Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ9568PRQHBG7EGSB82405DX

The first bolt slid back with a metallic rasp that echoed through the small flat. Rory paused, her fingers hovering over the second lock. It was nearly eleven on a Tuesday, and the rhythmic thumping of the bass from the curry house below had begun to vibrate through the floorboards. Eva was away in Oxford tracking a lead on a fourteenth-century grimoire, and Ptolemy, the tabby cat, was currently a judging lump of fur atop a stack of precarious scrolls. No one should be at the door. Rory turned the second deadbolt, then the third. She told herself she wasn't afraid. She had survived Cardiff, survived Evan, and she was building a life in London that didn't involve looking over her shoulder. But as the door creaked open, the practiced mask of cool-headedness she wore for her delivery shifts at the Golden Empress faltered. Lucien Moreau stood in the dim, spice-scented hallway of the Brick Lane tenement like a predatory bird in a cage too small for its wingspan. He was impeccably, almost offensively, dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than Rory’s annual rent. The ivory handle of his cane glinted under the flickering hallway light, the silver filigree catching the shadows. "Rory," he said. His voice was a rich, low cello note that skipped down her spine despite her best efforts to remain numb. Rory didn't step back, but she gripped the edge of the door until the wood bit into her palm. "You have a lot of nerve showing up here, Lucien. Or did you forget how we left things in Southwark?" Lucien’s heterochromatic eyes searched hers. The black one was a bottomless well, the amber one a spark of trapped sunlight. He looked tired, though on him, fatigue merely looked like a more dangerous version of elegance. "I haven't forgotten a single second of Southwark. That is precisely why I am here." "I told you I was done with the broker business. I'm delivering noodles and studying law. I'm a civilian." "You were never a civilian, Malphora," he murmured, using the name he’d given her in the underworld, a name that tasted like smoke and secrets. "And you have a tabby cat trying to escape between your ankles." Rory looked down. Ptolemy was indeed attempting to squeeze past her shins to investigate the expensive scent of Lucien’s cologne—sandalwood and something sharper, something metallic. She nudged the cat back with her heel and sighed, the fight draining out of her, replaced by a weary, thrumming heat. "Get in. Before the neighbors think I’m being audited by the world’s most expensive debt collector." She stepped aside. Lucien entered the flat with a limp so slight it was almost imperceptible, the silent blade hidden within his ivory cane clicking softly against the floor. He seemed to take up all the available oxygen in the room. The flat was a labyrinth of books, scrolls, and Eva’s research notes, a chaotic contrast to Lucien’s precision. He stopped in the center of the room, his gaze snagging on a pile of Rory’s law textbooks. "Is this the life you wanted? Hiding behind three deadbolts and lukewarm curry?" "It’s a safe life," Rory snapped, closing the door and engaging all three locks again. The sound was deliberate. "Safety is a luxury I didn’t have for a long time. You of all people should understand that." Lucien turned to face her. He didn't lean on his cane; he held it like a scepter. "There is a difference between being safe and being buried alive. You were meant for more than delivering Yu-Fei’s spicy wontons, Rory. You have a mind that can deconstruct a security net in seconds. You are wastefully brilliant." "And you’re still a manipulative half-demon who uses people like chess pieces," she countered, walking past him into the tiny kitchenette. She needed distance. The air around him felt charged, the atmosphere thickening with the history they had tried to bury. "Why are you here, Luc? And don't tell me it’s for my 'brilliant mind.' You could hire ten crackers with my skill set." "None of them have your soul," he said, his voice dropping an octave. Rory froze, her hand on the handle of the kettle. She felt the small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist throb, a phantom ache from a childhood accident that always seemed to flare when she was stressed. She turned, her blue eyes bright with a sudden, sharp anger. "Don't. Don’t talk about my soul. Not after you walked away when things got complicated. You left me in that warehouse with the Avaros enforcers because it was 'economically unviable' to stay." Lucien’s expression shifted, a flicker of genuine pain crossing his aristocratic features before he smoothed it back into a mask of indifference. He moved toward her, his movements fluid and predatory. He stopped just outside her personal space, the scent of him now overwhelming the smell of ginger and old paper. "I left because if I had stayed, I would have burned that entire district to the ground to keep them from touching you," he whispered. "And if I had done that, the Council would have come for both of us. I chose the only path that kept you breathing, even if it meant you hated me for it." "I don't hate you," Rory said, though it was a lie. It was worse than hate; it was an exhausting, tethering longing. "I just realized that in your world, love is a liability you can't afford. And I’ve had enough of being someone’s liability." Lucien reached out, his gloved hand hovering near her face before he pulled it back, gripping the ivory head of his cane instead. "I didn't come here to ask you back into the trade, Rory. I came because Evan is in London." The name hit her like a physical blow. The room seemed to tilt. Rory’s breath hitched, her lungs suddenly too small. "He... he doesn't know where I am. I changed everything. Eva helped me disappear." "He has been asking the wrong people the right questions," Lucien said, his amber eye glowing with a faint, demonic light. "He’s been seen at Silas’ bar. He’s looking for a girl with black hair and blue eyes who works for the Empress. He’s closer than you think." Rory leaned back against the counter, her knees weak. The "cool-headed" Aurora Carter felt herself slipping away, replaced by the terrified girl from Cardiff. But then she felt a hand on hers. Lucien had moved closer, his hand covering hers on the laminate countertop. His touch was warm—too warm for a human, a reminder of his lineage from the realm of Avaros. His leather glove was soft, but the grip was firm, grounding her. "I won't let him find you," Lucien promised. Rory looked up at him, searching his heterochromatic eyes for the lie. "And what’s the price, Luc? What do you want in exchange for your protection this time? Information? A job?" Lucien stepped into her space, his chest mere inches from hers. He was taller, his 5’11” frame casting a shadow over her. He reached out with his free hand, his thumb brushing the line of her jaw, the contact electric. "The price is your presence," he said softly. "I have spent six months trying to convince myself that I was better off without the distraction of you. I have traveled from Marseille to Moscow, broker-dealing in secrets and blood, and every time I closed my eyes, I saw you in that Southwark warehouse, looking at me like I was the monster they said I was." "You are a monster," Rory whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "Perhaps," he conceded, his face dipping closer to hers. "But I am *your* monster, if you will have me. Let me take you somewhere safe. Not a flat with three locks, but a place where you don't need locks at all." Rory’s mind raced, analyzing the variables. It was a risk. To go with him was to step back into the shadows she had fought so hard to escape. But to stay was to wait for Evan to find her, and she knew Evan’s brand of cruelty far better than Lucien’s. And beneath the logic, there was the heat. The way Lucien looked at her—as if she were the only thing in the world that held any value. He didn't see a delivery girl or a broken survivor; he saw a partner. "I won't be a chess piece," she said, her voice steadying. "If I go with you, we’re equal. No more secrets. No more 'economically unviable' exits." Lucien’s lips curled into a faint, rare smile. "A contract? You truly are a barrister’s daughter." "I'm a woman who knows her worth," Rory corrected. Lucien bowed his head slightly, his forehead almost touching hers. "Done. Although, I suspect I am getting the better end of this deal." He leaned in the rest of the way, and when his lips met hers, it wasn't the tentative kiss of a reunion. It was a claim—desperate, fierce, and tasting of everything Rory had missed. It was the heat of Avaros and the cold iron of London, a collision of worlds that left her breathless and clinging to his charcoal lapels. Ptolemy let out a loud, indignant meow and jumped off the table, knocking a stack of scrolls onto the floor. Rory pulled back just an inch, her eyes searching Lucien’s. "We have to take the cat." Lucien looked down at the tabby, who was currently sniffing the tip of his expensive cane. "The cat stays," he said firmly. "The cat stays, or I stay," Rory countered, a spark of the old Rory—the one who bargained with demons—returning to her gaze. Lucien sighed, the sound resigned but fond. "Fine. We take the cat. But he is not riding in the Bentley’s front seat." Rory smiled, a real one this time, as she reached for her coat. The three deadbolts felt suddenly unnecessary. For the first time in months, she wasn't just hiding; she was moving again. And as she followed Lucien out into the humid, spice-laden night of Brick Lane, she knew that whatever happened next, the terms had finally changed in her favor.