Run: 2026-09-23-01M36NKVCJNSF97VFT2944Q0TH

The door opened on the third deadbolt, and Lucien Moreau stood on Eva’s landing with rain on his charcoal shoulders. For a moment, Rory forgot how to breathe. Then she looked at his cane, his immaculate platinum hair, the amber eye and the black one, and found her voice. “You’ve got a lot of nerve.” Lucien glanced past her into the flat. “I’d hoped for a warmer welcome.” “You got the door. Don’t push your luck.” Ptolemy appeared between Rory’s ankles, tail raised, and pressed his head against her calf. Lucien’s gaze dropped to the cat. “Even the cat remembers me.” “He remembers the last time you fed him. That’s not the same thing.” Rory kept one hand on the door. The other had curled around the edge until her crescent scar pressed white beneath her thumb. She let go. Lucien shifted his weight on the cane. A thin line of blood traced the cuff of his shirt. Her anger caught on it. “What happened?” “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.” “Then you can tell it to the pavement.” She started to close the door. Lucien braced his cane against the threshold. The movement brought them close enough for her to catch the scent of rain, smoke, and the faint spice of his cologne—the one she’d once stolen from his bathroom after a night she had no intention of discussing. His eyes met hers. “Rory.” “Don’t.” “I need five minutes.” “You had five months.” His jaw tightened. “I know.” She hated that he didn’t defend himself. She hated more that she’d once liked his restraint, the way he could stand in the middle of a room full of threats and speak as if the outcome had already bored him. “You can’t turn up here,” she said. “You don’t even know where I live.” “I know where Eva lives.” “That’s not the point.” “No.” He looked down at the blood on his sleeve. “It isn’t.” From the stairwell came the clatter of a door below them, then a burst of laughter from the curry house. The flat smelled of cardamom, old paper, and the tea Rory had forgotten to drink. She could feel Eva’s research notes crowding the narrow hallway behind her, a small paper avalanche waiting for the wrong elbow. “If you’re bringing trouble to her door, I’ll put you back outside.” “I wouldn’t bring trouble to Eva.” “You brought me plenty.” That landed. Lucien’s fingers closed around the ivory handle of his cane. A muscle jumped in his cheek. “I never wanted to hurt you.” “Fine. You didn’t want to. You just did.” Ptolemy wound around Rory’s legs again, then slipped through the opening to sniff Lucien’s shoe. Lucien held still. The cat’s whiskers brushed the wet leather. “Your friend has a bold security system,” he said. “Ptolemy’s more useful than you are.” “He has a better bedside manner.” “You’ve never seen my bedside manner.” The words escaped before she could catch them. Lucien’s expression altered—not quite a smile, not quite pain. Rory felt the old pull in her chest, sudden and unwelcome as a hand closing around her wrist. She stepped back. “Five minutes. You stand there.” Lucien came in, careful not to brush her shoulder. She shut the door and slid the deadbolts into place. Three hard clicks sealed them in together. The sound seemed to settle over the flat. “You’re bleeding,” she said. “It’s a scratch.” “Your cuff disagrees.” “Your concern is touching.” “Don’t mistake first aid for forgiveness.” She led him to the kitchen table, shoving aside a scroll, three books and a plate with the remains of Eva’s lunch. Lucien set his cane beside his chair and sat. Even wounded, he moved like the room belonged to someone else and he meant to leave it in better order. Rory found the first-aid tin beneath the sink. When she returned, he had picked up one of Eva’s notes. “Put that down.” He did. “You still read upside down?” “I still know when someone’s hiding a name inside a cipher.” “You always did have a gift for making yourself useful.” She dropped the tin on the table. “Sleeve.” He unbuttoned his cuff. The fabric peeled away from a cut along his forearm, shallow but ragged. The blood had dried at the edges. Rory took his wrist before she could reconsider. His skin was cool beneath her fingers. Lucien watched her face. “Don’t,” she said. “I haven’t said anything.” “You’re thinking loudly.” “I was thinking you still tie a bandage as if you expect the patient to fight you.” “Do you?” “Not you.” She dabbed the cut with antiseptic. He didn’t flinch, though the tendons in his hand pulled taut. “What happened?” “A man broke into my office.” “And you walked here.” “He was looking for you.” Rory’s hand stopped. The cotton pad stained red between her fingers. “Why?” “I don’t know yet.” “You came here without knowing?” “I came because I knew he had a name.” “Whose?” “Yours.” The flat seemed to narrow. Somewhere behind them, pipes knocked inside the wall. Rory set the cotton down and reached for a clean strip of gauze. “Who is he?” “Someone who thinks you have a ledger.” “I don’t.” “I know.” “Then why did he think I did?” “He believes I gave it to you.” She wrapped the bandage around Lucien’s forearm. Her fingers brushed the inside of his wrist. A pulse beat there, steady and alive. “And did you?” “No.” “Helpful.” “I destroyed it.” “Without telling me.” His eyes lifted to hers. “I thought you’d be safer if you knew nothing.” “You thought wrong.” “Yes.” The simple answer knocked loose the speech she’d been building. She pulled the bandage tighter than she needed to. Lucien sucked in a breath. “Good. Pain means it’s working.” “Your medical training is fearsome.” “I delivered noodles for two years. I know how to keep a mess from leaking.” His mouth tipped at one corner. The almost-smile brought back another room, another night: his hand at the small of her back as he moved her through a crowd, his voice low near her ear, the warmth of his palm lingering long after he’d let go. Then the memory shifted. His empty chair. His message, neat and final, telling her it was better if they stopped seeing each other. Rory tied off the bandage. “Why now?” Lucien looked at the knot. “Because I was wrong about what would keep you safe.” “You could have sent a message.” “I didn’t know whether your phone was watched.” “Then you could have called Eva.” “I didn’t want to put her in it.” “But showing up at her door was fine?” “I had nowhere else to go.” That was the first thing he’d said that sounded like the truth instead of a polished coin he could pass across a table. Rory dropped the bloody cotton into the bin. “You’ve got half of London on speed dial.” “I have half of London who’d sell your address for the price of a drink.” “And the other half?” “Already sold it.” She studied him. Water had darkened the shoulders of his suit. A strand of platinum hair had slipped loose near his temple. He looked tired, though he’d never admit it. The room’s lamplight split his eyes into two different kinds of trouble. “Why didn’t you tell me about the ledger before?” “I thought I could handle it.” “You always think that.” “I know.” “And when you couldn’t?” “I left.” His gaze held hers. The words sat between them, plain and ugly. Rory folded her arms. “You made that sound like a favour.” “I did.” “You didn’t ask me what I wanted.” “No.” “You didn’t give me a choice.” “No.” “Was there anything you did right?” “I came back.” The flat went quiet. Ptolemy jumped onto the chair beside Lucien and began licking his paw. Lucien shifted to give him room. Rory laughed once, without humour. “That’s your defence?” “It’s not a defence.” “Then what is it?” “A fact.” “You always liked facts when they saved you from saying what mattered.” Lucien’s fingers rested on the table, close to hers but not touching. “I was afraid.” Rory’s arms loosened. He looked down at his bandaged forearm. “I’d convinced myself that wanting you made you a target. Then I made decisions for you and called it protection. I don’t expect you to forgive me.” “Good.” “I wanted you to know I’d come back because I couldn’t leave you to find out from someone else.” “That’s almost noble.” “It isn’t.” “No. It’s late.” “Yes.” She moved to the sink, turned on the tap, and rinsed the blood from her fingertips. The water ran pink, then clear. Behind her, the chair creaked as Lucien stood. “Sit down,” she said. “I should go.” “You can barely keep your sleeve clean.” “I’ll manage.” “You came here with a fresh cut and a threat attached to my name. You’re not going back out into the rain until you tell me exactly who’s looking for me.” He stopped beside the table. “You said five minutes.” “I changed my mind.” His gaze travelled to her face, searching for the trap. Rory dried her hands on a tea towel and met his eyes. “Tell me about the ledger.” Lucien drew a breath. “There was a list of payments to people who moved through the supernatural border into London. Names, routes, debts. You were never on it.” “Who was?” “People the wrong person would kill to find.” “And this man thinks you hid it.” “He thinks I gave it to you.” “Why?” “Because I told him I had.” Rory stared at him. “You used my name to get him away from the real trail.” “I used the only lie I thought he’d believe.” “You didn’t think about what happened if he came looking.” “I did. I was wrong about the timing.” “And you still came here.” “Yes.” “Why?” Lucien’s fingers tightened around the cane. “Because I knew you’d want the truth.” The answer sounded too much like the man she’d once trusted. Rory hated that it reached her. She dragged a chair from beneath the table and set it opposite his. “Sit,” she said. “Start at the beginning. No omissions, no clever phrasing, and no deciding what I can handle.” Lucien lowered himself into the chair. “Understood.” “And if you lie to me, I’ll let Ptolemy finish what the man with the ledger started.” The cat looked up from his paw. Lucien rested his hands on the table. “Fair.” Rory took the chair across from him. Between them, the old notes rustled in the draught from the kitchen window. She left the space between their hands untouched. “Now talk.”