Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCSG3S655GW4DTRD7P5RQEQ

Three heavy deadbolts scraped open one by one within the narrow frame on Brick Lane. Rory pulled the steel bolt back, her shoulder pressed against the splintered wood, expecting a courier slip or Eva empty-handed and begging for tea. Platinum blond hair caught the harsh amber glow of the hallway bulb. Lucien stood on the threshold, filling the cramped landing in a tailored charcoal suit that smelled faintly of rain and expensive tobacco. His heterochromatic eyes locked onto hers—one amber, one stark black. "You missed our meeting at the docks," Lucien said, his thumb hooking over the silver crook of his ivory-handled cane. "I don't keep diaries for foreign fixers," Rory retorted, her fingers tightening around the door's edge until the wood bit into her palm. "A poor habit when the cargo involves your own skin." Lucien stepped past her shoulder before she could shift her weight, bringing the chill of the London street inside the cramped flat. Ptolemy the tabby bolted from a pile of ancient research scrolls, his tail bushed as he hissed from the safety of the kitchenette counter. "Take your boots off or get out," Rory said, slamming the heavy door behind him and throwing all three bolts back into place with deafening metallic thuds. "Cold welcomes suit London weather, Laila, but they waste time." Lucien set his cane against the stack of grimoires by the sofa, his platinum hair catching the light as he turned. "Don't call me that," Rory said, crossing her arms over her chest to hide the slight tremor in her hands. "You left Marseille without a word. No note, no message, just a missing chair at the café and a city full of blood-hunters sniffing my coat." "I cleared the alley behind you so you could breathe," Lucien said, closing the distance between them until the heat radiating from his chest cut through the chill in the room. "Staying meant a blade in your ribs." "I handle my own ribs," Rory said, tilting her chin up to meet his mismatched gaze, refusing to step back even as his cologne—smoke and crushed mint—overwhelmed her senses. "You handle them with far too many scars," Lucien murmured, his gaze dropping to the thin crescent mark visible on her left wrist. "Leave my wrists out of this." Rory pushed hard against his lapel, her palms flat against the dark wool of his suit. Lucien caught her wrists mid-shove, his fingers wrapping firmly around her bones without squeezing, anchoring her hands against his chest right over the rapid, heavy thud of his heart. "You run the moment things require honesty, Lucien." Rory strained against his grip, her breath catching as his thumb brushed once over the tender skin above her pulse point. "I came back across the channel," Lucien said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its polished edge. "Does that look like running?" "That looks like arrogance," Rory snapped, though she stopped pulling away, her fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his lapel instead. "I missed you," Lucien said, the admission falling between them with the weight of lead. "You have a strange way of showing devotion, leaving me to dodge demons in alleyways while you broker deals in Marseille." Rory stared up at him, her bright blue eyes burning with a mix of fury and old ache. "The deal in Marseille was for your contract," Lucien said, his jaw tightening as the mask slipped entirely. "They wanted your blood for the Avaros gate. I burnt their ledger to ash before I caught the Eurostar." Rory swallowed hard, the sharp retort dying in her throat as the reality of his absence settled over her like a physical weight. "You burned a syndicate ledger for me?" Rory whispered, the fight draining out of her limbs. "I would burn the city down to keep you breathing," Lucien said, his gaze searching her face with raw desperation. Rory let out a shaky breath, her fingers sliding up the wool of his lapel to rest against the side of his neck, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath her palm. "You are an absolute idiot, Lucien Moreau," Rory said, her voice softening just enough to betray the armor she wore. "I know," Lucien murmured, lowering his forehead until it rested gently against hers.