Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB6M1RWJXR9P32PARHYPZY

Rory twisted the third deadbolt with a sharp click, her fingers still greasy from Ptolemy's late-night demand for tinned tuna. The tabby cat slunk between her ankles, tail flicking like a metronome, as she yanked the door open. Brick Lane's humid night air rushed in, thick with the ghosts of cumin and garlic from the curry house below. She expected Eva—her friend was due back from that occult symposium in Oxford, scrolls probably spilling out of her battered satchel. But it wasn't Eva. Lucien Moreau stood there, framed in the jaundiced glow of the hallway bulb, his platinum hair slicked back as impeccably as ever. His charcoal suit hugged his frame like a second skin, the ivory-handled cane hooked over one arm. Heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—locked onto hers, unblinking. The air between them crackled, old electricity sparking to life. "Rory," he said, voice smooth as aged cognac, laced with that Marseillaise lilt. No preamble. No apology for the hour—half-past eleven—or the unannounced drop-in. Her stomach clenched. Five months since she'd walked out of his Mayfair penthouse, leaving behind silk sheets tangled with regret and the faint brimstone scent of his half-demon skin. Five months of burying the hurt under delivery runs for Golden Empress and pints at Silas' bar. Things left unsaid: his world of shadows and deals that could swallow her whole; her own scars, the crescent on her wrist throbbing like a fresh wound whenever she thought of Evan, the ex who'd left bruises deeper than skin. "What the hell are you doing here?" She gripped the doorframe, nails digging into peeling paint. Ptolemy hissed, arching his back. Lucien's lips curved, not quite a smile. "Eva's away. I know that. And you... you're keeping the flat aired out." His gaze flicked past her to the chaos inside—books teetering on every surface, yellowed scrolls unrolled across the kitchenette counter, research notes pinned to the fridge with mismatched magnets. "May I come in? London nights are unkind to a man without an invitation." She should slam the door. Tell him to slink back to the supernatural underworld where he brokered secrets in four languages. But her feet stayed rooted, traitorous. The pull was there, magnetic, the same that had drawn her to him last autumn—after Eva had dragged her to that underground soiree in Clerkenwell, where humans mingled with things that shouldn't exist. He'd spotted her across the room, offered her a glass of absinthe that tasted like forbidden starlight. One conversation led to two, then nights blurred into weeks of stolen passion, his cane discarded by the bed as he traced her scar with demon-warm fingers. "Fine," she muttered, stepping aside. "But make it quick." He glided in, cane tapping softly on the warped floorboards. The door thudded shut behind him; she didn't bother with the deadbolts. Ptolemy bolted under the sagging armchair, yellow eyes glaring from the shadows. Lucien surveyed the flat with a raised eyebrow, adjusting his cufflinks—silver, etched with infernal runes. "Eva's lair hasn't changed. Still a firetrap waiting to happen." He turned to her, closer now, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with something darker, like charred velvet. "You look well, Aurora. The delivery life suits you." "Don't." She crossed her arms, leaning against the kitchen counter littered with Eva's grimoires. Her straight black hair fell across one eye; she shoved it back, feeling exposed under his stare. Bright blue met amber and black, and the room shrank. "It's Rory. And you know damn well why I'm here. Not for chitchat." His cane leaned against the wall as he shrugged off his suit jacket, draping it over a chair piled with occult journals. The white shirt beneath clung to his shoulders, crisp lines betraying the lean muscle she'd mapped with her hands. "Then what? You vanish. No calls, no notes. I respect the silence—until I hear whispers. Your ex, Evan. He's surfaced. Asking questions in the wrong circles." Her pulse spiked. Evan. The name alone soured her mouth. Cardiff memories flooded back: his grip tightening like a vice, apologies whispered through split lips. She'd fled to London on Eva's insistence, straight into Lucien's orbit. But Evan didn't know about the half-demon fixer who'd claimed her nights. Or did he? "Bullshit," she snapped, but her voice wavered. She busied her hands pouring tea from the kettle Eva always left simmering—chamomile, too weak for the tension coiling in her gut. "You expect me to believe you tracked me down for a warning? After everything?" He moved then, silent as smoke, closing the distance to the tiny kitchenette. His hand brushed hers as he took the mug she offered, fingers lingering a beat too long. Warmth seeped through her skin, unnatural, stirring embers she'd banked. "Not everything," he murmured. "We left much unsaid. I was... careless. Dragged you into shadows you didn't choose." She pulled away, heart hammering. The scar on her wrist itched, a phantom ache. "Careless? You mean lying about the blade in that cane? Or the demon daddy issues from Avaros? I woke up one morning with claw marks I couldn't explain, Luc. And you just smiled, like it was normal." His black eye darkened, amber flaring like forge fire. "You knew what I was from the start. And you stayed. Because it burned good, didn't it? Us." He set the mug down untouched, stepping into her space. The flat's clutter faded; it was just them, breaths syncing. "Tell me you don't feel it now." Rory's back hit the fridge, magnets clattering. His proximity was a drug—tailored suits hiding the wildness beneath, the way he'd whispered French endearments in the dark. Attraction roared back, hot and unbidden, warring with the hurt. She'd walked away because loving him meant risking everything: her fragile normalcy, the life she'd clawed post-Evan. But here, in Eva's book-strewn sanctum, with Ptolemy's judgmental stare from afar, denial cracked. "I hate you for making me want this," she whispered, fists balling in his shirt. Silk whispered against her knuckles. Lucien's hands framed her face, thumbs tracing her jaw. Gentle, but the power hummed beneath—half-demon strength leashed. "Then hate me properly, Rory. Scream it. Or kiss me and end the lie." She surged up, crashing her mouth to his. He tasted of sin and salvation, lips firm, tongue coaxing with expert finesse. His fingers tangled in her shoulder-length hair, tilting her head as he deepened the kiss, cane forgotten, body pressing flush. Heat bloomed low in her belly; she gasped against him, hands roaming the hard planes of his chest. They stumbled, knocking a stack of scrolls to the floor. Yellowed parchment fluttered like startled birds. Lucien broke the kiss, trailing fire down her neck, nipping the pulse point that made her knees buckle. "I've dreamed of this," he growled, voice roughened, accent thickening. "Every night without you." "Don't talk," she panted, yanking his shirt free from his trousers. Skin met skin—his fever-hot, hers chilled by the flat's draft. She traced the faint scars across his ribs, souvenirs from Avaros brawls he'd never detailed. His cane blade had saved her once, flashing silver in a Shoreditch alley when Evan's thugs cornered her. Unsaid gratitude twisted with resentment. He lifted her onto the counter, papers crunching beneath. Her legs wrapped his waist instinctively, pulling him between. His hands—long-fingered, precise—slid under her tank top, mapping the curve of her waist, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts. She arched, a moan escaping as his mouth followed, hot and insistent through the fabric. "Lucien," she breathed, fingers digging into his slicked-back hair, disrupting the perfection. Platinum strands fell forward, framing his mismatched eyes. Amber held hunger; black, something vulnerable. He paused, forehead to hers, breaths ragged. "Say my name again. Like that." "Luc." Hurt resurfaced, sharpening the desire. "Why now? Evan... is he really—" "Later." His cane hand—ivory handle pressing into her thigh—gripped harder, grounding. "Tonight, just us. No underworld. No exes." She nodded, surrendering. They moved as one, clothes shedding in a frantic trail: her tank top snagged on a bookshelf, his shirt buttons pinging off teacups. Naked now, save his trousers, he carried her to the bedroom—Eva's domain, bed buried under research notes they scattered like confetti. He laid her down reverently, heterochromatic gaze devouring. "Beautiful," he murmured, shedding the rest. His body was a study in contrasts: elegant lines marred by infernal marks, arousal evident, straining. Rory pulled him down, skin igniting where they touched. He entered her slow, deliberate, eyes locked—amber promising fire, black endless night. She cried out, nails raking his back, urging deeper. Rhythm built, hips meeting in urgent harmony, the flat's creaks masking their gasps. Words spilled then, unsaid things fracturing. "I missed you," she confessed, tears pricking as pleasure coiled tight. "Mon amour," he groaned, pace faltering, French slipping free. "Never again. Je te protège." Climax shattered her first, waves crashing, body clenching around him. He followed, burying his face in her neck, a guttural sound rumbling from his chest—demonic, human, hers. They collapsed, tangled, sweat-slick. Ptolemy yowled from the doorway, displeased. Lucien chuckled, rolling to cradle her against his side, fingers tracing her wrist scar. "Evan's dealt with. Permanently deterred. But that's tomorrow's shadow." She nestled closer, heart steadying. Complicated terms mended, if only for the night. Brick Lane hummed below, but here, in the book-choked flat, they fit. Attraction reignited, hurt cauterized by touch. Things left unsaid? Some could wait till dawn. Outside, rain pattered the window, washing London clean. Rory sighed, content, as Lucien's arm tightened possessively. For now, it was enough.