Run: 2026-04-25-01KQ2JQZQ2ABTY2GR0S5C90X75

The knock came at half past eleven, three sharp raps against the wood. Rory had been half-asleep on Eva’s threadbare sofa, Ptolemy a warm weight on her chest, a stack of library books threatening to slide off her lap. She jolted upright, scattering the cat, who made his displeasure known with a flick of his tail. She stared at the door, at the three deadbolts Eva insisted on. No one knocked on Eva’s door at this hour. Eva was at her night shift at the archive, wouldn’t be back until six. The curry house downstairs had closed at ten. The street was quiet, rain slicking the pavement in greasy sheens of amber light. Another knock. Not impatient, but deliberate. Measured. Rory swung her legs off the sofa and padded to the door on bare feet. She pressed her eye to the peephole, and her stomach dropped. Lucien Moreau stood on the landing, rain darkening the shoulders of his charcoal suit. His ivory-handled cane was hooked over one forearm. He wasn’t looking at the door; he was looking down at his phone, one hand lifting to knock again. She thought about not opening it. She thought about pretending she wasn’t home, about letting him knock until he gave up and went back to whichever shadowed corner of London he’d crawled out of. They hadn’t spoken in six weeks. Not since the night at the bar when he’d told her, with that infuriating calm, that her search for answers about her father’s death would only get her killed if she kept involving herself in matters she didn’t understand. She’d told him she didn’t need his protection, and he’d told her she needed sense, and she’d walked out into the rain without a coat. He hadn’t called. She hadn’t either. Now he was here, and her hand was already turning the first deadbolt. She opened the door to the chain, just enough to see his face. His heterochromatic eyes met hers—one amber, one black—and something in her chest twisted. “Lucien.” “Rory.” His voice was low, rougher than she remembered. “May I come in?” “Why?” A pause. Rain dripped from the eaves behind him. “Because I need to talk to you, and I’d rather not do it on a landing where the curry house owner’s cat keeps rubbing against my trouser leg.” She glanced down. Ptolemy had slipped out between her feet and was weaving around Lucien’s polished black shoes, purring like a broken engine. Of course. The cat had no sense of self-preservation. Rory unchained the door and stepped back. He entered with a slight limp she hadn’t noticed before—favoring his right leg, using the cane more heavily than usual. He took in the flat in one sweep: the stacks of books on every surface, the takeaway containers on the coffee table, the rumpled blanket on the sofa. His gaze lingered on her, barefoot in an oversized jumper and leggings, hair mussed from sleep. “You’ve been sleeping on the couch,” he said. “Eva’s been letting me crash here since the thing with the water pipes at Silas’ place.” She crossed her arms. “What do you want, Lucien?” He set his cane against the wall and removed his suit jacket, draping it over the back of a chair. He was wearing a gun beneath his arm—a compact SIG, she’d seen it before. He caught her looking and didn’t bother to hide it. “There’s a man named Clayworth,” he said. “He’s been asking questions about a certain delivery you made two weeks ago. To the auction house in Southwark.” Rory’s heart rate ticked up. That delivery. The one Yu-Fei had given her with explicit instructions not to open the insulated bag. The one that had smelled faintly of iron and old parchment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lucien smiled, and it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re a terrible liar, Rory. It’s one of the things I like about you.” The words landed somewhere soft and dangerous. She ignored them. “So what if I made a delivery? I deliver food. That’s my job.” “Clayworth works for a man who would very much like to know where that particular item ended up. And Clayworth is not a patient man.” Lucien stepped closer, and she had to tilt her chin up to hold his gaze. “He’ll find you, Rory. He’ll find you through Yu-Fei, through Eva, through that ex-boyfriend who still calls you from Cardiff asking for money you don’t owe him.” “How do you know about Evan?” “I know everything about you.” His voice dropped, and the amber eye caught the dim light. “I’ve made it my business to know.” She should have felt violated. Instead, she felt the heat rise in her cheeks, the familiar pull of his gravity. This was what had undone her the first time—the way he could make protection sound like obsession, the way he looked at her like she was a problem he’d chosen to solve. “You walked away,” she said, and her voice came out steadier than she felt. “You told me I was too reckless, too emotional, too human. And then you disappeared.” “I didn’t disappear. I gave you space.” “Space.” She laughed, brittle. “That’s a nice word for it.” He was close enough now that she could smell the rain in his hair, the clean, expensive scent of his cologne. Close enough that she could see the faint lines of exhaustion around his mouth, the tension in his jaw. “I was wrong,” he said. She blinked. “What?” “That night. I was wrong to say those things. I was—frustrated. Afraid.” The black eye seemed to swallow the light. “I have spent three decades learning not to care about anyone. And then you showed up at my door asking about a demon contract you had no business knowing about, and I cared anyway. I cared too much. And it terrified me.” Rory’s throat tightened. She remembered that night, six weeks ago. She’d come to him with a lead on a man who might know something about the ritual that killed her father. She’d been breathless, excited. And he’d shut her down, cold and clinical, as if she were a client he was dismissing. “So you pushed me away,” she said. “Yes.” He lifted his hand, hesitated, then brushed a strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered against her cheek. “And I’ve regretted it every day since.” She should step back. She should tell him that sorry wasn’t enough, that he couldn’t show up in the middle of the night and expect her to fall into his arms. But the touch of his skin against hers sent a tremor through her, and she didn’t move. “Clayworth,” she said, barely a whisper. “What does he want?” “You. Alive, preferably. But he’ll settle for whatever information you have.” Lucien’s hand slid to the back of her neck, gentle but insistent. “I can protect you. But you have to trust me.” “I don’t know if I can.” “I know.” His forehead touched hers. “But I’m asking anyway.” Ptolemy meowed from somewhere near their feet, demanding attention. Neither of them moved. And Rory, despite every sensible part of her brain screaming caution, let herself lean into the warmth of him, just for a moment.