Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95830Q783BBXS6XGBFCA5C

The third deadbolt clicked into place, but the wood of the door vibrated under a heavy, rhythmic knock. Rory froze, her hand still clamped over the brass knob. Shadows from the streetlamp outside filtered through the frosted glass, outlining a broad-shouldered silhouette that didn't belong to Eva. Eva didn't knock. Eva fumbled with her keys and cursed at the temperamental lock until the door gave way. Rory wiped her palms on her jeans and checked the chain. She cracked the door an inch. The stench of garam masala from the curry house below wafted into the hallway, mingling with a scent that made her heart stutter: sandalwood and expensive French tobacco. Lucien Moreau stood in the dimly lit corridor, a stark contrast to the peeling floral wallpaper. His slicked-back platinum hair caught the flicker of the overhead bulb. He leaned on his ivory-handled cane, the charcoal wool of his suit jacket perfectly smooth despite the humidity of the London night. "The locks are new." His voice carried that low, melodic rasp that used to vibrate in Rory’s marrow. She didn't widen the gap. "The neighborhood’s gone downhill. Or so I thought until a demon showed up on my porch." Lucien’s heterochromatic eyes narrowed. The amber one glowed with a faint, predatory heat while the black one remained a bottomless pit. He didn't ask for permission. He stepped forward, forcing Rory to either unlatch the chain or let him talk to the wood. "Six months, Aurora. You haven't picked up a single burner phone." "I was busy reinventing myself as someone who doesn't deal with information brokers who sell out their partners." Rory slammed the door shut to slide the chain off, then swung it wide. She retreated into the cramped living room of Eva's flat, tripping over a stack of leather-bound grimoires. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, let out a protest of a meow from his perch atop a pile of scrolls and vanished into the kitchen. Lucien followed her, his cane tapping a steady, authoritative beat against the scuffed floorboards. He looked out of place in the mess. The flat was a Hoarder’s dream of occult research—books lined every wall, and loose parchment fluttered in the draft from the window. Lucien surveyed the chaos with a twitch of his lip. "You’re living in a paper grave." "It’s cozy. Helps me forget the smell of Avaros." Rory turned on him, her back hitting the edge of a mahogany desk. She crossed her arms, fingers digging into the denim of her sleeves. Her pulse thrummed against the crescent scar on her left wrist. Lucien stopped two paces away. The air between them grew thick, charged with the static of things left unsaid in Soho, under a rain-slicked awning where he’d told her to run and never look back. He reached out, the silver head of his cane pointed toward a stack of papers near her hip. "You left your jacket at my place. The one with the silk lining." "Keep it. Burn it. Give it to one of your sirens." "I kept it in the wardrobe." Lucien’s gaze dropped to her throat, watching the way she swallowed. He took a half-step closer. The heat radiating from him felt like an oven door left open. In the cramped confines of the Brick Lane flat, he felt mountainous, a predatory force of nature contained in Savile Row tailoring. "I didn't come here to discuss fashion, Aurora. You’re in trouble." "I’m always in trouble when you’re around, Lucien. It’s your primary export." Rory reached for a ceramic mug on the desk, needing something to hold. It was empty and cold. She set it back down with a sharp clack. "How did you find me? Eva swore she’d scrubbed my trail." "Eva is a talented witch, but she enjoys her curry from the same shop every Tuesday. Habits are beacons." Lucien leaned his cane against a stack of encyclopedias. He reached into his inner breast pocket, his movements fluid and deliberate. Rory watched his hands—long, elegant fingers that she knew were capable of snapping bone or tracing the line of a spine with equal precision. He pulled out a folded piece of parchment and held it out. "Don't." Rory shoved her hands into her pockets. "I’m out. I deliver noodles now. I deal in soy sauce and spring rolls, not soul debts or underworld politics." "The Golden Empress won't protect you from what’s coming. Evan is looking for you." The name hit her like a physical blow. The room seemed to shrink, the walls of books closing in. Rory’s breath hitched, a jagged sound in the quiet apartment. She looked at the floor, focusing on a coffee stain shaped like a crescent moon. "He doesn't know where I am. He thinks I’m still in Cardiff." "He has a new patron. Someone with deep pockets and a long reach into the Avaros realms. They’ve put a price on the girl who walked out of the Lion’s Den with a briefcase full of secrets." Lucien took another step. Now, he was firmly in her personal space. The scent of him was overwhelming—a mix of cold night air and that lingering, infernal heat. He reached out, his thumb catching her chin, forcing her to look up. His thumb was rough, a contrast to the polish of his appearance. "I told you to go to Paris. I had a flat waiting for you." "I don't take charity from demons who lie to my face." Rory jerked her head back, breaking the contact. The spot where he’d touched her tingled. "You said it was a simple courier job. You didn't mention the briefcase was chained to a dead man’s ghost." "I didn't know." The black eye flickered. For a second, the mask of the cool, detached fixer slipped. "I would have told you, Rory. I have many flaws, but I don't send you into a slaughterhouse without a knife." "You sent me away afterward. You didn't even say goodbye." "The contract required your absence. If you were with me, you were a target. If you were gone, you were just a ghost." Lucien’s voice dropped an octave, turning into something intimate and dangerous. He reached past her, his hand grasping the edge of the desk on either side of her hips, pinning her into the small space. He didn't touch her, but the proximity was a weight of its own. Rory could see the fine lines around his eyes, the slight silver sheen of his pupils. "I spent six months making sure nobody followed you. And then Evan started whispering in the wrong ears." "And you just happen to be the one to hear it? How convenient for your commission." "I’m not working for anyone on this, you stubborn girl." He leaned down, his face inches from hers. Rory could feel the warmth of his breath against her lips. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She hated how easily he dismantled her defenses, how the anger she’d nursed for half a year felt like it was melting into something far more volatile. "Why are you really here, Lucien?" "Because I find I dislike London when you aren't in it." The admission was a jagged thing, unpolished and sharp. It didn't fit the man in the charcoal suit. Rory reached out, her fingers brushing the lapel of his jacket. The fabric was soft, expensive. Beneath it, she felt the hard muscle of his chest and the steady, slow thump of a heart that beat slower than a human’s. "You’re a liar," she whispered, her voice losing its edge. "I am. About many things. But not about the way I feel when I think of you in a cage." He shifted, his hand moving from the desk to her waist. The touch was firm, possessive. Rory didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned into him, the friction of his suit against her thin t-shirt sparking a fire she’d tried to douse months ago. "You shouldn't have come," she said, even as she tilted her head back. "I never was very good at doing what I should." Lucien’s hand slid up her back, his fingers tangling in her short black hair. He pulled her closer, eliminating the last of the air between them. The ivory cane clattered to the floor, forgotten. Outside, a siren wailed through the streets of Whitechapel, and the muffled thump of bass from a passing car vibrated through the floorboards. Inside the flat, the only sound was the frantic rustle of Rory’s breath and the scratch of Lucien’s stubble as he pressed his forehead against hers. "If I stay, they’ll come for both of us," she warned. "Let them. I’ve been looking for a reason to burn something down." Rory reached up, her hand finding the back of his neck, pulling him down the final inch. The kiss was desperate, a collision of teeth and tongue that tasted of salt and old regrets. It wasn't soft. It was the breaking of a dam. Lucien groaned into her mouth, a low, demonic sound that vibrated in his chest. He hoisted her up onto the desk, scattering a pile of Eva’s research notes. Ptolemy hissed from the kitchen doorway, but neither of them noticed. Lucien’s hands were everywhere now—her waist, her thighs, her face. He pulled back for a second, his amber eye burning like a coal. "Tell me to leave, Rory. Say it now, and I’ll walk out that door and you’ll never see me again." Rory looked at him, at the monster and the man, at the only person who had ever made her feel like more than a delivery girl or a victim. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him back into the heat. "Shut up, Lucien."