Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA1SBM3MCB03TH10Q0MQJX

The third deadbolt snicked open with a stubborn grind, and Rory’s fingers lingered on the brass knob, her palm slick with the sweat she’d tried to ignore since the first rap on the door. She was still in her Golden Empress delivery uniform— a faded red shirt emblazoned with the restaurant’s dragon logo, black leggings scuffed from bike rides through East London’s potholed streets— and she’d been kneeling on Eva’s cramped living room floor for an hour, organizing scrolls about supernatural rifts when the knock came. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, had been curled in her lap, his purr loud enough to compete with the Hindi music drifting up from the curry house below, but he’d lifted his head at the first knock, ears pricked like tiny radar dishes. Now he jumped down, his claws catching on the frayed edge of a scroll draped over the couch, and padded toward the door before Rory could stop him. When she pulled the door inward, the London rain hit her face in a cold spray, and for a second she thought she’d misread the figure on the step. But there was no mistaking the slicked-back platinum blond hair, the tailored charcoal suit that looked like it had never seen a drop of water, the ivory-handled cane tapping a slow rhythm against the wet brick. His eyes—one amber, one black—locked onto hers, and a jolt went through her that she couldn’t blame on the rain. The curry smell wafted up, sharp with cumin and coriander, and the pile of books behind her teetered, stacked so high they brushed the ceiling. “Bonsoir, Rory,” he said, his Marseille accent thickening the words like honey stirred into tea. It was one of the four languages he spoke fluently—French, English, Spanish, Arabic, his human mother having taught him each to hide his demon side from Marseille’s supernatural underworld— and the same phrase he’d used when he’d first approached her at Silas’ bar last fall, offering information about Evan’s whereabouts. Rory’s arms crossed over her chest, her left wrist brushing against her elbow—she didn’t mean to rub the crescent scar there, but the movement was instinctive, a habit she’d picked up when she was nervous about Evan, about the delivery shifts that took her through dark London alleys, about the way Lucien’s eyes made her forget how to breathe. “What are you doing here?” she said, her voice cooler than she felt. The pile of books behind her teetered again, and she glanced back just in time to catch a leather-bound tome about Avarian cultists before it crashed to the floor. The book’s cover was embossed with a symbol she recognized— the same symbol Lucien had carved into a wall in the warehouse last winter to warn off demon enforcers. Lucien’s gaze followed hers, his lips twitching into the faintest of smirks— the same smirk he’d worn when he’d helped her hide from Evan’s goons in that rat-infested warehouse. “Eva’s research hasn’t gotten any neater, I see. And you’re still wearing that delivery shirt— I thought you’d have quit by now.” “Yu-Fei pays well, and Silas gives me a discount on rent if I bring him leftover dumplings,” Rory said, stepping back just enough to let the door hit the stack of scrolls behind her. “Eva’s not here—she’s at the British Library tracking down a scroll about Avaros. You should leave before she gets back—she still hasn’t forgiven you for bailing on us. She used her research skills to track your demon father’s whereabouts for three months, you know, just to yell at him.” Ptolemy rubbed against Lucien’s polished leather shoe, his purr loud enough to cut through the rain’s patter and the Hindi music from below. Lucien hesitated, then bent to scratch the tabby’s chin, his long fingers careful not to ruffle his suit’s cuffs. “Ptolemy remembers me,” he said, his voice softer now. The movement made his slicked hair fall just a little over his forehead, and Rory had to fight the urge to push it back— the same urge she’d had when they’d huddled together in the warehouse, his breath warm against her neck as they listened to Evan’s goons search for them. “Cats don’t hold grudges,” Rory said, but she knew it was a lie—she’d held a grudge against Lucien for six months, ever since he’d vanished from that warehouse without a word, leaving her to patch up a cut on her forearm with a scrap of his suit fabric. She’d kept that scrap in her wallet, folded into a tiny square, even though she’d told herself a hundred times to throw it away. Her Pre-Law training had taught her to be logical, to let go of things that didn’t serve her, but when it came to Lucien, logic flew out the window. Lucien straightened, his grip on the ivory cane tightening—she knew what was inside, the thin blade he’d shown her once when they’d been hiding from a pair of demon enforcers, the blade he’d sworn he only used to protect people he cared about. “I didn’t come to see Eva,” he said, his amber eye flaring just a little— a sign that his demon side was stirring, a sign she’d learned to read when they’d worked together. “I came to see you. Evan’s working with the Avarian cultists.” Rory’s blood ran cold. Evan had been gone for a year, ever since she’d fled Cardiff to London with Eva’s help, but she’d always feared he’d track her down. He’d been abusive, yes, but he’d also had ties to Cardiff’s criminal underworld, ties she’d only discovered after she’d left him. “Avarian cultists?” she said, rubbing her left wrist again. The scar there throbbed— a childhood accident with a shard of broken glass from her father’s barrister office, but now it felt like a warning. Her mother, Jennifer, had tried to teach her to embrace folklore as a way to cope with the pain, but she’d never thought folklore would become her reality. “Your ex has been trading information about London’s human refugees to them in exchange for power,” Lucien said, stepping past her into the flat before she could stop him. The curry smell intensified, mixing with the scent of his cologne— sandalwood and smoke, a scent she’d dreamed about more than once. “They’re looking for a way to open a rift to Avaros, and they think you can help them. Your father’s barrister connections—they think he has access to old documents that map the rift locations. Documents he kept in his Cardiff office.” Rory’s back hit the wall, the scrolls digging into her shoulders. “My father has nothing to do with this,” she said, her voice cracking just a little. She’d not spoken to Brendan since she’d fled Cardiff, too angry at him for dismissing her fears about Evan, for telling her to “stick it out” because his barrister friends could “fix” the problem. Her Pre-Law training had made her hate the way her father used his connections to sweep things under the rug. “I know,” Lucien said, his gaze fixing on her left wrist. “That’s why I’m here. I can get you access to the cult’s plans— but I need your help. You’re the only one who can get close to Evan without him suspecting anything. Your Pre-Law research skills will let you sift through his documents without him noticing.” “You bailed on me last time,” Rory said, her voice rising. The Hindi music from below got louder, and she had to raise her voice to be heard. “You left me in that warehouse with a cut that needed six stitches and a note that just said ‘stay safe.’ You didn’t even have the guts to tell me why you were leaving. I called Silas to come get me, and he had to carry me to his bar because my leg was cramped from hiding under a crate for two hours. I used your suit scrap to wrap my arm until he could get me a bandage— I still have it, even though I know I shouldn’t.” Lucien’s black eye narrowed. “I left because I was scared,” he said, his voice raw. “My father’s side of the family— the Avarian demons— they’d been watching me. They sent me a text with a photo of your mother’s house in Cardiff, with a note that said if I kept working with you, they’d burn it down. They’d kill you. They’d kill Eva. They’d kill that cat of yours just to get to me. I couldn’t let that happen. I’m a half-demon, Rory. I have a side of me that I can’t control, a side that’s killed people. My mother taught me to hide it, but when my father’s family finds me, it’s hard to keep it in check. I didn’t want you to see that— to see the thing that’s terrified me since I was a kid in Marseille, hiding from demon enforcers in my mother’s laundry room.” As he spoke, he knocked over a small clay statue of a Welsh folklore creature— a gift from her mother, who’d taught her about it when she was a child to distract her from the pain of her wrist scar. Rory picked it up, brushing off the dust, and said, “My mother used to tell me that creatures like you were just stories. She said folklore was a way to make sense of the things we can’t explain. I never thought I’d be living one.” Lucien stepped closer, his cologne wrapping around her like a blanket. “I told my mother I’d never get involved with a human,” he said, his fingers brushing the edge of her Golden Empress shirt. “She said I’d regret it if I didn’t follow my heart. I regret leaving you. Every day. I checked on you from afar— saw you delivering dumplings, saw you laughing with Silas at his bar, saw you rubbing that scar when you thought no one was looking. I wanted to come back, but I was scared my family would find you.” Ptolemy jumped onto the couch, knocking over a scroll that fluttered to the floor at their feet. Rory glanced down— it was the scroll Eva had been looking for, covered in handwritten notes about Avarian rifts and the half-demons who could seal them. The notes included a line about her mother’s folklore books, which made Rory’s chest tighten. “Eva’s been researching your father’s realm,” she said, nodding at the scroll. “She thinks half-demons are the only ones who can seal the rifts. She thinks you can help.” Lucien’s gaze fell to the scroll, his fingers still hovering over her shirt. “I know,” he said. “That’s why I came now. The cult’s rift ceremony is in three days. We don’t have time to waste. I can teach you to read the Avarian symbols in your father’s documents— my mother taught me to read them when I was a child to hide from my father’s family. Your Pre-Law skills will help us sift through the lies they’ve planted.” Rory stared at him, her anger melting into something softer— something she’d tried to bury since he’d left. She’d always thought he’d left because he didn’t care, because she was just another job to his fixer self. She’d never considered that he’d left to protect her. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she said, her voice barely a whisper. Lucien reached for her left wrist, his fingers wrapping around the crescent scar. She flinched, but she didn’t pull away. “I thought if I told you, you’d think I was a monster,” he said. “I thought you’d run from me the way you ran from Evan.” The Hindi music from below faded, and the only sounds were the rain’s patter, Ptolemy’s purr, and the way Lucien’s heart beat against his suit. Rory leaned into him, her forehead resting on his chest, and said, “I’m not running. Not this time. My Pre-Law training taught me to fight for what’s right— and right now, that’s stopping Evan and the cult. And it’s staying with the person who’s been watching over me, even when I didn’t know it.” Lucien wrapped his arms around her, his cane clattering to the floor. The thin blade inside didn’t fall out— he’d locked it, she knew. “Good,” he said, his voice soft in her ear. “Because we have a rift to seal, and an ex to stop. And I’m not leaving you again. I swear it on my mother’s memory— the woman who taught me to speak four languages to hide, but also to love when I thought I couldn’t.” Ptolemy jumped onto their laps, his purr loud enough to fill the cramped flat, and the pile of books behind them finally crashed to the floor. But Rory didn’t care. For the first time in six months, she felt safe. For the first time in her life, she felt like she was where she belonged— pressed against the half-demon fixer who’d broken her heart and mended it in the same breath, in a cramped flat above a curry house, with a tabby cat purring between them and a world of supernatural danger waiting just outside the door.