Run: 2026-05-22-01KS860X3AJZRDTS3XBAR4Z9PD

The top deadbolt clicked. Rory twisted the middle lock, then wrenched the bottom one free. She hauled the heavy wooden door open, ready to yell at Eva for forgetting her keys again. The words died in her throat. Lucien Moreau filled the cramped hallway. Rain darkened the shoulders of his tailored charcoal suit. He leaned his weight onto his ivory-handled cane, the hidden blade clicking faintly against the floorboards. His platinum blond hair was slicked back, not a single strand out of place despite the storm outside. You changed the locks. His gaze flicked to the three deadbolts. Eva did. Rory tightened her grip on the brass handle. The small crescent scar on her left wrist stretched taut. She values her privacy. Three locks will not keep out what is coming up the stairs, Aurora. It is Rory. And nothing is coming up the stairs except the smell of burnt garlic. She moved to slam the door. His gloved hand shot out, catching the wood. The leather creaked. Please. The single word hung in the damp air. Lucien never begged. He negotiated. He brokered. He commanded. Rory stared at his hand, then up to his face. The amber eye burned with a feverish heat, while the black one remained a void. She stepped back and pulled the door wide. He crossed the threshold, bringing the scent of ozone and expensive cologne into the flat. He paused in the entryway, taking in the stacks of grimoires, the unrolled parchment scrolls, and the teetering towers of research notes covering every available surface. Your friend has a hoarding problem. He stepped over a pile of translated Sumerian texts. She has a research obsession. Keep your voice down. Rory shut the door and threw the deadbolts back into place. The metallic snaps echoed in the small space. Why are you here, Lucien? We agreed. We agreed to stay out of each other's way. He turned, his coat brushing a stack of textbooks. Circumstances changed. A tabby cat leaped from the top of a bookshelf. Ptolemy landed silently on the kitchen counter, his green eyes locking onto the half-demon. The cat let out a low, vibrating growl. Your beast dislikes me. Lucien unbuttoned his jacket. He is a rescue. He dislikes everyone. Rory crossed her arms, putting the kitchen island between them. You have five minutes. I have a shift at the Golden Empress in an hour, and Yu-Fei docks my pay if I am late. Lucien rested his hands on the head of his cane. You deliver noodles to avoid the underworld, yet you spend your evenings in a flat that smells of dark magic and old dust. I am helping Eva. It is not my life. Is it not? He took a step forward. The floorboards groaned under his weight. You ran from Cardiff. You ran from Evan. You ran from me. You build walls out of curry houses and deadbolts and pretend you are safe. I am safe. Her voice dropped to a harsh whisper. She dug her fingernails into her palms. I do not have to look over my shoulder. I do not have to wonder if the man in my bed is going to bleed out on my sheets because a rival syndicate put a price on his head. Lucien’s jaw tightened. A muscle feathered in his cheek. I told you to leave London. I told you to go back to Wales. And I told you to go to hell. The silence stretched, heavy and cloying. Ptolemy stopped growling and began to wash a paw, indifferent to the tension. Lucien closed the distance between them. He stopped at the edge of the counter, close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from his skin. The ambient magic of his demon blood always made the air around him feel charged, like the moment before a lightning strike. Evan is in London. Rory’s breath hitched. She pressed her palms flat against the cool Formica counter to stop her hands from shaking. Evan is in prison. He made parole. Three weeks ago. Lucien reached out, his fingers hovering an inch from her arm. He did not touch her. He has been asking questions in the East End. Looking for a girl with black hair and a quick temper. I can handle myself. You are a human who delivers food on a bicycle. His voice softened, losing its usual aristocratic edge. You are brilliant, Rory. You outsmarted a room full of pre-law barristers. But Evan is not a debate opponent. He is a brute with a grudge and nothing to lose. She looked away, focusing on a cracked teacup sitting near the sink. Her throat tightened, the phantom pressure of Evan’s thumbs pressing against her windpipe. She blinked the memory away, forcing her posture to straighten. Why do you care? She snapped her gaze back to him. You made it very clear six months ago that my problems were a liability to your business. My business is information. Your business is lying. She leveled her chin. You pushed me away because you thought you were protecting me. You played the cold, untouchable fixer. You broke my heart to save my life, and you did not even give me the courtesy of a real goodbye. Lucien’s knuckles turned white where he gripped the ivory handle of his cane. A goodbye would have made you stay. It would have made me fight for us. He let out a breath that sounded like a curse. He moved around the counter. Rory did not retreat. She stood her ground as he invaded her space, the toes of his polished oxfords bumping against her scuffed boots. He raised a hand, his leather glove brushing a stray lock of straight black hair behind her ear. The touch sent a jolt of electricity straight down her spine. His amber eye tracked the movement of her throat as she swallowed. I am a monster, Rory. His thumb traced the line of her jaw. My father rules a realm of ash and torment. My blood is poison. You deserve a quiet life. A human life. I never asked for quiet. She leaned into his touch, just a fraction, before catching herself. She grabbed his wrist, her fingers wrapping around the fine wool of his suit sleeve. I asked for you. His breath caught. He dropped his hand from her face, but she kept her grip on his wrist. The pulse beneath his skin beat in a rapid, uneven rhythm. If I stay, I need to know the truth. She released his wrist and stepped back, creating a sliver of space between them. The cold air rushed in to fill the gap. No more vanishing in the middle of the night. No more cryptic warnings. If we are doing this, you do not get to make decisions for me. The underworld will tear you apart. Let them try. She grabbed her damp jacket from the hook by the door. Eva has wards on this flat. I have three deadbolts. And I have you. Lucien stared at her, the black eye seemingly absorbing the dim light of the kitchen. He tilted his head, a faint smirk touching the corner of his mouth. You are entirely unreasonable. I am a barrister's daughter. It is in my blood. Rory turned toward the hallway, her hand resting on the brass doorknob. Now, are you going to stand there looking like a brooding aristocrat, or are you going to help me find Evan before he finds me? Lucien adjusted his cuffs, the ivory cane tapping a sharp rhythm against the floor. I already know where he is. Then lead the way, Frenchman.