Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9PAS81DCDDX9NG0P3JCG3

The door creaked open before Rory could even reach for the handle, the hinges groaning like an old man’s joints. The scent of damp wool and something sharper—like ozone after a storm—filled the air before the man stepped inside. Lucien stood there, his polished boots clicking against the linoleum, the cane tucked under his arm like it was nothing more than an accessory. His tailored charcoal suit clung to his broad shoulders, the fabric whispering against the movement of his chest. One amber eye locked onto hers, the other black, unreadable. His platinum blond hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place, but his jaw was tight enough to snap a twig. Rory froze, her fingers still curled around the doorknob. "You’re not supposed to be here." Lucien didn’t flinch. "Neither are you." The words hung between them, heavy as the silence that followed. Rory exhaled through her nose, her pulse hammering in her throat. She should’ve known better than to think he’d just leave it alone. Not Lucien. Not after everything. She stepped back, letting the door swing shut behind him. The flat was smaller than his, but it had its own kind of clutter—stacks of takeout menus, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the counter, the faint scent of soy sauce and garlic lingering from the deliveries she’d made today. Nothing like the sterile precision of his place in Mayfair. Lucien’s gaze flicked over the mess, his lips curling just slightly. "You’ve been busy." "Shut up," Rory snapped, but her voice lacked its usual bite. She crossed her arms, the movement instinctive, protective. "What do you want?" He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let his cane slide from his arm, the ivory handle catching the light as it settled against the floor. The blade inside was hidden, but she knew it was there. Knew the way his fingers twitched near the grip, the way his body tensed when he thought no one was looking. "Information," he said finally, his voice smooth as aged brandy. "About the man who’s been asking questions at the Golden Empress." Rory’s stomach twisted. "You’re not here about me." "Not yet." His gaze dropped to her wrist, lingering on the faint scar that ran along the inside of her forearm. The one she’d gotten when she was twelve, climbing a tree to prove she could. The one she’d never told him about. She yanked her sleeve down, hiding it. "Then what do you want?" Lucien stepped closer, the scent of him—leather and something darker, something that made her skin prickle—filling her lungs. "A favor." She laughed, sharp and humorless. "You don’t do favors. You do debts." His lips quirked. "This isn’t a debt. It’s a loan." Rory’s fingers flexed at her sides. "I don’t have anything to give you." "Then I’ll take something else." His voice dropped, rougher now, the amber eye burning into her. "Your time." She should’ve walked away. Should’ve slammed the door in his face and called the police if he didn’t leave. But the way he looked at her—like he could see right through her, like he’d always known the parts of her she tried to hide—made her chest tighten. "Fine," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "But I’m not doing it for you." Lucien’s smile was slow, dangerous. "I know." The air between them thickened, charged. She could feel the weight of everything unsaid, everything left between them—the way he’d walked out without a word, the way she’d let him, the way she’d spent the last year pretending she didn’t still think about him every damn day. "Where’s the man?" she asked, her voice cutting through the tension. "The one asking questions at the restaurant." Lucien’s expression darkened. "He’s not who you think." Rory raised an eyebrow. "That’s not exactly an answer." "It’s the only one I’m giving." He reached into his coat, pulling out a folded piece of paper. "This is his address. Meet me there in two hours." She took the paper, her fingers brushing against his. The contact sent a jolt up her arm, like static electricity. She unfolded it, scanning the address—some industrial district on the outskirts of the city. "Why me?" Lucien’s gaze flicked to her mouth, then back to her eyes. "Because you’re the only one who can get in without raising suspicion." Rory’s breath hitched. "And if I don’t?" His smile was all teeth. "Then I’ll have to find another way." She should’ve been scared. But all she felt was the old, familiar pull—the one that had always made her stupid when it came to him. "Two hours," she said, tucking the paper into her back pocket. "And Lucien?" He turned, his cane tapping against the floor. She swallowed hard. "Don’t make me regret this." His lips curled again, but this time, there was no humor in it. Just promise. "I wouldn’t dream of it." The door clicked shut behind him, leaving her standing there, her pulse roaring in her ears. She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to steady herself, but her fingers trembled. She should’ve known better than to think he’d just leave it alone.