoal suit that hugged his lean 5'11" build, water beading on the slicked-back platinum blond of his hair. His ivory-handled cane rested lightly against his palm, that concealed blade she knew too well hidden within. One amber eye, one black, stared directly at the door as if he could sense her watching. Half-demon, information broker to London's shadowy underbelly, and the man who'd walked out of her life six months ago without a backward glance, leaving a trail of unspoken promises in his wake. Rory's hand hovered over the deadbolts. Part of her wanted to ignore him, let the rain soak him through until he slunk back to whatever underworld den he haunted. But the pull was there, magnetic and infuriating, the same spark that had ignited in a smoky bar off Silas's place, where he'd bought her a drink and whispered secrets in four languages she only half-understood. Complicated didn't begin to cover it—they'd tangled in more ways than one, bodies and hearts, until his world of demons and deals had clashed with her desperate bid for normalcy. She'd pushed him away, or he'd pulled back; the memory blurred in the hurt. With a curse under her breath, she twisted the locks and yanked the door open. Cool air rushed in, carrying the scent of wet pavement and his cologne—sandalwood and something faintly infernal. "Lucien," she said, her voice flat, arms crossing over her chest like a shield. "This better be good. Eva's not here, and I'm not in the mood for ghosts." His heterochromatic gaze locked onto hers, unblinking, the black eye swallowing light while the amber gleamed like polished stone. A faint smile tugged at his lips, not quite reaching those eyes. "Rory," he replied, his French accent curling around her name like smoke. He didn't move to enter, just leaned on his cane, rain dripping from the brim of his hat onto the threshold. "Not a ghost. Though I have been called worse. May I come in? The rain is... persuasive." She should say no. Slam the door. But her out-of-the-box thinking, the part that had gotten her from Cardiff's stifling expectations to this chaotic flat above a curry house, whispered otherwise. What harm in hearing him out? Besides, the attraction simmered beneath her skin, unbidden, making her pulse quicken at the sight of him—tall, composed, utterly out of place in the mundanity of Brick Lane. "Fine," she muttered, stepping aside. "But don't track water everywhere. Ptolemy's already claimed the rug." He inclined his head in thanks and stepped inside, his cane tapping softly against the floor as he shrugged off his coat. The flat felt smaller with him in it, the walls pressing in with their shelves of arcane texts and Eva's scribbled notes on everything from ancient runes to takeaway menus. Lucien hung his coat precisely beside hers, the fabrics brushing—a tailored wool against scuffed leather, worlds colliding. Rory closed the door, relocking the deadbolts with deliberate clicks, buying time. "What do you want, Luc? Last I checked, you were too busy brokering deals with things that go bump in the night to bother with the likes of me." He turned, water still glistening on his platinum hair, and surveyed the room with a practiced eye—the chaos of books piled on every surface, the faint glow of a desk lamp illuminating Eva's latest research sprawl. Ptolemy slunk out from the bedroom, his tabby fur fluffed against the chill, and eyed Lucien warily before rubbing against Rory's legs. "Charming place," Lucien said, his tone light but his black eye fixed on her. "Eva's, I presume? I remember you mentioning the cat. Ptolemy—after the astronomer?" She scooped up the cat, holding him like a buffer, his warmth grounding her. "Historian. And yeah, it's hers. I'm crashing here while I sort out... things." Work at the Golden Empress, the flat above Silas's bar that felt too empty alone, the lingering shadow of Evan. Lucien knew some of it; they'd shared that much in stolen nights, her head on his chest as he traced her scar with a fingertip, murmuring in French. Lucien moved closer, his cane silent now as he set it against the wall. Up close, she could see the faint lines of fatigue around his eyes, the toll of his half-demon heritage or the deals that kept him in the shadows. "I came for you, Rory. Not Eva, not information. Though I could use both." His amber eye softened, just a fraction. "It's been six months. You've haunted me." Her laugh was sharp, brittle. "Haunted? That's rich coming from you. You vanished, Lucien. One night we're... whatever we were, and the next you're gone, off to Marseille or Avaros or wherever demons summer. Left me with nothing but a note that said 'It's safer this way.' Safer for who?" He winced, a rare crack in his impeccable facade, and reached out as if to touch her arm but stopped short. The air between them thickened, charged with the rain's patter outside and the unspoken. She remembered his touch—confident, electric, igniting her skin in ways that scared her even then. Attraction, yes, but hurt too: the fear that his world would swallow her, that she'd be just another human pawn in his game. "Not safer for me," he admitted, his voice low, switching seamlessly to English laced with that Marseille lilt. "For you. My father... the realm of Avaros. There are debts, Rory. Obligations that follow me like shadows. After Evan, after what he did to you—" He glanced at her wrist, the scar, though it had nothing to do with her ex. Evan had been fists and control, not blades. "I couldn't drag you into it. But staying away... it's been hell." Ptolemy squirmed in her arms, and she set him down, the cat darting to Lucien's feet with feline curiosity. Traitor. Rory's bright blue eyes searched his face, hunting for the lie, but found only raw honesty—the kind that made her heart ache. They'd met at Silas's bar, her delivering late-night orders, him nursing a absinthe in the corner. Conversation had flowed like the drink: her Pre-Law dropout stories, his cryptic tales of underworld fixings. Attraction had sparked over shared smokes on the fire escape, his hand brushing hers, leading to a kiss that tasted of smoke and secrets. Nights blurred into passion in her flat above the bar, his body over hers, whispering endearments in Italian, Spanish, French. But then the complications: a demon contact spotting her, threats whispered in the dark. He'd left to protect her, or so he said. "You think I can't handle it?" she challenged, stepping closer despite herself, her voice softening. The curry bag sat forgotten on the counter, cooling. "I'm not some fragile Cardiff girl anymore, Lucien. I left an abusive prick, fled to London, pieced together a life. I don't need saving." His smile returned, wry and tender, the black eye gleaming with something like pride. "I know. That's why I couldn't stay away." He closed the gap then, his fingers—long, elegant, scarred from blade work—grazing her cheek. She didn't pull away. The touch sent sparks down her spine, reigniting the heat they'd shared. "I miss you, Aurora Carter. Your quick mind, your fire. The way you laugh at my bad jokes in four languages." Her breath caught at the full name, the one only her parents used, but on his lips it felt intimate, not formal. Hurt lingered, a thorn in her chest, but so did the pull—the way his amber eye held hers, promising depths she wanted to dive into. "You hurt me," she whispered, honest now, her hand rising to cover his on her cheek. "Walking out without a fight." "I'm sorry," he murmured, thumb tracing her jaw. "Let me make it right. No more shadows. Not if you'll have me." The rain intensified outside, drumming a rhythm on the window, but inside, the flat's chaos faded. Ptolemy watched from the counter, tail flicking. Rory searched his mismatched eyes, seeing the demon and the man intertwined, and felt her resolve crack. Things left unsaid bubbled up: fears of her past, his infernal ties, the fragile hope of something real amid London's underbelly. She leaned in, her lips brushing his in a tentative kiss—soft at first, testing. He responded with a hunger held in check, his free hand settling at her waist, pulling her close. The kiss deepened, tongues meeting in a dance of reconciliation, tasting of rain and regret and rediscovered want. Her fingers tangled in his damp platinum hair, disheveling the slicked-back perfection, while his cane lay forgotten, the blade within as dormant as their doubts. When they broke apart, breathless, foreheads touching, Rory smiled faintly. "This doesn't fix everything, Luc. But... start here." He nodded, his black eye warm for once. "Here is enough." They stood like that as the curry grew cold, the flat's books and scrolls silent witnesses to the fragile bridge rebuilding between them. Outside, Brick Lane pulsed with life, but in Eva's cramped haven, two worlds tentatively merged—human heart meeting half-demon soul, attraction weaving through hurt toward something unspoken yet profound. Ptolemy leaped down, weaving between their legs, as if approving the truce. For the first time in months, Rory felt the weight lift, her quick mind already plotting the next steps in this complicated dance.