Run: 2026-09-23-01M37HQ5ZVGDBBD0G5XEY48B1B

Aurora opened the door on the chain and found Lucien Moreau standing in the stairwell with blood on his cuff. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Heat from the curry house rose through the floorboards, carrying the smell of fried onions and cumin. Behind her, Ptolemy wound around a stack of books with his tail high, indifferent to the man she had spent six weeks trying not to think about. Lucien looked as immaculate as ever from the collar up. His platinum hair was slicked back, his charcoal coat buttoned neatly, his ivory-handled cane tucked beneath one arm. Below the wrist, his shirt was dark with blood. “Is it yours?” she asked. “Good evening to you, Rory.” “Is it yours?” “Yes.” She shut the door. Or tried to. His hand came up against the wood. Not a shove. Barely pressure at all, but enough to stop her. “Please,” he said. The word caught her harder than the sight of blood. Lucien could make a request sound like a bargain, a threat sound like an invitation. She had never heard him say please as though he had no other option. Aurora looked past him. The landing was empty. Eva would be across town until morning, cataloguing a collection for a woman who paid in cash and refused to be photographed. They had made a joke of the three deadbolts when Aurora came over that afternoon. Now she was grateful for every one of them. She slid the chain free and opened the door. “Two minutes.” Lucien stepped inside, bringing cold air and the metallic smell of blood with him. He leaned his cane against the wall, well clear of the books piled beside the shoe rack. He remembered where Eva kept everything. That irritated her too. Ptolemy approached, sniffed his trouser leg, then retreated under the table. “He has excellent instincts,” Lucien said. “Sit down.” “There’s no need—” “You’re bleeding on Eva’s notes.” He glanced at the red drops spotting a page of cramped handwriting and sat on the edge of the sofa. Aurora fetched the first-aid box from the kitchen cupboard. On the way back, she took the clean tea towel off the oven handle and tossed it to him. “Press that against it.” Lucien wrapped it around his forearm. He watched her without speaking while she cleared a space on the low table. A year ago, she would have asked what happened. Six weeks ago, she would have let him tell her. She set out gauze and antiseptic. “Coat off.” His brows lifted. “If you can make a joke, you can manage your own buttons.” “I wasn’t going to make a joke.” “First for everything.” He took off the coat, then eased his arm free of his jacket. The cut ran along the inside of his forearm, long and narrow. Too straight for broken glass. Blood welled again when he lifted the towel. Aurora reached for the antiseptic. “Blade?” “Yes.” “Who?” “It’s dealt with.” “That wasn’t the question.” “I know.” She cleaned the wound. He held still, though the muscles in his jaw tightened. Up close, she could see a faint bruise forming beneath his cheekbone. His mismatched eyes followed her hands: amber on one side, black on the other. She kept her attention on the cut. “You need stitches,” she said. “I’ll see to it.” “After coming here.” “Yes.” “Why?” He took a breath. “Someone may come looking for me.” Aurora pressed the gauze down hard enough to make him flinch. “Then you picked the wrong flat.” “I came to warn you. Eva as well.” “About what?” He glanced at the books and scrolls crowding every surface. “A ledger she borrowed. Red leather, brass clasp.” Aurora knew it. Eva had left it on the kitchen counter that morning beside a note reminding herself to return it on Friday. Aurora had moved it when she made tea, annoyed to find there wasn’t room for her cup. “Borrowed from whom?” “From a man who lied about owning it.” “And you couldn’t call?” “I did. You didn’t answer.” Her phone lay face down beneath a pile of photocopies. She had silenced it after the third call from her father, who still believed a pre-law degree could be rescued by a sufficiently stern conversation. “You could have left a message.” “I wasn’t certain your phone was safe.” “Yet Eva’s front door is?” “No,” he said. “It isn’t.” The flat seemed smaller then, its stacks of paper suddenly less like clutter and more like kindling. Aurora looked toward the door. She had closed it but hadn’t thrown the bolts. Lucien noticed. “Lock it.” She hated that he was right. She crossed the room, turned all three deadbolts, and came back. He had not moved. “What’s in the ledger?” “Names. Payments. Routes between here and Avaros.” “And why does someone think Eva has it?” “Because I asked her to look at a page.” Aurora stared at him. “You brought it here.” “Not the whole book. A photograph. I didn’t know it was marked.” “But now you do.” “Yes.” The antiseptic bottle clicked against the table as she set it down. “Six weeks, Lucien. You stay away for six weeks, and the first time I see you again, it’s because your work has put Eva in danger.” “I came as soon as I knew.” “How noble.” “I deserve that.” “No. You deserve much worse.” He looked at her then, properly, and she wished he wouldn’t. The last time they had stood this close, he had been outside the Golden Empress after her shift, rain shining on the pavement. She had asked him a simple question: whether the name on a list he’d passed her had been Evan’s. He had told her to leave it alone. When she pressed him, he had said he could not afford to explain himself every time she disliked an answer. She had walked away before he could see how much it hurt. She taped the gauze in place with firm, efficient strips. “There. It’ll hold until you find a doctor.” “Thank you.” “Don’t thank me yet. Where’s the ledger?” “I don’t know.” “Eva left it in the kitchen this morning.” Aurora stood. “If she’s moved it, I can call and ask.” Lucien caught her wrist before she could turn away. His fingers rested over the small crescent scar on her left wrist, then loosened at once. “Don’t call her from here,” he said. “Use my phone. I can take the ledger when I leave. No one needs to know you’ve seen it.” “You think that’s the part I’m worried about?” He let go. “No.” Aurora stayed where she was. His hand had been warm despite the cold outside. She could still feel the shape of it. “What happened that night?” she asked. Lucien’s gaze dropped to the bandage. “Rory—” “You don’t get to come in here and ask me to trust you again without answering.” Outside, a motorbike passed beneath the window. Ptolemy emerged from under the table and jumped onto the sofa beside Lucien, close enough to inspect him but not close enough to be touched. “I saw Evan’s name,” Lucien said. Aurora folded her arms. “It wasn’t on a list of people involved. Someone had written down questions about you. Where you lived. Where you worked. Whether you still spoke to him.” Her stomach turned. “Who asked?” “I still don’t know. I was trying to find out before I told you.” “Why didn’t you say that?” “Because I had no proof the questions were connected to anything beyond him being an unpleasant man. Because I thought if I could put an end to it quietly, you might never have to hear his name again.” He looked up. “And because when you asked me, I was angry.” “At me?” “At myself. At him. You were the one standing there.” She remembered the rain, the way he had held himself apart from her under the restaurant awning. She had assumed he wanted the distance. Perhaps he had been afraid of what he might say if he came closer. “You made me feel foolish for asking,” she said. “I know.” “I spent weeks wondering whether I’d imagined what was happening between us.” “You didn’t.” The answer came so quickly that her arms fell to her sides. Lucien looked away first. “I thought you’d be safer if I kept my distance. Then I watched you walk away, and I let you believe I wanted you to.” Aurora sat in the chair opposite him. Its cushion gave a tired sigh beneath her. She had imagined this conversation at bus stops, on deliveries, awake in her flat above Silas’ bar. In none of those versions had Lucien been bleeding onto Eva’s sofa while Ptolemy judged him. “I was angry with you,” she said. “You had every right.” “I still am.” “I know that too.” “But I would have listened if you’d told me the truth.” “I should have trusted you with it.” She reached for the ledger on the kitchen counter. Red leather, brass clasp. It was half-hidden beneath a takeaway menu, exactly where she had left it. “There’s another thing,” Lucien said. “Of course there is.” “The man who cut me wanted to know whether I’d told you about the book.” “He knew my name?” “Yes.” Aurora held the ledger against her chest. She did not like how hard her heart was beating. “Did you tell him?” “No.” “What did you tell him?” “That I hadn’t spoken to you in six weeks.” A faint, humourless smile touched his mouth. “It was the most useful truth I had.” She brought the ledger to the table but kept a hand on it. “We need Eva. And someone to stitch that arm.” “In that order?” “If you bleed to death, I’ll reconsider.” Lucien reached inside his coat for his phone and placed it beside her hand. She did not pick it up yet. “Once this is over,” she said, “you and I are going to have the rest of this conversation. No omissions.” “I’d like that.” “Don’t make it sound pleasant.” “It needn’t be.” Ptolemy put one paw on Lucien’s knee. Lucien held out his uninjured hand, waiting for the cat to decide. Aurora watched the careful patience of it, then looked at the blood seeping through the edge of the gauze. “Come here,” she said, taking a fresh strip of tape. “I am here.” “For once,” she said. He met her eyes. “For as long as you’ll have me.” She pressed the tape down over the bandage. It was not forgiveness, and she could not promise him an answer. But when she reached for the phone, she let her hand rest beside his on the table. Lucien turned his palm up. Aurora took it while she dialled Eva’s number.