Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95CKVTP6KZDK9868JZP38C

The third deadbolt clicked, a heavy metallic finality that echoed in the narrow hallway. Rory pulled the door open, the scent of cumin and scorched turmeric from the curry house downstairs rushing in with the draft. Lucien Moreau stood on the landing, a monochrome statue against the peeling floral wallpaper. The charcoal wool of his tailored suit absorbed the dim light, making him look like a rip in the fabric of the building’s mundane reality. He didn't lean on the ivory-handled cane; he held it like a scepter. His platinum hair, slicked back with clinical precision, shimmered under the flickering hallway bulb. One eye, the color of a dark mahogany forest, fixed on her face while the other—a terrifying, translucent amber—swept the interior of the flat. "Brick Lane doesn't suit your shoes, Lucien." Rory gripped the edge of the door, her knuckles white against the dark wood. Her pulse hammered against the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a rhythmic throb that felt like a countdown. "The cobblestones are indeed unforgiving to calfskin." Lucien stepped forward without an invitation. The movement forced Rory back into the cramped living room of Eva’s flat. He moved with a predatory grace that ignored the stacks of leather-bound journals and rolled scrolls littering the floor. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, leapt from a pile of research notes on the coffee table, his back arching into a mountain of orange fur. He hissed, a low, guttural vibration that filled the silence. "Ignore the cat. He has a low tolerance for sulfur and expensive cologne." Rory crossed her arms, her back hitting the edge of a bookshelf. A copy of *Demonology through the Middle Ages* nipped at her shoulder. She refused to look at the space between them, a distance that felt charged with the ghost of their last encounter in the rain outside Silas' bar. Lucien’s gaze settled on the cat. He didn't flinch. Instead, he extended a hand, palm up. The amber eye glowed with a faint, internal heat. Ptolemy’s hiss died in his throat. The tabby blinked, sniffed the air, and then, with a traitorous trill, rubbed his head against the sharp crease of Lucien’s trousers. "Even the beast recognizes the necessity of diplomacy, Aurora." The use of her full name felt like a weight. She looked away, focusing on a stack of scrolls that needed organizing. "Diplomacy usually involves a phone call. Or a message left with the Golden Empress. Showing up at a locked door suggests an emergency or an insult." Lucien tapped the ivory handle of his cane against the floorboard. He scanned the room, his black eye lingering on the three deadbolts he had just bypassed through Rory's own hand. "Your security is insufficient. A toddler with a hairpin could breach this perimeter." "The locks aren't for toddlers. They're for the things that don't need hairpins." Rory moved toward the tiny kitchenette, her movements sharp and jerky. She needed the barrier of the counter between them. The air in the flat felt too thin, used up by his presence. Lucien smelled of cold rain and ozone, a scent that dragged up memories of a dark alleyway and the heat of his hand against her jaw. "Why are you here? I haven't seen you since the Avaros incident. I assumed you’d returned to Marseille to count your commissions." Lucien walked deeper into the room, his boots silent on the threadbare rug. He stopped at the window, looking out over the neon-soaked street below. The light from a nearby sign bathed his profile in a sickly red glow. "The commissions were substantial. The solitude was less so." He didn't turn around. His shoulders were broad, filling the frame of the window, a reminder of the half-demon strength hidden beneath the fine Italian fabric. "Don't start with the poetry, Luc. You don't have the soul for it." The jab didn't land. Lucien finally turned, his heterochromatic eyes locking onto her with an intensity that made her breath hitch. "I have exactly half of one. It is currently making a nuisance of itself." He moved toward the kitchenette, closing the distance ten times faster than a human could. Rory didn't move. She couldn't. He stopped just inches from the counter, the ivory cane clicking as it hit the floor beside his feet. He reached out, his long fingers hesitating before he brushed the stray black hair away from her face. His touch was cold, yet a spark of static electricity jumped between them, sharp and stinging. "You look tired, Rory. The deliveries are wearing you thin." "I'm working. It's a concept you usually associate with high-interest loans and blood pacts." She pulled back from his hand, the loss of contact feeling like a physical ache. She hated how easily he read her. She hated that he knew her favorite brand of tea was currently sitting empty in the cupboard and that she hadn't slept more than four hours a night since he left. Lucien let his hand drop. He looked at the crescent scar on her wrist, his expression unreadable. "Evan is in London." The name hit her like a physical blow. The air left her lungs in a sharp whistle. The room seemed to tilt, the stacks of books blurring into a chaotic mess of parchment and ink. Rory gripped the edge of the laminate counter so hard her fingernails dug into the underside. "He doesn't know where I am. Eva ensured it." "Eva is a scholar, not a ghost. She leaves trails of ink and library records everywhere she steps." Lucien stepped into her personal space, his warmth finally breaking through the chill he brought with him. He was close enough that she could see the fine texture of his skin and the way the amber in his left eye swirled like a storm. "He’s asking the wrong people the right questions. He went to the Golden Empress yesterday." Rory felt a cold sweat break out at the base of her hairline. "Did he see Yu-Fei?" "The woman is formidable. She told him nothing. But he is persistent, and he has acquired... assistance. A low-level shadow-weaver from the Docks." Lucien’s voice was a low rumble, vibrating in his chest. He reached out again, this time closing his fingers around her upper arm. Not to hurt, but to anchor her. "I came because I knew you would refuse a summons. And because I have no intention of letting that man touch you again." "You don't get to be my protector, Lucien. You forfeited that right when you walked away from the warehouse in Southwark." The memory was a jagged shard between them. A deal gone sideways, a choice made between information and her safety. He had chosen the information, even if he had doubled back ten minutes later to pull her out of the fire. Those ten minutes had been an eternity. "I am a fixer, Aurora. I prioritize the objective." "I was the objective." "You were the variable." His grip tightened slightly, his thumb grazing the soft skin of her inner arm. The black eye seemed to swallow the amber one as the pupils dilated. "A variable I have spent six months trying to solve. I don't care about your forgiveness. I care about your heart beating." Rory laughed, a brittle, harsh sound that didn't reach her eyes. "My heart is fine. It’s the rest of me that’s looking for a way out. If Evan is here, I’ll move. I’ve done it before." "Not this time. The shadow-weaver has your scent. You leave this flat, and he finds you within three blocks. Brick Lane is a maze, but one they can navigate better than you." Lucien let go of her arm and reached into his inner jacket pocket. He pulled out a small, silver vial filled with a liquid that shimmered like liquid moonlight. He set it on the counter between them. "Drink this. It will mask your signature for twelve hours." "Is that a gift or a bill?" "Consider it a down payment on your survival." Rory looked at the vial, then back at him. The tension in the room was a living thing, coiled and waiting to strike. She saw the flicker of something human in his amber eye—hurt, maybe, or a reflection of her own exhaustion. "Why do you care, Luc? Really. I’m just a delivery girl who knows too much about the wrong people." Lucien leaned in, his face inches from hers. The ivory cane clattered to the floor as he braced his hands on the counter on either side of her, trapping her. "Because you are the only person in this city who looks at me and sees a man instead of a monster or a mountain of gold. And because if he hurts you, I will have to burn this entire district to find him, and I find the London fire brigade to be a tedious distraction." The air between them was electric, thick with the unsaid things of the last year. Rory reached up, her hand hovering over the lapel of his suit. She could feel the steady, powerful thrum of his demon-tainted heart. She didn't pull away. She didn't push him. "You're a liar, Lucien Moreau." "I am an information broker. I simply manage the truth." He closed the final inch. His lips didn't touch hers, but his breath felt like a brand. "The shadow-weaver is outside, Aurora. Third rooftop to the left. He’s waiting for the lights to go out." Rory’s eyes widened. She started to turn toward the window, but Lucien caught her chin, forcing her to look back at him. "Don't. Let him watch. Let him see that you are not alone." Outside, a heavy rain began to lash against the glass, blurring the world into streaks of gray and neon. Ptolemy jumped onto the counter, weaving between them, his tail brushing against Rory’s hand. "What's the plan, then? Since you've decided to move back into my life without permission." Lucien’s mouth quirked into a ghost of a smile, one that didn't reach his mismatched eyes. "We wait. We drink the tea you haven't offered me. And then we terminate the contract on your head." He reached down and retrieved his cane, the ivory handle clicking against his palm. "Put the kettle on, Aurora. It’s going to be a long night." Rory looked at the silver vial on the counter. She picked it up, the glass cold against her palm. She didn't drink it. Instead, she tucked it into her pocket and moved toward the stove. "The tea is cheap. You won't like it." "I have developed a sudden taste for the common and the unrefined." He watched her move, his black eye tracking every step, every shift of her weight. He didn't take a seat. He stood in the center of the cramped room, a wolf in a birdcage, making the space his own. The water began to hiss in the kettle. Rory didn't look back at him, but she could feel his gaze like a physical weight on her spine. "If Evan is really here, I want to be the one who ends it." "You want to play barrister or executioner?" "I want him gone." Lucien walked toward the bookshelves, his fingers trailing over the spines of the ancient texts. "Those are often the same thing in my world." He stopped at a particularly dusty tome, pulling it half-inch from the shelf. "You kept the research I gave you on the Avaros gates." "It was a gift. I don't throw away gifts." "Even from monsters?" Rory turned, the kettle whistling its sharp, piercing note. She pulled it from the heat, the steam rising in a white cloud around her head. "Especially from monsters. They’re the only ones who give you anything worth having." Lucien’s amber eye flared, a bright orange spark in the dim light of the kitchen. He took a step toward her, the cane forgotten against the bookshelf. He was no longer the impeccable fixer. He was something older, more dangerous, and entirely too close. "Careful, Rory. You might find that the price of such gifts is higher than you’re prepared to pay." "I’ve been paying the price for knowing you since the day we met. Why stop now?" She poured the water into two mismatched mugs, the steam smelling of nothing but heat and iron. She handed one to him, her fingers brushing his as he took the handle. Neither of them moved to break the contact. "Because this time, I might stay to collect." "That sounds like a threat, Luc." "It’s a promise." The rain intensified, a rhythmic drumming on the roof that drowned out the sound of the street below. In the silence of the flat, Rory could hear the ticking of a clock and the slow, steady hum of Lucien’s breathing. "Drink your tea. You're getting water on the rug." Lucien didn't look at the mug. He looked at her, the mask of the Frenchman finally slipping to reveal the raw, jagged hunger underneath. "The rug is a lost cause. Much like your stubbornness." He took a sip of the bitter, cheap tea and grimaced, but he didn't put the mug down. He stayed right where he was, a charcoal shadow in the middle of her life.