Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8WBQXQ9432A759X1BV6W7C

The smell of old paper and cumin from the curry house below hung in the air. Rory shifted a stack of Eva’s research notes on Celtic wardings from the armchair and sank into the worn velvet. Ptolemy, a ginger tabby with a disapproving squint, leaped onto her lap and began kneading her jeans with relentless paws. Three sharp, precise raps sounded on the door. Not Eva’s chaotic bang. This was controlled, intentional. Rory’s heart did a slow, heavy roll against her ribs. Eva was at the British Library until ten. No one else knew she was here. The raps came again, a little louder. Ptolemy flattened his ears. Rory eased him off and stood, her palms suddenly damp. She moved to the door, the floorboards protesting under her weight. Through the peephole’s distorted fisheye, the hallway was a tunnel of faded floral wallpaper. And at the end of it, standing with the patience of a statue, was Lucien Moreau. Her breath caught. He looked exactly the same. Impeccable charcoal suit, tailored to his lean frame. Platinum blond hair slicked back from a high forehead. One hand rested on the ivory handle of his cane, the other held a flat, dark object—a file, perhaps. Even through the glass, she could see the odd mismatch of his eyes: one amber, one black as pitch. He hadn’t changed a bit in the six months since she’d last seen him. Since she’d told him to get the hell out of her life. Her fingers hovered over the three deadbolts. She could pretend she wasn’t here. Ptolemy meowed loudly from the sofa. Lucien’s head tilted a fraction, a faint, knowing smile touching his lips. He’d heard. Swearing under her breath, Rory threw the bolts. The last one stuck, and she had to wrench it. The door swung inward. He filled the doorway, a slice of cool, expensive cologne cutting through the flat’s dusty warmth. His gaze swept over her, from her straight black hair tied in a messy knot to her worn trainers. It lingered on the small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, visible where she’d pushed her sleeves up. “Hello, Rory.” His voice was exactly as she remembered—low, smooth, with that faint Marseille accent that softened the edges of his consonants. “You’ve got the wrong flat.” Her own voice came out flat, colder than she intended. “Eva’s not here.” “I’m not here for Eva.” “Then you’ve definitely got the wrong flat.” He didn’t move. “May I come in?” “No.” “It’s about a mutual problem. Silas.” The name of the bar owner, her landlord, gave her pause. Silas was tangled up in the same shadowy London underworld Lucien navigated. A world she’d tried to step back from after… everything. She stepped aside, a silent, grudging invitation. Lucien moved past her, the subtle swish of his wool coat brushing her arm. He took in the cramped space with a single glance—the towers of books, the scrolls spilling from the dining table, the herb bundles drying above the radiator. His expression didn’t change, but she saw the slight tightening around his eyes. He’d never liked chaos. “Charming,” he said, his tone dry. “What do you want, Lucien?” He turned to face her, leaning lightly on his cane. “Straight to business. You haven’t changed.” “You have. You’re standing in my friend’s flat uninvited. That’s new.” A flicker of something—amusement, or irritation—crossed his face. “I called your mobile. Several times.” “I changed my number.” “So I discovered.” He placed the dark file on a precarious stack of journals. “Silas is in trouble. The kind that spills over. Onto his tenants. Onto the people who deliver for his… associates.” Rory crossed her arms. “I deliver dumplings, Lucien. Not contraband.” “You deliver for Yu-Fei Cheung. Who owes a considerable favour to a man named Kael. Silas guaranteed that favour. The guarantee has come due, and Silas cannot pay. Kael is not a forgiving soul.” “And you’re here out of the goodness of your heart to warn me?” She let out a short, humourless laugh. “You don’t have a heart.” His heterochromatic eyes held hers. The amber one seemed to glow in the flat’s dim light. “I have many flaws, *chérie*. A lack of memory is not one of them. I remember every detail of the last time we spoke. The things you said. The things I did not say.” The air in the room thickened. Ptolemy jumped onto the table, his tail twitching as he sniffed at Lucien’s file. “You didn’t say anything,” Rory said, the old hurt rising like bile. “You just left. After… after everything. One night, and then you vanished into your demonic business deals. No call. No note. Nothing.” “I left to handle a situation that would have put you in a crossfire. My father’s associates were in the city. They have certain… appetites. For humans with particular talents. For humans who catch the eye of their half-breed sons.” His voice was quiet, matter-of-fact. “Staying away was the only protection I could offer.” “I didn’t ask for your protection. I asked for honesty.” “Honesty would have gotten you killed.” He took a step closer. The scent of him—sandalwood and something metallic, like ozone after a storm—wrapped around her. “Do you think I wanted to go? Do you think I enjoyed walking away from the only person in this godforsaken city who looked at me and didn’t see a monster or a tool?” Her breath hitched. She looked away, focusing on a crack in the plaster. “You could have explained.” “And if you had insisted on staying? On helping? You are brilliant, Rory, and stubborn. You would have tried. And you would have died. Forgive me if I preferred you alive and hating me.” The raw truth in his words stripped her defences. She remembered that night six months ago. The heat of his skin under her hands. The way his mismatched eyes had watched her with a reverence that terrified her. The empty bed in the morning. “I don’t hate you,” she whispered. He was right in front of her now. He didn’t touch her, but his presence was a physical weight. “What do you feel, then?” “Angry. Confused.” She met his gaze again. “Relieved that you’re not dead.” A slow smile touched his lips, not quite reaching his eyes. “Not yet.” He reached out, his movements deliberate. His fingers, cool and elegant, brushed the inside of her left wrist. His thumb traced the curve of her crescent scar. A shiver raced up her arm, spreading through her chest. “I remember this,” he said, his voice barely audible. “You told me you fell out of an apple tree trying to rescue a kitten.” “The kitten was fine. I needed seven stitches.” “You never could leave a lost cause alone.” His thumb stilled, pressing gently against her pulse point. She could feel the rapid thrum of her heartbeat under his touch. “I am a lost cause, Rory Carter. More than you know.” “I know what you are.” “Do you?” His amber eye seemed to burn. “Do you know what it does to me, standing here? Knowing I should walk away again for your own good? Knowing that if Kael’s people come for Silas, they will find you. And I will burn this city to the ground before I let that happen.” The confession hung between them, stark and undeniable. The careful control he always wore was gone, stripped away to reveal something desperate and fierce beneath. She didn’t think. She lifted her free hand and placed it against his cheek. His skin was smooth, cool. He went utterly still, his breath catching. “You don’t get to make that choice for me,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “Not again. If there’s danger, you tell me. We face it together, or you leave now and don’t come back. But you don’t get to disappear to protect me. Not anymore.” His black eye seemed to swallow the light. He leaned into her touch, his own hand coming up to cover hers, pressing it harder against his face. “You have no idea what you’re asking.” “I’m asking for the truth. All of it.” He was silent for a long moment, his gaze searching hers. Then, he bent his head until his forehead rested against hers. The contact was electric, a current that snapped through her entire body. “The truth is,” he murmured, his lips a hair’s breadth from hers, “I have missed you every single day. The truth is, I am selfish. I want you safe, but I also want you. And those two things cannot coexist in my world.” Her heart hammered against her ribs. “Then we’ll find a way.” He laughed, a soft, broken sound. “Your optimism will be the death of me.” “Or your salvation.” His mouth found hers. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a collision, six months of longing and anger and fear exploding between them. His cane clattered to the floor. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her tight against the hard lines of his body. Her fingers tangled in his platinum hair, ruining its perfect sweep. He tasted of black coffee and something dark, sweet—like pomegranate. The world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the press of his hands on her back, the low sound he made in his throat. Ptolemy yowled in protest, knocked off the table by the falling cane. They broke apart, breathing ragged. Lucien’s eyes were wide, his pupils dilated. A lock of blond hair had fallen across his forehead. He looked undone. Rory’s lips tingled. She could still feel the imprint of his body against hers. He stooped, retrieving his cane with a fluid motion. When he straightened, some of the mask was back in place, but his knuckles were white where he gripped the ivory handle. “Kael,” he said, his voice rough. “We need to talk about Kael.”