Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA5FT0NWSFX2XPWTYBY5MV

The third deadbolt clicked shut with a final, sharp *snick*. Rory didn’t turn around. She knew that sound. Knew the way the air in the flat thickened, like the moment before a storm breaks. Ptolemy’s tail twitched against the armchair, his ears flattening. “You’re late,” she said, voice steady. Too steady. The door swung open before she could brace herself. Lucien Moreau stood there, filling the frame in a charcoal suit that looked freshly pressed, his cane tucked under one arm like it was an afterthought. The amber eye locked onto hers, unreadable. The black one flicked past her shoulder, taking in the chaos of Eva’s flat—the stacks of books, the half-empty teacups, the way the lamplight made the scar on her wrist glow pale against her skin. “You always were,” he said. Rory exhaled through her nose. “Not helping.” He stepped inside, close enough that she caught the scent of him—bergamot and something metallic, like old coins. The door clicked shut behind him. Three deadbolts. Three layers of steel. And still, he’d walked in like he owned the place. “Eva not here?” His gaze skimmed the room, landing on the open laptop screen. A half-finished translation of a 17th-century grimoire, the margins scribbled with notes in Eva’s looping hand. “She’s at the British Library.” Rory crossed her arms. “You know that.” Lucien smirked, slow and deliberate. “Or you’re lying.” “Or you’re assuming I’d tell you if she was.” A beat. The air between them hummed, charged. She remembered the last time he’d stood this close—the way his fingers had traced the line of her jaw, the way his voice had dropped to something rougher than this. *Don’t.* “You look well,” he said. “Bullshit.” His smirk faltered, just for a second. Then he adjusted his cuffs, all business again. “I needed to see you.” “Could’ve called.” “Could’ve.” He tilted his head, studying her. “But I didn’t want to.” Rory’s pulse jumped. She hated how easily he read her. Hated how her body remembered things her mind tried to forget—the press of his palm against the small of her back, the way his lips had tasted like whiskey and something darker. “What do you want, Lucien?” she asked, voice low. His jaw tightened. “A job.” She blinked. “A *job*?” “You heard me.” “No, I heard *you* showing up unannounced like a—” She cut herself off. No point in playing his game. “What kind of job?” He hesitated, just a fraction. Then, “The kind that pays well.” Rory leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You’re not here for money.” His cane thudded against the floor as he shifted his weight. “No.” “Then what?” Lucien exhaled, slow. “There’s a problem. In the underworld.” “Of course there is.” “This one’s bad.” She arched a brow. “You’re telling me.” His gaze snapped back to hers, sharp. “I need your help.” Rory laughed, sharp and humourless. “Funny. I was just thinking the same thing.” Silence. Then, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “You always were quick.” “And you always were stubborn.” He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his amber eye, close enough to smell the rain on his coat. “We make a good team.” “We made a mess,” she corrected. His smile vanished. “That’s not what I’m here for.” “Then what?” Lucien reached into his jacket. For a second, Rory tensed—old habits, old fears. But he only pulled out a folded piece of paper, pressed between his fingers. “A name. A location. A problem that needs solving.” She took it. The paper was thin, the ink smudged at the edges. *Vesper Lane. Midnight. Don’t be late.* “You’re asking me to break into a demon’s stronghold,” she said. “No.” His voice was quiet. “I’m asking you to come with me.” Rory’s fingers curled around the paper. The weight of it, the weight of *him*, pressing in. She remembered the last time she’d stood in a place like that—the way the air had tasted like ozone and old blood, the way Lucien’s hand had been the only thing steadying her when the world had tilted. “Why me?” she asked. His gaze dropped to her wrist, to the scar she’d gotten trying to keep up with him once. “Because you’re the only one who knows how to handle me.” The words hung between them, raw and unspoken. The attraction. The hurt. The way they’d left things. Rory swallowed. “And if I say no?” Lucien’s voice dropped, rough. “Then I’ll find someone else.” She should’ve believed him. Should’ve walked away. Instead, she crumpled the paper in her fist. “When do we leave?”