Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCW5NTPAJN54DZBPRSFVTYN

The third deadbolt always stuck, catching on the warped oak frame of the door before giving way with a dry, splintering snap. Rory wrenched it open, her mind still halfway down Brick Lane, wrestling with the delivery manifest from the Golden Empress and the stubborn knot in her shoulder blades. She wore her faded wool coat over a heavy sweater, her straight black hair falling loose around her shoulders. As the door swung wide, the stale heat of the hallway met the fragrant, cumin-heavy air drifting up from the curry house below. And then she stopped breathing. Standing in the narrow, dimly lit corridor was Lucien Moreau. He looked entirely out of place against the peeling wallpaper and grease-stained carpet, yet somehow he made the cramped landing look like a private gallery. He wore a tailored charcoal suit that fit his lean frame with architectural precision, the jacket buttoned high. His platinum blond hair was slicked back, catching the harsh yellow glare of the overhead bulb. But it was his face—the sharp angles of his jaw, the faint, ironic curl of his mouth—that paralyzed her. And his eyes. One amber, burning and bright; the other a bottomless, light-absorbing black. In his right hand, he leaned on an ivory-handled cane, the polished wood gleaming faintly in the gloom. Neither of them spoke for three long heartbeats. Rory’s hand tightened instinctively around the brass door handle until her knuckles turned white, her thumb brushing over the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist—a nervous tic she thought she had unlearned. You took your time, Lucien said, his voice a low, rich baritone with just a trace of its native Marseille cadence. I was beginning to think you had permanently relocated to the provinces. Or worse, found an honest delivery service. My door has three deadbolts for a reason, Moreau, Rory managed, her cool-headedness rushing back to shore up her ribs against the sudden, violent thumping of her heart. Usually, solicitors and bill collectors have the decency to leave a card downstairs. How did you even get past the street door? It’s locked. Locks are suggestions, Rory. Especially yours. Lucien shifted his weight onto the cane, stepping closer without actually crossing the threshold. He smelled of cold air, expensive cedarwood, and the faint, bitter ozone tang that always seemed to cling to him after a night in the underworld. You look well. Exhausted, but well. I’d look a damn sight better if I didn’t have a ghost haunting my landing. What do you want, Lucien? We said everything that needed saying six months ago in that dingy office off Soho. Did we? Lucien tilt his head, his heterochromatic gaze tracing the line of her jaw, lingering just a fraction too long on her mouth. I recall you doing a remarkable impression of a closing vault while I tried to explain myself. Or perhaps you just preferred the view of the pavement from the cab. You lied to me about who you were working with, Rory snapped, a hot spike of ancient hurt flaring behind her ribs. You used my connections to get into the Avaros archives, and you didn't think I had a right to know that half the people trying to put a knife in your back were your father’s business associates? I was protecting you from a world you had no business dipping your toes into, Lucien countered, the playful edge vanishing from his voice, replaced by a sudden, dangerous intensity. You were supposed to stay in Cardiff, finishing your pre-Law degree, living a safe, boring life where nobody bleeds on the upholstery. Instead, you followed me down the rabbit hole, and then you had the audacity to be angry when the bite marks showed. I am not some fragile porcelain doll you can tuck away on a shelf, Lucien! Rory stepped forward, planting herself in the doorway, blocking his entry. I left Cardiff because my life was already a cage, and I didn't come to London to let a half-demon fixer curate my danger level for me. We are done. You made your choice, I made mine. Now turn around and go back to whatever den of vipers you crawled out of. Lucien looked down at her, his expression unreadable. For a moment, the silence stretched between them, thick with unsaid things—the late nights over stale takeout maps, the desperate warmth of skin against skin in the dark, the mutual stubbornness that had finally shattered them both. He didn't move. Instead, he lifted his left hand—the one not resting on the cane—and reached out. His fingers hovered an inch from her cheek, trembling ever so slightly before he dropped his hand back to his side. Ptolemy is missing, Lucien said quietly. Rory froze. What? Your tabby. The fat one with the white paws. I saw him slip out the alley door downstairs about twenty minutes ago while I was waiting for you. He was chasing a rather large rat toward Commercial Street. You know as well as I do that the lower wards aren't safe for ordinary pets after dark, let alone a stray cat with a penchant for supernatural rodents. Rory closed her eyes for a second, letting out a long, ragged sigh. Ptolemy was her anchor, the one soft, warm, purring constant in a life that had grown entirely too complicated. Damn it, she muttered, her anger deflating into sheer panic. She looked back up at Lucien, her bright blue eyes flashing with a mix of resentment and desperation. If you touch my cat, Lucien— I’m the only reason he’s going to come back with all his fur intact, Lucien interrupted, a faint, winning smile touching his lips. Come on, Laila. Let’s go find your cat before some stray ghoul decides he looks like an appetizer. He turned on his heel, waiting for her. Rory stood in her doorway for a beat longer, cursing him in three languages, before grabbing her keys and slamming the door shut behind them.