Run: 2026-09-03-01M1KA7FB60EME9YDF4Q2QXK31

The door swung inward on a blast of curry-scented air, and Rory’s hand froze mid-reach for the deadbolt. Lucien Moreau stood on the landing, one shoulder propped against the doorframe like he owned the place, his charcoal suit immaculate despite the drizzle misting London’s streets. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black as polished jet—fixed on her with an intensity that made the narrow hallway feel suddenly smaller. “Rory.” He said her name like he was tasting it, slow and deliberate. Her grip tightened on the door edge. “You’ve got a lot of nerve.” “I’ve been told.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his mismatched eyes. Raindrops clung to his slicked-back platinum hair, catching the dim light from the single bulb above. “May I come in?” “No.” “That’s not very hospitable.” “Neither is vanishing for eight months without a word.” She heard the tremor in her own voice and hated it. “What do you want, Lucien?” His smile faded. He glanced down the stairwell, then back at her. “We need to talk. It’s about Eva.” Rory’s heart stuttered. “Eva? What about her? Is she—?” “She’s fine. She’s safe.” He held up a hand, palm flat. “But I need to come inside to explain. This isn’t the kind of conversation to have in a stairwell.” The silence stretched between them, heavy with everything they hadn’t said since that night in his flat when she’d found the contracts, the names, the paper trail that led from his expensive leather sofa to the darker corners of London’s supernatural underworld. She’d left before dawn, her bag half-packed, and he hadn’t chased her. The cat wound between her ankles, a tabby streak of warmth and indifference. Ptolemy looked up at Lucien, tail flicking once, then padded back into the flat as if the matter was settled. Rory stepped aside, leaving the door open. “Five minutes.” Lucien stepped across the threshold, his limp more pronounced than she remembered. He leaned on the ivory-handled cane, the one she’d always suspected was more than it appeared. He took in the cluttered space—the stacks of books on every surface, the scrolls half-unfurled across the kitchen table, the corkboard covered in pinned photographs and red string. He said nothing, just absorbed it. “You’ve been busy.” “I’ve been surviving.” She closed the door, threw the deadbolt. Third one, the one Eva insisted on, still hung unlocked. “Eva’s at the library. She’ll be back in an hour.” “Good.” He set his cane against the wall, but his hand lingered on it. “That gives us time.” “Time for what?” Rory crossed her arms, putting distance between them. The flat was small; the distance was mostly symbolic. “Tell me about Eva.” Lucien’s jaw tightened. He moved toward the kitchen table, brushing aside a folded newspaper to clear a space. He didn’t sit. “I found something. A name. Someone who’s been tracking her movements since she moved to London.” “Tracking her why?” “Because she’s connected to you.” He met her eyes. “And because you’re connected to me.” The air went thin. Rory’s arms dropped to her sides. “That was eight months ago. I walked away. I haven’t spoken to you since.” “You think he cares about timelines?” Lucien’s laugh was short, bitter. “You think this is about what you did or didn’t do? No, Rory. This is about what you know. What you saw in my flat that night.” She remembered it vividly—the papers scattered across his oak desk, the names of debtors, the seals of houses she hadn’t known existed outside of folklore. She’d been looking for a pen, had opened the wrong drawer, and found her own name listed under a column marked “Asset.” “I didn’t see anything,” she said, too quickly. “Liar.” He said it gently, almost fondly. “You saw everything. That’s why you left.” “I left because you lied to me.” The words came out raw, scraped from somewhere deep. “Because you told me you were a consultant, a businessman. Not a—not whatever you are.” “A fixer.” He said it simply. “I fix problems. I clean up messes. And I know when I’m being watched.” Ptolemy jumped onto the table, sat down squarely in the middle of Lucien’s cleared space, and began grooming his paw. “You’re deflecting,” Rory said. “I’m warning you.” He took a step closer. Close enough to catch the scent of him—something like sandalwood and ozone, the particular smell of a storm rolling in. “Someone’s been asking questions about you. About your family. About Cardiff.” Rory’s stomach dropped. “My family?” “Your father. His law firm. The cases he’s been involved in.” Lucien’s voice dropped low. “He’s been representing someone I know. Someone who owes favors in very dark places.” “Who?” “I can’t tell you yet.” “Can’t or won’t?” “Can’t.” He raked a hand through his hair, disturbing the careful slick of it. A strand fell across his forehead. He looked younger then, less polished, more like the man she’d laughed with over cheap wine in that first month, before she’d learned what lived beneath his carefully tailored surface. “I’m still tracing the threads. But you need to be careful, Rory. You need to stop walking home alone at night.” “How do you know how I get home?” “Because I’ve been watching you.” The confession sat between them, heavy as a stone. “Since you left. I told myself it was business. I told myself you were a loose thread I needed to keep an eye on. But that was a lie too.” Rory’s breath caught. “Lucien…” “I know.” He held up a hand. “I know I burned that bridge. I know I lied, and I know you deserved better.” His eyes met hers, and for once, there was no cleverness in them, no calculation. Just something raw and tired. “But I never stopped caring about you. And I’m not going to stand by while someone puts you in their crosshairs.” “Who put you up to this?” Rory’s voice came out steadier than she felt. “Who’s asking?” Lucien’s hand went to his cane where it rested against the wall. He didn’t pick it up, but his fingers brushed the ivory grip. “His name is Marchetti. He runs the black market in Bloomsbury. He has a long memory and a longer reach.” “And what does he want with me?” “He wants what you saw.” Lucien’s jaw tightened. “The papers in my desk. He thinks you copied them before you left.” “I didn’t copy anything.” “I know that. But he doesn’t believe me.” A pause, heavy and charged. “He’s given me a week to find them. If I don’t, he’ll come looking himself. And he won’t be as gentle as I’m being.” The weight of it pressed down on her shoulders. “So this is a warning. You came to warn me.” “I came to keep you alive.” His voice cracked on the word. “Because if something happens to you, Rory, I don’t know what I’d do.” Ptolemy meowed, loud and insistent, and the spell broke. Rory blinked, shook her head. “This is a lot, Lucien. You can’t just—you can’t drop this on me and expect me to…” “I’m not expecting anything.” He picked up his cane, turned toward the door. “I’m just asking you to be careful. And to know that about Marchetti, I’m not finished. Not by a long shot.” His hand was on the deadbolt when she spoke. “Lucien.” He paused. Looked back. “Thank you.” The words felt small, inadequate. “For warning me.” Something flickered across his face—hope, maybe, or regret. Hard to tell with him. “Don’t thank me yet. Thank me when this is over.” He unlocked the door, stepped onto the landing, and was gone. The door clicked shut behind him, and Rory stood alone in the quiet flat, the scent of sandalwood lingering in the air, the cat purring at her feet, and a storm named Marchetti gathering on the horizon.