Run: 2026-07-25-01KYD65TC60TJN3G52DMN3AQF7

The third deadbolt stuck again. Rory jiggled it with her left wrist cocked at an ugly angle, swearing under her breath. The crescent-shaped scar on the inside of her wrist flashed white when she twisted too hard. Outside, the stairwell smelled like turmeric and damp from the curry house below, and the person on the other side of the door was knocking like they owned the place. Three sharp raps, pause, two more. Patient. Precise. "Coming," she called, and it came out snappier than she meant it to. Eva wasn't supposed to be back until tomorrow. She'd left Rory with a key and a list — water the spider plant, feed Ptolemy, don't touch the scrolls on the kitchen table because some of them bite — and the strict instruction not to open the door for anyone after nine. It was ten past ten. The tabby was asleep on top of a stack of books about Sumerian binding sigils, and Rory had been camped on Eva's sagging couch in an oversized t-shirt that said GOLDEN EMPRESS DELIVERY, trying very hard not to think about the fact that her own flat above Silas' bar had a leaking pipe again. She threw the last deadbolt and yanked. The hallway light was busted, flickering, but it caught him perfectly anyway. As if it had been waiting for him. Lucien Moreau stood on Eva's cramped landing with his ivory-handled cane braced against the second step, looking completely unruffled by the fact that he was not supposed to be here. That he, specifically, was never supposed to be here again. He wore a tailored charcoal suit despite the late hour, despite the rain that had started to bead on the shoulders. His platinum blond hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place. One amber eye, one black. He looked at her bare legs, at the t-shirt that barely hit mid-thigh, at her straight black hair still damp from the shower and falling to her shoulders. "Merde," he said softly, and then recovered. "Rory." That voice. Four languages fluently and he'd always used that soft French accent only when he wanted something. "What are you doing here?" she said. Her voice sounded tight even to her own ears. Cool-headed, that was what people called her. Quick thinking. Right now her brain was giving her nothing except the very unhelpful observation that he smelled like rain and expensive cologne, even over the curry. "I could ask you the same," he said. His eyes — eyes — dropped to the doorway, the barricade of research notes behind her. "This is Eva's flat." "I know whose flat it is. I'm cat-sitting. What are you doing here, Lucien?" He shifted his weight, and she heard the soft click of his cane against the linoleum. The blade concealed inside that handle had saved her life once, pressed to her throat in a different way entirely. "Eva called me. Two days ago. She said if she didn't check in, I should come get the Morocco file. She did not check in." Rory's stomach dropped. "She's supposed to be in Bristol until tomorrow. She said—" "She told you Bristol?" Something in his jaw tightened. That mismatched gaze sharpened. "She told me Prague." For a second they just stared at each other in the doorway, the complication of the last three months stretching between them like a live wire. The way he'd left her standing outside his office in Clerkenwell after the warehouse fire. No kiss. No explanation. Just, I think it's better if we keep this professional, Aurora. Her full name, like a verdict. Like he hadn't had his hand tangled in her hair an hour before. "If you let me in, we can argue about who she lies to more productively," he said. She wanted to slam the door. She wanted to grab the front of that perfect suit and pull. She stepped back. He entered in that fluid, economical way he had, cane barely touching the floor — more affectation than necessity most days, unless his father's blood was giving him trouble. He took in the flat in one sweep. Every surface was indeed covered. Books stacked spine-out, scrolls half-unrolled and weighted with mugs, notebooks with Eva's frantic handwriting. Ptolemy lifted his head from the Sumerian sigils, regarded Lucien with deep tabby contempt, and went back to sleep. "You changed your shampoo," he said, without looking at her. And somehow that was worse than if he'd tried to kiss her. Rory closed the door. One deadbolt. Two. Three, with a fight. "It's Eva's shower gel. Don't flatter yourself." "Never," he said lightly. Too lightly. He set his cane against the counter and shrugged off his jacket, draping it over the one clear chair back with care. The shirt underneath was white, sleeves rolled precisely twice. "When did you last hear from her?" "This morning. A picture of Ptolemy. She said—" She picked up her phone from the couch arm, thumbing fast. The screen glowed bright blue in the dim flat. "Here. 'Tell Ptolemy mama will be home tomorrow and not to let Rory give him tuna again.'" Lucien came closer to look. Close enough that she could see the faint shadow under his amber eye, like he hadn't slept. Close enough that if she breathed too deep she'd be breathing him. "And before that?" "Before that Thursday. She said the contact in Bristol was being cagey." "Prague," he repeated, frowning. He reached past her for one of the notebooks on the counter, his forearm just brushing hers. She went very still. "Eva did not go to Bristol. There is no contact in Bristol." "You think I don't know that she lies when she's scared? I'm her best friend." "And I am—" He stopped. Corrected himself. "I was her fixer before you were her best friend." The words landed. Cool-headed, intelligent, quick out-of-the-box thinking. That's what her mother always wrote on her school reports, before law, before London, before fleeing Cardiff with a suitcase and a bruise in the shape of Evan's hand on her arm. Lucien had liked that about her. That she didn't flinch. She hadn't flinched when he told her what he was. Half-demon, born in Marseille to a human mother and something from Avaros that never bothered to learn his name. She had flinched when he'd told her to keep it professional. "Right," she said. "Business. Of course. The Morocco file. I'll get it. Then you can go." She tried to step around him. The flat was cramped, barely a one-bedroom, and he was 5'11" of tailored obstacle in the middle of it. He didn't move. He looked down at her, and for once the perfect mask slipped. "Rory." "Don't." "Let me—" "No." She swallowed. Her bright blue eyes were furious and bright. "You don't get to show up after three months of absolutely nothing and do the soft Luc thing. You don't get to notice my shampoo." His black eye seemed to drink the dim light. "Would you prefer I was cruel about it?" "I would prefer you were consistent!" The shout startled Ptolemy. The cat bolted, knocking a stack of books over with a thump. Neither of them moved to fix it. Lucien's hand came up — hesitated — then settled, barely, on her elbow. His fingers were warm. Always warmer than a human's should be. "I was trying to protect you," he said, low. "That night in the warehouse. You saw what my father’s people—" "I saw you," she cut in. "I saw you put yourself between me and a knife. I saw you bleed. Don't tell me you were protecting me by walking away afterwards. That's not protection, that's cowardice." He flinched. Actually flinched. "You were twenty-five," he said. "You deliver noodles for Yu-Fei. You live above a bar that floods every winter. You are — you were — you are extraordinary, Aurora Carter, and you were in a room full of things that eat extraordinary girls alive. And I could not think straight when you were near me." His thumb moved, unconscious, over the inside of her wrist. Over that small crescent scar. "So you decided for me," she whispered. "I decided badly," he said. "As humans say. Very badly." The rain had gotten louder, hammering the window above the sink. Downstairs, someone shouted an order. The flat smelled like old paper and rain on wool and him. Rory looked at his mouth and then forced her eyes up. "If Eva's in Prague instead of Bristol, is she in trouble?" The professional mask tried to come back. She watched him try to put it on and fail. "Possibly. The last file she asked about was a binding ring. If she's gone to get it herself—" "Then we go get her." "We?" "Don't start. You need someone who can talk Eva down when she's in full research spiral. That's me. You're just the guy with the stabby cane." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. Relieved. Fond. Terribly familiar. "I missed you saying my cane was stabby." "I missed—" She stopped herself just in time. Took a breath. "We should look for the Morocco file." "It's not here," he said, still holding her elbow. "I already know. Eva would have hidden it in the false bottom of Ptolemy's litter box cabinet. Because she thinks she's funny." She stared. Then, despite herself, a laugh burst out of her. A real one. "God, I hate you." "No, you don't." And he was right. Which made it worse. He was still so close. The third deadbolt on the door caught the flickering hall light through the crack. His gaze dropped to her lips and then, with obvious effort, back to her eyes. "Aurora," he said, and this time her name wasn't a verdict. It was a question. Her answer was to go up on her toes in that ridiculous t-shirt and press her mouth to his. He made a low sound against her, like something punched out of him, cane clattering to the floor as both his hands came up to cup her face like she was something rare. Something to be held carefully. She tasted rain. He tasted like he'd been waiting three months to breathe. When she finally pulled back, just an inch, she was not cool-headed at all. Her heart was hammering against her ribs. "If we're going to Prague," she said, breathless, "you're buying me a proper coat. And you're telling me everything this time." "Everything," he promised, amber eye bright, black eye soft. His forehead touched hers. "Starting with the fact that I have never been able to keep things professional where you are concerned, Laila. Not once." Laila. He'd only ever called her that when they were alone. She smiled against him, and upstairs, Ptolemy knocked another book off the pile just to remind them he existed.