Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95VRSG0VRQ1J9RWDZ0GVRA

The floorboards beneath Rory’s feet hummed with the bass from Silas' bar downstairs. It was a rhythmic, dull throb that vibrated through the soles of her socks, a constant reminder of the life churning beneath her small sanctuary. She reached for the kettle, the whistle starting to build a shrill counterpoint to the music, when the knock came. Three precise, heavy raps. They didn't belong to Silas or any of the regulars who occasionally mistook her door for the broom cupboard. These had a weight to them, a deliberate authority that made the hair on her arms prickle. She set the kettle aside and tightened the sash of her cardigan. The crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist flared white against her skin as she gripped the handle. She didn't check the peephole. In this neighborhood, curiosity killed more than just cats, but her gut already knew the rhythm of that knock. It was etched into her memory, right alongside the scent of expensive tobacco and rain-slicked asphalt. The door groaned as she pulled it open. Lucien Moreau stood in the dim hallway, a ghost of the life she’d tried to bury. The yellowed light of the landing caught the platinum sheen of his slicked-back hair and the sharp, tailored lines of his charcoal suit. He leaned slightly on his ivory-handled cane, his heterochromatic eyes—one stygian black, the other a searing, predatory amber—scanning the threshold before settling on her face. “You look well, Aurora.” The sound of his voice, a low vibration that carried the ghost of a French accent, sent a jolt of heat through her chest that she immediately tried to smother with irritation. “You have five seconds before I call Silas. He still keeps the baseball bat behind the bar.” Lucien didn’t flinch. He didn’t move at all, save for the slight tilt of his head. He looked like an oil painting brought to life, too still and too perfect for a cramped flat above a dive bar in London. “Silas and I have already exchanged pleasantries. He’s the one who let me up.” “Traitor.” Rory stepped back, intending to slam the door, but the tip of the ivory cane slid into the gap. The wood met the cane with a dull thud. Lucien didn't push, didn't use force. He simply waited, the pressure of the cane a silent request. “It’s raining, Aurora. And my business isn’t the sort for a public hallway.” “Since when do you care about public displays? You usually prefer an audience for your theatrics.” She let go of the door and walked back into the kitchen, a surrender that felt more like a retreat. Behind her, the click of the latch and the slide of the bolt echoed in the small space. Lucien’s footsteps followed—muted, elegant, and entirely too close. The flat felt smaller with him in it. The ceiling seemed to drop, the walls closing in as his presence filled the corners. He didn't belong here, amidst the mismatched furniture and the lingering smell of Golden Empress take-away. He was a creature of marble floors and velvet shadows. Rory turned on the tap, letting the water run cold over her hands to steady them. “Why are you here, Lucien? Last I checked, you were quite clear about our partnership ending. Something about me being an 'uncontrollable liability'?” Lucien leaned his cane against the edge of her small dining table. He moved through her space with a terrifying familiarity, his black eye tracking the movement of her shoulders while the amber one seemed to glow in the low light. “I was angry. You were reckless. The docks in Marseille were a bloodbath because you decided to play hero for that girl.” “She was twelve. I wasn't going to let those things tear her apart.” “And instead, you nearly let them tear you apart.” He moved toward her then, the air between them thickening with the sudden proximity. He stopped just outside her personal space, the scent of him—cedarwood and something metallic, something demon—invading her lungs. He reached out, his gloved hand hovering near her arm before he pulled it back, a rare moment of hesitation from a man who brokered the secrets of the underworld. “I heard about the move. Brick Lane is a far cry from the flat in Kensington.” “Kensington was your place, Lucien. This is mine. I like the noise. It drowns out the voices of people I’d rather forget.” She turned to face him, leaning back against the sink. The blue of her eyes met the chaos of his, and for a second, the anger flickered, replaced by the sharp, jagged memory of their last night together. The taste of whiskey on his breath, the heat of his skin against hers before the argument turned into a fracture that neither had known how to mend. “You haven’t forgotten.” He didn't make it a question. He took another step, closing the distance until the toes of his polished oxfords touched her socks. The height difference forced her to tilt her head back, exposing the vulnerability of her throat. “I’ve been busy. Delivering noodles and keeping my head down. It’s a quiet life. You should try it.” Lucien’s hand finally moved, his fingers brushing the hair away from her face. His touch was cool, but it left a trail of fire in its wake. “You were never meant for quiet, Aurora. You’re a storm caught in a human skin. Even now, your pulse is trying to break through your skin.” She swatted his hand away, her heart hammering against her ribs just as he’d described. “Don't come into my home and tell me what I am. You lost that right months ago. You left me in that hospital in Marseille with nothing but a bill and a generic 'get well' card.” “I paid the bill. And I stayed until you were out of surgery.” “And then you disappeared. Like you always do when things get messy.” The amber eye flared, a sign of the demon blood simmering beneath his skin. Lucien’s jaw tightened, the muscles of his face sharp and angular. “I disappeared because the men who were hunting us don't stop. If I had stayed, they would have found you before you could even walk. I drew them away.” Rory felt the sting of tears and blinked them back, her jaw setting in a stubborn line. “You could have told me. We were supposed to be a team.” “We were never just a team, and you know it.” He grabbed her waist then, his fingers digging into the soft fabric of her cardigan. The movement was sudden, purely instinctual, drawing her flush against the cold wool of his suit. The ivory handle of the cane rattled against the table as he crowded her against the counter. “I spent six months convincing myself I didn’t need the headache you cause. I took jobs in Berlin, in Tokyo, in Cairo. I surrounding myself with people who listen, people who don't question, and yet, every time I closed my eyes, I saw you bleeding out on that concrete floor.” Rory’s breath hitched. She could feel the vibration of his chest against hers, the raw power of him. She reached up, her fingers tangling in the platinum hair at the nape of his neck, not to push him away, but to hold him there. “You’re a liar, Lucien Moreau. You came here because you’re bored.” “I came here because I’m starving.” His head dipped, his nose brushing against hers. The heterochromatic eyes were blown wide, the pupils swallowing the color. “There’s a contract. A big one. Something involving the Avaros lineage.” Rory gave a sharp, dry laugh, her forehead resting against his. “Of course. It’s always a job. You didn't come for me. You came for the delivery girl.” “I came for the only person in this city who isn't afraid to look at me and see something other than a monster. And because I missed the way you taste when you’re angry.” He didn't wait for her to retort. He pressed his mouth to hers, a bruising, desperate kiss that tasted of long-held resentment and a hunger that had only grown in the silence between them. Rory groaned into the kiss, her hands shifting from his hair to his shoulders, pulling him closer until the edge of the counter dug into her hips. The music from the bar downstairs seemed to swell, a frantic drumbeat that matched the frantic pace of her heart. Lucien’s kiss was demanding, a reclaim of territory he’d never truly abandoned. His tongue swept against hers, and for a moment, the world of deliveries and law degrees and hiding vanished. There was only the weight of him, the scent of the underworld, and the terrifying realization that she was going to let him stay. He pulled back just an inch, his lips wet and his breathing ragged. “Tell me to leave, Aurora. Say it now, and I’ll walk out that door. I’ll leave the contract, I’ll leave the city, and I won't come back.” Rory looked at the man who had broken her heart and saved her life in the same breath. She looked at the crescent scar on her wrist and then back at his dual-colored eyes. “The kettle’s boiled,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “And you’re going to tell me every single detail about this contract.” Lucien’s grip on her waist didn't loosen. A slow, dangerous smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. “The tea can wait.”