Run: 2026-03-03-01KJTZ1YTJ9095GARSZFYZ6HVG

The key turns three times in the lock. Rory shoves the last deadbolt back with her hip, shouldering the door inward. She dumps her frayed Golden Empress delivery bag by the scuffed shoe rack, the spicy tang of chicken tikka masala clinging to the straps. Her shoulder-length black hair sticks to the back of her neck, pulled loose from a messy bun she’d tossed together halfway through her third round of bike deliveries. She yanks the stained red apron over her head, tossing it onto the stack of coats and scuffed leather boots by the door, and reaches for the overhead light switch by the frame. Freezes. The room glows with pale gold streetlight seeping through the grimy front window. He stands right in the clutter that makes Eva’s flat feel like home: stacks of weathered books teeter on the coffee table, scrolls tied with twine line the shelf above the tiny fireplace. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby cat, lifts his head from his perch on the well-worn sofa, blinks, then goes back to grooming his paw. Lucien Moreau leans against the windowsill, ivory cane propped against the frame. His tailored charcoal suit, fabric pressed so smooth it catches the streetlight, fits like a glove. Platinum blond hair is slicked back tight against his skull. One eye burns amber, the color of burnt honey; the other is deep, unyielding black. They fix on her. The black one flickers to the crescent-shaped scar wrapping around her left wrist, skin pink and raw from the broken bottle she’d tripped over that afternoon. His right hand rests lightly on the ivory handle, the way he always does when he’s not trying to pretend he’s entirely in control. She’d spent three months trying to forget him. Scrub the scent of sandalwood and cedar from her clothes. Erase the sound of his low laugh at her terrible jokes. Let go of the way he’d held her after she’d mustered the courage to tell him about Evan. Then he’d vanished, left a half-paid invoice on her kitchen counter and no note, no explanation. Lucien. “Rory.” The word hangs in the air, thick with the smell of old paper and the burnt remains of Eva’s forgotten chamomile tea, left to cool on the counter. No extra flair, no practiced smoothness. Just his voice, low and tight. She slams the door shut, flipping the three deadbolts back into place with shaking hands. Her grip slips on the final bolt, and she has to curse under her breath to steady herself. “What are you doing here?” The words are sharp, edged with the anger she’s carried for three months. He pushes off the windowsill, cane tapping once against the warped floorboards. The movement sends a clatter of books off the coffee table. Ptolemy darted under the sofa to avoid the mess. Lucien doesn’t even glance at the spilt stack. His eyes never leave her face. “I came to talk.” “Talk?” A laugh cuts through the hum of the curry house below, sharp and unforgiving. “You left without a word. Three months ago. Now you show up at Eva’s door?” He reaches into his suit jacket pocket, pulls out a small folded sheet of cream paper, and tosses it onto the coffee table. It lands next to a stack of scrolls, Cardiff University logo stamped in the corner. Her old pre-law paperwork, the stack she’d dumped on Silas’ bar counter the night she’d run from Evan. “I picked that up the other day. Stopped by the bar to check in.” She’d forgotten all about that folder. The day she’d packed her bags and fled, she’d left it behind, too overwhelmed to carry it. “You stalk me?” “Not stalk. Watch.” He shifts closer, and she can smell his cologne again—sandalwood, cedar, the same scent that wrapped around her that night, when he’d sat on the fire escape of her flat above Silas’ bar and listened to her talk about her father, about growing up in Cardiff, about how she’d never wanted to be a barrister, never wanted the life her parents had mapped out for her. “I’ve watched you for a month. Saw you confront Evan outside the tube station. Saw you get that scar.” His eyes flick back to her wrist. He takes a step closer, reaches out, hesitates, then brushes the edge of the scar with his fingertips. She sucks in a sharp breath, the touch sending a shiver down her spine. “I was two seconds away from pulling my cane blade and taking him down. You didn’t ask for help. You didn’t need me to. You handled it.” She pulls away, stepping back until her shoulder hits the doorframe. Her hands curl into loose fists. “You didn’t handle it. You left me to handle it alone.” His jaw tightens, and he runs a hand through his slicked-back hair, a rare break from his perfect composure. “I know. I didn’t have a choice. Not then. My father—he’s a demon from Avaros, the realm my kind comes from. He summoned me back to Marseille three months ago. A rival clan threatened his business. I was stuck there for ten weeks. The wards on the realm block all magical communication. Tried to send you a message once, through a local coven in London. Came back charred to ash. Couldn’t reach you. Couldn’t even let you know I was alive.” The anger in her chest softens. She’d always known Lucien was half-demon, but she’d never heard him sound so vulnerable. Never seen the cracks in his perfectly polished mask. “Why are you here now?” He pulls something else from his suit pocket, holding it out. A small jade pendant, carved into the shape of a raven, stone warm from being held in his hand for hours. She’d mentioned this pendant once, months ago, when she’d stumbled through a curio shop on Brick Lane and sighed that you could never have too many anti-evil trinkets. Forgotten she’d even told him that. “I was supposed to deliver this to you the night I left.” He sets the pendant in her palm. Her fingers curl around it, smooth stone fitting perfectly against her skin. “Went to your flat above Silas’ bar the next morning. You were gone. Moved in with Eva. Tracked the forwarding address from your old mail here. Couldn’t come sooner. The wards in Avaros didn’t lift until last week.” She looks up at him. See the faint stubble along his jaw, dark and unkempt, something he never has when he’s working as a fixer. When he’s always polished, always in control. He’s been hurting too. “I’m sorry I left without saying anything.” He steps closer, their chests inches apart. His hand brushes a strand of loose hair from her face, his fingertips light as a feather. “Sorry I didn’t trust you enough to tell you what was happening. Sorry I made you feel alone.” She’d carried that hurt for three months. Anger, betrayal, the hollow feeling of being abandoned by the only person who’d seemed to care. Now, holding the jade pendant, looking into his heterochromatic eyes, it all melts away. Remembers the night they spent together, how he’d stayed up with her until dawn, stitching up her wrist after Evan had grabbed her. How he’d laughed when he spilled wine on Eva’s rug, even though she’d yelled at him for ruining her favorite throw. How he’d told her she was smarter than she gave herself credit for. “I missed you.” The words slip out before she can stop herself. Her cheeks heat up, the first time she’s admitted that out loud, even to herself. Lucien’s face relaxes. A small, genuine smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, something she hasn’t seen before. “I missed you too. More than I thought possible.” He leans in. This time, she doesn’t pull away. His lips press against hers, soft and gentle. She can taste mint, faint sweetness from the glass of wine he’s been drinking. His arm wraps around her waist, pulling her closer. She can feel the steady beat of his heart under his suit jacket. Ptolemy meows from under the sofa. Loud, indignant. They pull apart, laughing softly. Rory’s hand rests on his chest, fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt. Lucien’s thumb traces the edge of the jade pendant in her other hand, slow and deliberate.