Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95FES7J423WDEKNVC6954J

The smell of cumin and turmeric was a permanent resident of the flat on Brick Lane, rising through the floorboards from the curry house below until it saturated every curtain and yellowing page of Eva’s research. Aurora Carter, known to the few friends she had left as Rory, ignored the olfactory assault as she nudged a stack of crumbling scrolls off the velvet sofa to make room for herself. Ptolemy, a tabby cat with an attitude problem and a penchant for sleeping on the rarest manuscripts, let out a sharp hiss before readjusting his weight on a leather-bound volume of demonology. Rory rubbed the small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist—a nervous habit she’d never quite managed to shake. She was supposed to be organizing Eva’s notes, but the ink was blurring before her eyes. The silence of the flat was heavy, broken only by the muffled shouting of a street vendor three stories down and the rhythmic ticking of a clock that didn’t keep correct time. Then came the knock. It wasn't the frantic pounding of a delivery driver or the polite rap of a neighbor. It was three slow, deliberate strikes, the sound of wood meeting wood with the authority of a gavel. Rory froze. Her heart, usually a steady, cool-headed engine, gave a traitorous thump against her ribs. She knew that cadence. She stood, her movements stiff as she navigated the obstacle course of books and occult debris. At the door, she paused. Eva’s security was no joke—three heavy deadbolts that Rory had to slide back one by one. The metallic *clack-clack-clack* echoed in the small hallway, sounding like the loading of a weapon. She turned the final knob and pulled the door open. Lucien Moreau stood in the dim, flickering light of the hallway like a ghost from a much more expensive haunting. He was, as always, impeccably dressed. His charcoal suit was tailored to a degree that made the peeling wallpaper of the hallway look even more offensive. His platinum blond hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place despite the damp London mist that must have clung to him outside. He leaned slightly on his ivory-handled cane, his posture radiating a predatory grace that he never quite managed to hide, no matter how much he played the part of the refined gentleman. "Aurora," he said. His voice was a low, smooth baritone that curled around her name with a familiar, dangerous warmth. Rory gripped the edge of the door, her knuckles white. "Lucien." The last time she had seen him, three months ago, she had told him to rot in whatever circle of the Avaros realm he’d crawled out of. They had stood in the rain outside Silas’ bar, words like broken glass flying between them until she had walked away, her heart feeling like it had been scraped raw. She hadn't expected to see him again. Certainly not here. "You look tired," he remarked, his heterochromatic eyes scanning her face. The amber eye flickered like a dying ember in the shadows, while the black one remained a bottomless, unreadable void. "And the smell in this building is... evocative." "It’s a curry house, Lucien. Not a Parisian bistro," Rory snapped, her defensive walls slamming into place. "What are you doing here? How did you even find this place?" "I am an information broker, *ma chère*. Finding people is what I do. And your friend Eva is not nearly as discreet with her digital footprint as she believes herself to be." He gestured toward the interior of the flat with the head of his cane. "Are you going to let me in, or shall we continue to scandalize the neighbors? I believe the gentleman in 3B is currently peering through his spyhole." Rory hesitated, then stepped aside. She hated how easily he commanded the space. As he crossed the threshold, the small flat seemed to shrink even further. He moved past her, his scent—expensive sandalwood and the faint, cold metallic tang that always clung to him—overpowering the turmeric. Ptolemy stood up on the sofa, his back arching, a low growl vibrating in his throat. "Easy, little beast," Lucien murmured, barely glancing at the cat. He turned to Rory, his gaze dropping to her wrist where she was still habitually tracing the crescent scar. He looked away quickly, but not before she saw the flicker of something that looked remarkably like guilt in his amber eye. "I didn't come here to trade barbs," he said, his tone softening. He set his cane against the side of a stack of books titled *Rituals of the Fourth Circle*. "There is a rumor in the underworld. Someone is asking questions about a girl from Cardiff. Someone who isn't interested in your delivery routes for the Golden Empress." Rory felt a cold drop of dread slide down her spine. "Evan?" "He’s looking for you, Aurora. And he’s hired people who don't care about jurisdictional boundaries." Lucien stepped closer, the distance between them narrowing until she could see the fine lines of tension around his mouth. "You left the bar. You left the protection of Silas. You thought you could disappear into the spice clouds of Brick Lane, but you are a beacon to those who know what to look for." "I don't need a protector, Lucien. Especially not a half-demon who treats people like assets on a ledger," Rory said, though her voice lacked its usual bite. Lucien’s expression tightened. He reached out as if to touch her shoulder, then pulled back at the last second, his fingers curling into a fist. "Is that what you think? That you were an asset?" "You left," she reminded him, the hurt finally bleeding through her cool exterior. "That night in the rain, when I told you how I felt, when I told you I didn't care about your father or where you came from... you didn't say a word. You just took your cane and your secrets and walked into the dark. You 'fixed' the problem by removing yourself from it." Lucien’s black eye seemed to swallow the light of the room. He took another step, venturing into her personal space. He was taller than her, enough that she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "I am a creature of Avaros, Aurora. My father’s realm is built on greed and consumption. When I look at you, I don't see an asset. I see the only thing in this miserable world that I cannot bring myself to possess, because to possess you would be to destroy the very thing that makes you... you." The air in the flat felt charged, thick with the kind of static that preceded a lightning strike. Rory’s breath hitched. She should pull away. She should tell him to leave, to go back to his charcoal suits and his ivory blades. But the way he was looking at her—with a desperate, restrained hunger that had nothing to do with his demonic heritage—pinned her to the spot. "You don't get to decide what destroys me," she whispered. "Don't I?" He reached out again, and this time, he didn't stop. His gloved hand brushed her cheek, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. The leather was cool, but the heat of his skin beneath it was unmistakable. "I have spent thirty-two years learning how to survive the worst parts of both worlds. But three months without hearing your voice? That was a trial I wasn't prepared for." Rory leaned into his touch, a small, involuntary movement that broke the last of her resolve. "You’re an idiot, Lucien Moreau." "On that, we are in complete agreement," he murmured. He moved then, discarding the practiced stillness of the fixer. He caught her waist with his free hand, pulling her flush against him. Rory’s hands found the lapels of his suit, bunching the expensive fabric in her fists. When he kissed her, it wasn't the polite, distant gesture of a gentleman. It was fierce and reclaiming, tasting of suppressed longing and the dark, heady promise of things left unsaid for far too long. Rory responded with equal fervor, her fingers moving from his suit to the nape of his neck, feeling the softness of his platinum hair. The world outside—Evan, the Golden Empress, the scrolls, the looming threats—faded into a dull roar. There was only the heat of him, the solid weight of his body against hers, and the way his breath hitched when she pulled him closer. Ptolemy let out a loud, indignant meow and jumped off the sofa, vanishing into the bedroom, but neither of them noticed. When Lucien finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against hers. His amber eye was glowing now, a vibrant, molten gold. "I cannot stay away, Aurora. I tried. Heaven and Hell know I tried." Rory took a shaky breath, her heart racing. "Then don't. But if you walk out that door again without a word, don't bother coming back. Not even if the devil himself is at my heels." Lucien’s lips curved into a faint, dangerous smile—the first real smile she had seen on him in months. "The devil wouldn't dare. He knows I got to you first." He reached down, his fingers finding her left wrist, encircling the small crescent scar with a gentleness that contradicted everything he was. "We have to move you. Evan is close, and this flat is a deathtrap. But tonight..." He looked around the cluttered, spice-scented room, then back at her. "Tonight, I am not leaving." Rory nodded, the cool-headed intelligence that usually guided her life taking a backseat to the raw, undeniable electricity humming between them. She reached up, undoing the top button of his charcoal waistcoat. "Good. Because I have three months of things to say to you, Lucien. And not all of them are nice." "I look forward to every single one," he replied, and kissed her again, drowning out the rest of the world.