Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAZ6QDT73V1R0DPKQWWKCF

The deadbolts clicked, a heavy, deliberate sound in the narrow hallway. Rory stared at the door, hand still gripping the delivery bag from the Golden Empress. Chicken and mushroom with extra chili, for Mrs. Sharma. She’d almost forgotten the order. Almost. Because standing on the other side of the door, rain plastering his platinum blond hair to his forehead, was Lucien Moreau. He hadn’t changed, not really. Still impossibly tall, still impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit that somehow looked both timeless and aggressively modern. The heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—were fixed on her, a quiet intensity burning in their depths. “Lucien,” she said, the word a rusty hinge creaking open. “Aurora.” His voice was a low murmur, the French accent still thick despite years in London. He raised an eyebrow, a familiar gesture that used to send a ridiculous flutter through her stomach. Now, it just tightened the knot of apprehension in her chest. “May I come in?” She hesitated. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.” A blatant lie. The only thing she was in the middle of was avoiding him. He didn’t push, just stood there, a solid, elegant barrier against the hallway. The rain drummed a steady rhythm against the windowpanes of the flat above the curry house. “It’s raining,” he observed, stating the obvious with a faintly amused tilt of his head. Rory sighed, resigned. “Fine. Come in.” She stepped back, holding the door open a fraction longer than necessary, observing him as he moved past. He shook the rain from his coat, the tailored fabric rippling around his lean frame. He smelled of rain, and something else—a subtle, expensive cologne she couldn’t quite place, overlaid with the faintest hint of something older, something indefinable, that always made her skin prickle. The flat was, as always, a chaotic testament to Eva’s tireless research. Books spilled from overflowing shelves, scrolls lay unrolled across the ancient Persian rug, and stacks of notes threatened to topple from every available surface. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby cat, materialized from beneath a pile of arcane texts, arching his back and emitting a questioning meow. “Hello, Ptolemy,” Lucien said, offering a slow, deliberate scratch behind the cat’s ears. Ptolemy, usually wary of strangers, seemed to accept Lucien’s overture with surprising ease, purring loudly as the man’s long fingers stroked his fur. “He likes you,” Rory said, acutely aware of the way Lucien’s attention seemed to encompass everything in the room, including the feline. “Don’t let it go to your head.” He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the cramped space. “I’ve dealt with far more discerning creatures than a tabby cat, Aurora.” She set the delivery bag on the already crowded kitchen counter, carefully avoiding a stack of crumbling manuscripts. “So, what are you doing here? You haven’t exactly been a regular visitor since…” she trailed off, unwilling to voice the unspoken words—since the disastrous end of their brief, intense entanglement six months ago. He followed her gaze to the kitchen, his expression unreadable. He leaned heavily on his cane, the ivory handle gleaming in the dim light. "I need your help." Rory snorted. “My help? Lucien, you’re a fixer. You solve problems. People don’t usually come to me for help—unless they’ve run out of other options.” “This is… different,” he said, his voice losing some of its usual polish, laced with an uncommon urgency. “It’s a matter of… family.” The word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken history. Lucien rarely spoke of his past, of Marseille, of his mother, and certainly not of the shadowy realm of Avaros from which his father hailed. Family was a deliberately avoided topic. “Family?” Rory echoed, skepticism dripping from her voice. “Let me guess, demonic squabbles? A rogue imp wreaking havoc in Kensington?” He ignored her sarcasm. “My sister needs assistance. She's... unwell.” Rory felt a flicker of something—pity, perhaps—but quickly smothered it. He was playing a game, she was sure of it. A subtle manipulation, a calculated move to draw her back in. “And you think I can help? I deliver Chinese food and try to avoid Evan’s increasingly frantic calls.” Evan. Her ex. The reason she’d come to London in the first place. The reason she’d tried to build a life as far away from him as possible. Lucien’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You possess a certain… acuity, Aurora. A knack for seeing patterns others miss. And a remarkable resourcefulness.” He paused, his gaze lingering on the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. “You've faced difficult circumstances, haven't you?" Rory instinctively pulled her sleeve down, concealing the faint white mark. It was a relic of a childhood accident, a reminder of a time before the world had gotten complicated. “Everyone faces difficult circumstances, Lucien.” "Yours seem… particularly persistent." He pushed himself off the cane, moving with an unexpected grace despite his reliance on it. He closed the distance between them, his presence filling the small space, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. "This isn't about past grievances, Aurora. This is about preventing something… dangerous. Something that could affect more than just my family.” The scent of rain and expensive cologne intensified, swirling around her. She could feel the familiar pull, the dangerous magnetism that had almost consumed her before. She reminded herself of Evan's betrayal, of the raw hurt and the carefully constructed walls she’d built around her heart. “What exactly do you need me to do?” she asked, her voice deliberately neutral. “I need you to translate this,” he said, producing a small, tightly rolled scroll from his coat pocket. He unrolled it carefully, revealing delicate, unfamiliar script penned in faded ink. “It’s an ancient dialect of Avarosian. I believe it describes a ritual – a binding ritual - used to contain a rogue entity.” Rory took the scroll, her fingers brushing against his. A jolt of electricity shot up her arm, a visceral reminder of the potent connection that still existed between them. The script was complex, interwoven with archaic symbols she’d never encountered before. “Avarosian?” she murmured, studying the text. Her knowledge of obscure languages was a quirky side effect of her parents’ academic pursuits, and a skill she’d honed during her less-than-stellar attempt at a law degree. “That’s… remarkably obscure, even for Avarosian. Where did you get this?” “It came into my possession… recently. It's fragmented, incomplete. But I believe it holds the key to preventing a significant breach.” His eyes, amber and black, locked onto hers. "I need your skills, Aurora. I need your insight." Rory looked around the cluttered flat, at Eva’s piles of books, at Ptolemy dozing in a sunbeam. She glanced back at Lucien, at the weary lines around his eyes, at the quiet desperation that lay beneath his impeccable facade. She knew this was a mistake. Getting involved with Lucien again was a recipe for disaster. But something in his expression—the vulnerability she rarely saw—stuck in her throat. “And what do you think I get out of this?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. A ghost of a smile played on Lucien’s lips. “The satisfaction of preventing a catastrophe. And perhaps… a chance to mend a few broken things.” He paused, his gaze intense. “Besides, Aurora, you always did enjoy a challenge.” Rory stared at the scroll, and then back at Lucien, the weight of his request, and the dangerous lure of him, pressing down on her. She knew, with a sickening certainty, that she was already in too deep.