Run: 2026-07-25-01KYD6GKYW4NV53W671S7192CT

The third deadbolt stuck. Rory wrenched it. The metal screeched. Ptolemy bolted from the radiator and vanished under Eva's desk, scattering a tower of library books. She yanked the door open. Lucien Moreau stood on the landing. Rain darkened the shoulders of his charcoal suit. His platinum hair was slicked back, wet. One hand rested on the ivory handle of his cane. The other held a paper bag gone soft at the corners. He looked up from the threshold. One amber eye. One black. "You changed the locks." "I didn't." Rory's hand tightened on the doorframe. The crescent scar on her left wrist caught the hall light. "Eva did. After last time." He lifted the bag. "Yu-Fei told me you were here. You missed your shift." "I didn't miss it. I traded it." The stairwell smelled of curry and damp. Music thumped from downstairs. Lucien did not move. Water tracked down his jaw. "You going to let me in, or do you want to do this out here for Mrs. Patel to hear?" "I want you to leave." "Charming." His mouth twitched. Not a smile. Rory stepped back. Not enough to be an invitation. Enough that he could push past if he wanted. He did. He shouldered into the flat with the same precision he used to open a bottle of wine or slide a blade from his cane. The flat swallowed him. Books everywhere. Scrolls unrolled across the kitchen counter. Eva's research covering every flat surface like a second wallpaper. Lucien set the cane against the wall. He placed the bag on the only clear inch of table. "Soup. From the Empress. You look like you haven't eaten." "I ate." "Toast does not count." Ptolemy crept from under the desk. The tabby rubbed against Lucien's polished shoe. Lucien bent. He scratched behind the cat's ear. His suit jacket pulled tight across his back. Rory's throat went dry. "How did you know about the toast?" "Educated guess. You always eat toast when Eva leaves you alone with her notes." He straightened. He looked at her then. Really looked. The flat was warm. Rory wore one of Eva's oversized jumpers, sleeves pushed to her elbows, black hair tucked behind her ears. Bare feet. No makeup. Lucien's gaze dropped. Then up again. "You cut your hair." "You left. Eight months ago. People cut their hair." His hand flexed at his side. "I had business in Marseille." "You had business in my bed and then you had business in Marseille. Nice phrasing." The words came out sharp. Sharper than she intended. The rain hammered the window above the sink. Lucien took a step closer. The floorboard creaked. "I told you what I am. What my father can demand." "You told me after. After you—" Rory broke off. Her fingers curled into her palms. "You said you don't do attachments. Very dramatic. Very French. You could have just said you were scared." "I am not scared." "Right. Half-demon info brokers don't get scared. They get on Eurostars." He laughed. A short sound. No humour in it. "You think I wanted to leave it like that?" "I think you did exactly that." Ptolemy jumped onto the windowsill. Knocked a stack of Post-its to the floor. Lucien reached for her. Stopped. His hand hovered near her elbow and fell back. "Rory." "Don't." "Listen to me for one minute." "One minute. Fine. Talk." He exhaled. His shoulders dropped a fraction. "The summons came that night. My father's people. If I stayed, they would have come here. To that bar. To this flat." "And you decided for me. Again." "I decided you would live." Rory swallowed. Her bright blue eyes stung. "You know what my father does for a living. You know what Evan did. I am tired of men deciding what I get to handle." "I know." His amber eye caught the lamplight. The black one swallowed it. "I handled it." "How?" "I killed one of them. Left the other without a tongue. Sent him back through the gate with a message. My mother is safe. You are safe. I am no longer welcome in Avaros. Which, considering the decor, is a relief." The casual delivery did not match the way his knuckles whitened around the cane handle. Rory stared. "You killed—" "I did what I had to do to come back." Silence stretched between them. The radiator hissed. Rory crossed her arms. Then uncrossed them. She did not know what to do with her hands when Lucien stood so close smelling of rain and expensive soap and ozone. "You were gone for eight months." "I know." "You didn't call." "There are no phones in my father's realm. And your friend Eva threatened to hex my tongue out if I tried to scry you." "She would have." "She did try. Once. She missed." That pulled a laugh out of Rory. Short. Raw. Lucien took another step. Close enough she felt the heat off his coat. Close enough to see the faint silver line at his temple, a new scar. She reached up before she thought. Her fingertips brushed it. He went still. "What is this?" "Avaros souvenir." Her hand lingered. The skin was warm. Lucien tilted his head into her touch. His eyes closed for a half-second. "I thought about this flat," he said. His voice was low. "The mess. The cat. You in the doorway telling me to take my shoes off." "I never told you to take your shoes off." "You did. In that tone. That Cardiff lawyer tone." "It worked. You took them off." "I would have taken off anything you asked." Rory's breath caught. "Luc." He opened his eyes. Both fixed on her now. The amber burned. "Don't. Don't look at me like that if you are going to leave again." "I am not leaving." "You say that." "I am standing in a ruined suit in Eva's flat with soup leaking through a bag because Yu-Fei said you looked thin. I am not good at this. I do not have the words in any of my four languages for what I—" He stopped. He pressed his forehead to hers. His cane clattered to the floor. "I missed you. It is a simple, stupid sentence and it is true." His breath was warm against her mouth. Rory's hands found his lapels. The wool was wet. She fisted it. "You hurt me." "I know." "You can't just— you can't just show up with soup." "I know. I brought the soup anyway." Her mouth was an inch from his. Her pulse hammered against her ribs. "Say it again," she whispered. "I missed you." "Again." "I missed you, Rory Carter. In Marseille. In Avaros. On the train back. Every night I thought about your scar. Your hair. The way you think out loud when you read Eva's notes." She kissed him. Or he kissed her. The distance collapsed. It was not soft. It was eight months of silence and hurt and traffic noise from Brick Lane and the taste of rain on his lips. His hands slid into her hair, careful, then not careful. Her back hit the bookshelf. A scroll rolled off and thumped to the floor. Lucien broke the kiss. His forehead rested against hers again. Both of them breathed hard. "Your soup is getting cold," he said. "I don't care about the soup." "I paid for the soup." Rory laughed against his mouth. "Of course you did." His hands framed her face. Thumb brushed her cheekbone. "Can I stay?" Rory looked at him. The suit. The cane on the floor. Ptolemy now asleep on his shoe. The three deadbolts on the door she had not locked again. She reached down and locked them. One. Two. Three. "Take off your shoes," she said.