Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCTQ6MYGPT7FM0716CDF850

Three heavy deadbolts scraped open behind the timber frame. Rory wrenched the door inward, fingers curled tight around the brass handle, ready to chew out whichever delivery driver or landlord dropped by uninvited. Platinum blond hair caught the harsh fluorescent strip light of the landing. Tailored charcoal wool strained across broad shoulders as Lucien stepped across the threshold unbidden, the ivory-handled cane tapping rhythmically against the scuffed linoleum. "You left your silver lighter on the booth at the dock warehouse," Lucien said, his amber and black eyes sweeping over the waist-high piles of grimoires and parchment littering the cramped hallway. Rory kicked the door shut with her heel, the three locks rattling in their housings. "You picked a strange hour to play courier." "The tide brings strange things to London." Lucien set his cane against the stack of translated Sumerian texts by the radiator, shrugging off his heavy overcoat to reveal the sharp lines of a dove-grey vest underneath. "Eva still feeding you tea or has the curry house below finally poisoned the water supply?" "Eva is out tracking a coven in Soho." Rory crossed her arms, leaning her shoulder hard against the peeling wallpaper. "Get to the point, Luc. The last time you walked into this flat, you spent twenty minutes explaining why staying in touch was a liability to your clientele." Lucien turned slowly, his gaze dropping to the small crescent-shaped scar stark against the pale skin of her left wrist where her sleeve had ridden up. "My clientele does not dictate where I spend my Tuesday nights." "Your clientele dictates every breath you take between here and Marseille." Rory pushed off the wall, stepping close enough to catch the faint scent of cedarwood and brimstone clinging to his collar. "You walked away from the dock without a backward glance. Don't stand in my kitchen pretending old habits died in a week." "I walked away because the Syndicate put a price on anyone breathing your air." Lucien reached out, his fingertips hovering an inch above her cheekbone before curling back into a tight fist at his side. "Every minute I spent within ten feet of you painted a target on your back." "I spent my entire childhood dodging Welsh rugby thugs and Cardiff barristers," Rory said, her voice dropping an octave as she stared up into those mismatched eyes. "I handle targets just fine." "Not these ones." Lucien closed the remaining gap, the heat radiating off his chest pressing against her shirt. "They don't throw punches. They strip souls down to ash and scatter them over the Thames." "Let them try." Rory tipped her chin up, refusing to blink under the intensity of his stare. "Instead of running interference behind my back like some overprotective demon uncle." "I am not your uncle." Lucien’s voice roughened, the French cadence dipping lower. "And I spent every night since the warehouse wondering if you survived the crossing." "You could have called." "You smashed your burner phone against the bulkhead." "Because you treated me like an operational liability instead of a partner." Rory reached up, her hand flat against his chest, feeling the erratic thrum of his heartbeat beneath the silk vest. "You shut me out the second things got complicated." "Complicated?" Lucien caught her wrist, his thumb brushing directly over the crescent scar with a familiar, agonizing tenderness. "I watched a hellhound tear through the bulkhead six inches from your throat. Caution became the only language I possessed." "I don't need your caution." Rory leaned closer, her breath brushing his lips. "I need you to stop treating me like porcelain every time the room gets dark." Lucien didn't answer with words. His free hand tangled in the straight black strands at the nape of her neck, pulling her mouth down to meet his with a rough, starving desperation that obliterated the distance of the past month. Rory gasped against his lips, her fingers gripping the lapels of his vest and dragging him forward until the back of his knees hit the edge of the cluttered kitchen table. Ceramic mugs clattered against the stack of grimoires, tumbling to the floor in a sharp shatter of stoneware, but neither of them broke the kiss. His tongue traced the heat of her mouth, tasting of black coffee and old smoke, while his palm slid down her spine to press her hips flush against his. Rory arched into the pressure, every lingering resentment and unspoken fear dissolving into the friction of their bodies colliding in the tight space. She bit down hard on his lower lip, drawing a sharp hiss of breath from his throat before he buried his face in the crook of her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin beneath her jaw. "Damn you, Rory," he muttered against her pulse point, his grip tightening until her shoulders ached. "You started this," she whispered, her fingers digging into the muscle of his upper back as she pulled him down harder against her, chasing the exact burn she had spent weeks trying to forget.