Run: 2026-04-25-01KQ2E38SBHBS2W1GP32BYH646

The knock came at half past ten, sharp and deliberate — three raps, a pause, then two more. Rory knew that rhythm. She'd known it since university, when Lucien would show up at her dorm with a bottle of wine and that infuriating half-smile, ready to drag her out of whatever textbook she'd buried herself in. She set down Ptolemy, who'd been purring in her lap, and crossed the cluttered living room. The flat smelled of curry from downstairs and the jasmine tea she'd been nursing for the last hour. Through the peephole, she saw the charcoal suit first, then the familiar platinum blond hair, slightly dishevelled. The ivory handle of his cane glinted under the dim hallway light. Rory's hand hovered over the deadbolt. Three locks. She'd installed them after Evan, but Lucien had helped her pick out the first one, had stood in the hardware store and argued with the salesman about tensile strength while she'd stared at the floor, hollowed out and silent. She opened the door. Lucien stood in the narrow hallway, cane in one hand, the other raised as if to knock again. Up close, he looked tired — shadows under his mismatched eyes, a crease between his brows she didn't remember. He'd always been immaculate, a sharp blade in a velvet sheath. Tonight, the edge seemed dulled. "Rory." Her name on his tongue still carried the French curl, a ghost of Marseille. "What do you want, Luc?" He tilted his head. "That's not the welcome I was hoping for." "You show up at my door unannounced after six months, you don't get to hope for anything." A beat. He lowered his hand. "May I come in?" She should say no. She knew she should say no. The last time she'd seen him, they'd been standing on a rain-slicked street in Soho, him telling her he had to go to Paris, something about a deal gone wrong, something about never being the man she needed him to be. She'd watched him walk away, the tap of his cane against the wet pavement like a countdown she hadn't asked for. Rory stepped aside. Lucien moved past her into the flat, his gaze sweeping the room in a single practiced motion — the stacks of books, the research notes pinned to the wall, the half-empty teacup on the coffee table. Ptolemy wound between his ankles, and Lucien reached down to scratch behind the cat's ears. The gesture was so familiar it ached. "You're still feeding him scraps from the restaurant," he said. "He likes the duck." "He has expensive taste." "He's a cat on Brick Lane. He's earned it." Lucien straightened, and for a moment they just stood there, the space between them filled with six months of silence and all the years before. The flat felt smaller with him in it. It always had. "I need your help," he said. "You don't get to do that." "Excuse me?" Rory crossed her arms. "You don't get to vanish for half a year and then show up asking for favours. That's not how this works, Luc." "Things are complicated." "They always are with you. That's the point." She heard her voice rise and forced it back down. "You left. You said you couldn't be what I needed. I respected that. I stayed here, I rebuilt my life, I stopped waiting for you to come through that door. And now you're here, asking for help." Lucien's jaw tightened. He set his cane against the armchair and ran a hand through his hair, messing it further. She'd never seen him do that before. Lucien Moreau didn't fidget. "There's a woman," he said. "She's hunting me. Hunting my kind. Half-demons, specifically. She's good at it — better than anyone I've seen in decades." "And you came to me? I'm a delivery driver, Luc. I carry noodles." "You're cleverer than anyone I know. You think in ways people don't expect. And you know London — the backstreets, the hidden corners, the places people like her don't think to look." Rory shook her head. "No." "Rory—" "No. You don't get to waltz back into my life because you're scared. That's not how this works." "Then tell me how it works." His voice dropped, quieter now, stripped of its usual smooth veneer. "Tell me what I have to do. Because I've spent six months trying to stay away from you, trying to convince myself it was the right thing. That I was protecting you from the world I carry on my back. And every day, I've regretted it." The words hit her in the chest, sharp and unexpected. She looked at him — really looked — and saw the exhaustion she'd noticed at the door, the faint tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curled against his palm like he was holding himself back from reaching for her. "You broke my heart, Luc." "I know." "You don't get to say things like that and expect me to just—" "I don't expect anything. I'm asking." He took a step closer, slow, giving her time to retreat. She didn't. "I'm asking because you're the only person I trust. Because when I was in Paris, bleeding out in a hotel room, I didn't think about my mother or my father or the deals I'd made. I thought about your laugh. The one you do when you're trying not to, and it comes out anyway, and your whole face lights up." Rory's throat tightened. Ptolemy meowed, loud and insistent, and the sound broke the moment. She turned away, pressed her palms against the countertop, and stared at the cold jasmine tea. "You're bleeding," she said, not looking at him. "Old wound." "Bullshit. You're favouring your left leg more than usual, and you haven't once made a joke about my research notes." She finally turned, caught his gaze. "Where is it?" Lucien hesitated. Then he reached up and unbuttoned his suit jacket, pulled aside the white shirt beneath. A bandage, hastily wrapped and dark with fresh blood, stained the fabric just below his ribs. Rory swore under her breath. "Sit down." "Rory—" "Sit down before you fall down, you dramatic bastard." He sat. She grabbed the first-aid kit from under the sink — the one she'd bought after he'd patched her up months ago, after she'd fallen off her bike delivering an order in the rain. The irony wasn't lost on her. She knelt in front of him and began unwrapping the bandage. His breath hitched when she touched the wound, but he didn't make a sound. "Who did this?" "The woman I mentioned. She's methodical, patient. She tracked me through Whitechapel, knew exactly where I'd turn, where I'd stop to catch my breath." "Ex-girlfriend?" A short, surprised laugh. "No. She's a hunter. Name's Sloane. Works for a organisation that doesn't officially exist." "That's very dramatic." "I told you. Complicated." Rory cleaned the wound with steady hands, the way she'd learned from watching him do it to her. It was deep but clean, a knife wound, not a bullet. She pressed a fresh gauze against it and reached for the tape. "I'll help you," she said quietly. "But not because I owe you anything. Because there's a woman hunting people in my city, and I don't like that." "That's enough." She looked up. He was watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read — something raw and unguarded, the mask slipped just enough to show the man beneath. "I missed you," he said. Rory pressed the tape down, maybe harder than necessary. He winced. "Stay quiet. Let me finish." But her hands were shaking, just a little, and she knew he noticed. Because Lucien always noticed everything. And because, despite every rational thought screaming at her to push him away, a part of her — the stubborn, reckless part that had fallen for him in the first place — was quietly, impossibly glad he was back.