Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYADYZ6HPWSWR1BMBEBYKZQ

Aurora's fingers fumbled with the third deadbolt, the heavy clunk echoing through the cramped hallway of Eva's flat like a reluctant confession. The air inside reeked of curry spices seeping up from the restaurant below—cumin and turmeric clinging to every book-strewn surface—and Ptolemy, Eva's tabby cat, wound around her ankles with an insistent meow. It was past ten on a drizzly London night, and Rory had no business opening the door to anyone. But the knock had been precise, three measured raps, not the frantic pounding of a neighbor or the lazy buzz of a delivery. She yanked the door open, the hinges groaning in protest, and there he stood. Lucien Moreau. The sight of him hit her like a gut punch, stealing the breath she'd been hoarding since she'd fled Cardiff. Platinum blond hair slicked back impeccably, not a strand disturbed by the rain that glistened on his tailored charcoal suit. His ivory-handled cane rested lightly in his right hand, the other tucked into his pocket with casual elegance. Those eyes—one amber, gleaming like polished citrine, the other black as abyssal ink—locked onto hers with unnerving intensity. "Rory," he said, his voice a silken drawl laced with that Marseille accent, four languages woven into every syllable. "Or should I say Laila tonight? You always did favor disguises." Her heart slammed against her ribs, bright blue eyes narrowing as she gripped the doorframe. The small crescent scar on her left wrist itched under her sleeve, a phantom reminder of childhood falls and promises broken long before this man. Five months. Five months since she'd stormed out of his Mayfair penthouse, his demon-tainted scent—smoke and oud—clinging to her skin like a curse. They'd burned hot and fast: stolen nights in shadowed corners of London's underworld, his hands mapping her body with the precision of a cartographer, whispers of alliances against threats she barely understood. Then the hurt—the way he'd vanished into his "business" after her ex, Evan, had shown up snarling threats, leaving her to fend off the bruises alone. Things left unsaid: her fear of his half-demon blood, his refusal to drag her deeper into the shadows. "What the hell are you doing here?" She kept her voice cool, a blade wrapped in velvet, but her straight shoulder-length black hair fell across her face, betraying the tremor in her hand as she steadied the door. Ptolemy slunk past her legs, rubbing against Lucien's polished shoe with traitorous affection. He didn't flinch, didn't smirk. Instead, he tilted his head, amber eye flickering in the dim light of the hallway bulb. "May I come in? The rain is less forgiving than your hospitality." "No." The word snapped out sharper than intended, but she didn't step aside. Eva's flat wasn't hers—cramped one-bedroom chaos of stacked books, yellowed scrolls pinned to walls, research notes fluttering like trapped moths—but it felt like sanctuary. Three deadbolts for a reason. "You lost your key to my soul or something? Last I checked, we were done." Lucien's lips curved, not quite a smile, more a predator's assessment. He leaned on his cane, the ivory handle carved with subtle infernal runes she now recognized. "Done? Mon cœur, we were never finished. Just... interrupted." His black eye seemed to swallow the light, pulling at her like gravity. Rain dripped from his lapels, pooling at his feet, but he ignored it. "Evan's back. With friends. The kind that don't play by human rules." Her stomach twisted. Evan—the abusive shadow she'd run from, the reason she'd crashed into Eva's life and this cluttered haven on Brick Lane. Pre-Law dreams shattered, delivery gigs at Golden Empress barely paying the rent above Silas' bar. And Lucien, who'd swept in like a storm, promising protection in exchange for... everything. Attraction had ignited in the spaces between danger: his fingers tracing her scar in the dark, her nails raking his back as heterochromatic eyes bored into hers during fevered thrusts. Hurt had followed when he'd prioritized his underworld deals, leaving her to Evan's fists. "Bullshit." She crossed her arms, the damp chill from the open door seeping into her thin sweater. But doubt flickered. Lucien's world was real—demons from Avaros, brokers like him trading secrets in tailcoated shadows. "You expect me to believe you tracked me here for my sake? After you ghosted?" He stepped closer, invading her space without touching the threshold. The scent of him cut through the curry haze: expensive cologne masking brimstone. "Ghosted? I shielded you. Your ex unearthed contacts—low-level imps sniffing around Cardiff connections. Your father's barrister firm? Compromised. I handled it quietly." Her pulse thrummed in her throat. Brendan Carter's stern face flashed in her mind, Jennifer's soft Welsh lilt urging her to law school. Family she'd distanced herself from, but not erased. "Handled how? With your cane-blade? Or by fucking off to Marseille?" The amber eye darkened, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "Language, Rory. We're not children." But his gaze dropped, tracing the line of her neck, the swell of her breasts under the sweater—hunger undisguised. Ptolemy leaped onto a nearby stack of books, tail flicking as if arbitrating. She hated how her body responded, heat pooling low despite the anger. Cool-headed Rory, quick-thinking Rory, reduced to this magnetic pull. "Get out. Eva's not here, and neither is my welcome mat." Lucien exhaled, a sound like distant thunder. Then, with deliberate slowness, he extended his free hand, palm up. Raindrops clung to his skin like diamonds. "Five minutes. Hear me out. Then I'll leave—if you still want me gone." Against every instinct screaming trap, she stepped back. The door swung wider, admitting him like a shadow lengthening at dusk. He moved with fluid grace, cane tapping softly on the scuffed floorboards. The flat enveloped him awkwardly—his broad shoulders brushing stacks of occult tomes, his height forcing a slight stoop under the low ceiling. Ptolemy purred, weaving figure-eights around his ankles as Lucien closed the door, the deadbolts clicking home under his deft fingers. "Show-off," she muttered, retreating to the kitchenette. Every surface screamed Eva: grimoires open to summoning circles, notebooks scribbled with Enochian script. Rory poured tea from a chipped pot, the steam curling like unspoken accusations. "Talk." He leaned against the doorframe, suit jacket straining across his chest. "Evan's allied with a minor lordling from Avaros. Petty, but persistent. They know about you—your out-of-the-box mind, as Eva calls it. Leverage against me." Her hand stilled on the mug. Leverage. That's what she'd been, hadn't she? A human spark in his demonic game. But the attraction—God, the way he'd kissed her wrist scar, murmuring French endearments as he entered her slow and deep, worlds colliding in gasps and shudders. Hurt had cracked it open: his silence after Evan's last attack, her pride demanding escape. "Why me?" She turned, meeting those mismatched eyes. Amber pleaded; black commanded. "You could've warned Eva. Or Silas." "Because it's you, Aurora." His voice dropped, rawer than she'd heard it. He straightened, closing the distance in two strides. The cane clattered against a bookshelf, forgotten. "From the moment you delivered that parcel to my club—Yu-Fei's finest dumplings, if memory serves—you saw through the suit. Called me 'the Frenchman' with that Cardiff bite. We parted because I feared dragging you under. My blood... it's not gentle." She set the mug down, porcelain clinking. Inches separated them now, his heat radiating through damp wool. "Complicated terms? You mean you lied. Said you needed space, then vanished." "I lied to protect you." His hand rose, hesitating before cupping her jaw. Thumb brushed her lower lip, callused from cane-grip yet impossibly tender. "But I never stopped wanting this." The dam cracked. Rory surged forward, fisting his lapels, dragging his mouth to hers. The kiss was fury and famine—lips crashing, tongues warring as months of pent-up ache unleashed. He tasted of rain and sin, groaning into her as she backed him against the wall. Books toppled in a cascade, Ptolemy scattering with an indignant yowl. Lucien's arms banded her waist, lifting her effortlessly. Her legs hooked around him, skirt riding up as he spun them toward the sagging sofa buried under scrolls. "Rory," he rasped against her throat, teeth grazing the pulse point that leaped for him. "Tell me to stop." "Don't you dare." She yanked his shirt open, buttons pinging off teacups. His chest was a map of faded infernal brands, pale skin marked by a life straddling realms. Her fingers traced them, nails digging as his mouth found her breast through lace, sucking hard enough to arch her back. He lowered her to the sofa, scrolls crunching beneath. The cane lay abandoned, blade-end glinting. His hands—surgeon-precise—shoved her sweater up, skirt higher, fingers delving between her thighs with unerring accuracy. She was soaked, gasping as he circled her clit, amber eye locked on her face while the black one burned with possession. "Missed this," he murmured, voice wrecked. "Missed you clenching around me, crying my name." She bucked, chasing friction, but pulled him down. "Shut up and prove it." Their mouths met again, sloppy and desperate, as he freed himself—thick, hot length pressing insistent at her entrance. No barriers; trust forged in fire. He thrust in slow, stretching her exquisitely, both shuddering at the reunion. Rory's heels dug into his thighs, urging deeper. Rhythm built—hard snaps of hips, the wet slap echoing over Ptolemy's distant complaints. His heterochromatic gaze never left hers, amber warm with vulnerability, black fierce with claim. Words tumbled unsaid: hurts aired in moans, fears fucked away in escalating frenzy. She came first, shattering around him with a keening cry, nails scoring his shoulders. Lucien followed, burying deep with a guttural curse in French, flooding her as tremors wracked them both. They collapsed, tangled and sweat-slick, breaths mingling in the book-choked air. His forehead rested on hers, cane forgotten nearby. "Not done," he whispered, echoing her earlier barb. "Never were." Rory traced his jaw, heart steadying. Evan loomed, shadows waited—but here, in Eva's chaotic flat, complicated terms rewrote themselves. "Then stay. Help me fight." His smile was genuine, crooked. "Always, mon cœur." Outside, rain drummed Brick Lane, but inside, the deadbolts held firm against the night.