Run: 2026-03-18-01KM0APS4JQSTW8M5MDRGW325Y

The rain hammered against the grimy window as Rory pulled the door open, the sudden draft rattling the stacks of index cards balanced precariously on Eva's bookshelf. She hadn't expected company—not tonight, not in this state. She'd just finished plating the last of the triple-chocolate tart she'd baked, hoping the sugar would take the edge off the bickering with the Golden Empress kitchen staff. "Surprise." The voice cut through the static like a knife. Rory's grip tightened around the door handle as Lucien stepped forward, his tailored charcoal suit already glistening with rain. His amber eye locked onto hers, the black one distant, as if watching something beyond the flat's ceiling. Ptolemy bolted from the armchair where he'd been curled, tail fluffed, and darted under the couch with a hiss. Eva wasn’t home—thank god—but the flat's usual smell of curry and old books had been replaced by the sharp, metallic tang of his cologne, the one Rory had bought him last Christmas. Three years melted away in the space between heartbeats. "You're soaked." His lips quirked, but his cane tapped against the hardwood floor, the ivory tip leaving a damp mark. "London decides to greet me properly tonight." The tart slipped slightly in her grip, golden crumbs tumbling onto the doormat. She caught it before it hit the floor but not before Lucien's gaze flicked to the dessert, then to her bare arms dusted with flour. "You bake when upset?" "Only when I lose bets with myself." The lie slipped out easier than she expected, the kind of thing she’d have told him once upon a time. Not now. Not like this. He stepped inside, the door swinging shut behind him with a finality that made her chest tighten. The deadbolts hadn’t been drawn—the oversight now glaring. She should’ve locked up. Should’ve known. This flat was a haven, but not from him. Never from him. "I didn’t know you were back." "Two days ago." Two days. Plenty of time to find her address. Plenty of time to decide to come. The flour on her hands caught the dim light from the streetlamp outside, skimming over the crescent scar on her wrist like a ghost touch. Lucien’s gaze followed it down, then up again, slower this time, as if he were stripping layers instead of just clothes. "You look good, Rory." Not Aurora. Not even Malphora. Just Rory. The name he’d given her in a different life. She set the tart down on the nearest surface—the dining table buried under spell diagrams drawn in messy ink. "What do you want?" His cane tapped once against the floor. "Can’t a man visit without an agenda?" "You? Unless it involves leverage or payment, no." The words came out sharper than intended, but the years of silence between them had honed that edge sharp enough to cut. Lucien exhaled, the sound almost a laugh. "Same sharp tongue. I missed that." "Don’t." He tilted his head, the platinum blond hair catching the faint glow of the hour-lamp Eva kept on for late-night readings. "Don’t what?" "Don’t pretend this is casual. Not after everything." The flat seemed to shrink, the scent of incense clinging to the air suddenly too thick, too intimate. Lucien moved toward the armchair Eva had abandoned, the fabric scratching as he lowered himself, cane carefully propped against the side. He adjusted his cuff, the sleeve riding up just enough to reveal the faintest trace of sigils tattooed along his wrist. Protection? Power? She didn’t ask. "You think I don’t know what ‘everything’ means? I left you letters. Messages. You erased every one." Rory’s fingers curled into fists. "You left a key to a flat in Soho in my coat pocket. A flat you never told me about. With a safe full of cash and a lease in your name. That wasn’t a message—that was a lifeline you dangled and then yanked away." His amber eye darkened, the black one flickering like a dying ember. "You think I had a choice?" "Bullshit. You always have a choice." He stood suddenly, too fast for someone with a cane’s support. The chair scooted back, wood screeching against the floor. "I let you think that. Maybe I should’ve told you the truth sooner—that I wasn’t just some fixer, just some half-breed with a silver tongue. I was hunting something. And it found you anyway." Rory’s breath hitched. "What?" Lucien didn’t answer. His stare drilled into her, unblinking, as if he were memorizing her face again. Or reclaiming it. The rain outside softened to a whisper, but the silence in the flat was louder. "You’re bleeding." His voice dropped, rougher than before. She followed his gaze down. A thin line of red welled at her palm from where the tart’s sharp edge had nicked her finger. She hadn’t even felt it. Lucien moved before she could react—her hand in his, the touch warm, electric, sending a jolt up her arm that made her knees threaten to fold. He pressed her finger to his lips, the tip of his tongue warm and wet against the wound. Rory’s pulse roared in her ears. His eyes were inches from hers, his breath hot on her skin. The scent of him—bergamot and gunpowder—filled her lungs. For a second, she forgot how to breathe. Then he stepped back, releasing her hand as if burned. "You always were reckless with knives," he murmured. "Even in the kitchen." The words hung between them, heavy with everything left unsaid. The tart sat forgotten. Eva’s flat felt too small, too thin a barrier against the storm of memory. Lucien’s cane tapped twice against the floor, steady as a heartbeat. "You going to offer me tea, or am I just here to bleed for you now?" Rory stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast. The anger was still there, simmering, but now it was tangled with something else. Something warm and dangerous. She turned toward the kettle, fingers steady despite the storm inside. "Sit down, Lucien. You’re dripping on Eva’s scrolls."