Run: 2026-09-25-01M3CKBCGE4QT3FRCTEN0D6KZJ

The knock came just as the kettle began to whistle. Rory froze, teapot hovering over the chipped mug. Three sharp raps, then silence. Too deliberate to be Eva, who’d barge in without warning. Too early for the post. She set the pot down. The steam curled between them like a question. Another knock. Rory exhaled through her nose, wiped her hands on her jeans, and moved through the cluttered flat. Ptolemy, the tabby, uncoiled from his perch on the stack of grimoires by the door and slunk into the shadows as she approached. The peephole offered a distorted view: a man in a charcoal suit, his platinum hair slicked back, one hand resting on the ivory handle of his cane. The other hand was raised, poised to knock again. Her stomach dropped. She unlatched the first deadbolt. Then the second. Her fingers lingered on the third. “Open the door, Rory.” Lucien’s voice, smooth as aged brandy, seeped through the wood. No pleading, no apology. Just the quiet certainty that she would. She turned the final lock and stepped back. The door swung inward before she could pull it fully open. Lucien filled the frame, his heterochromatic gaze—amber and black—flicking over her face, her bare feet, the scar on her wrist. The scent of bergamot and something darker, like gunpowder after a storm, followed him inside. “You’ve lost weight,” he said. Rory crossed her arms. “And you’ve lost your manners.” A smirk tugged at his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve missed you too.” She didn’t move as he shut the door behind him, the cane tapping once against the floor. Ptolemy hissed from the shadows, tail lashing. Lucien ignored the cat. “Aren’t you going to offer me a seat?” “Aren’t you going to explain why you’re here?” He sighed, adjusting his cuffs. “Must we do this standing up?” Rory gestured to the chaos of the living room—the couch buried under a avalanche of books, the coffee table a mosaic of takeaway containers and yellowed notes. “Be my guest.” Lucien navigated the obstacle course with the precision of a man who’d spent a lifetime avoiding trouble. He perched on the edge of the armchair, cane resting against his knee, and studied the room like it was a puzzle he could solve. “Still working for Yu-Fei?” “Still fixing other people’s messes?” His jaw tightened. “Some messes are worth fixing.” She leaned against the doorframe, arms still crossed. “Yours?” “Ours.” The word hung between them, heavy as a blade. Rory looked away first, her gaze landing on the half-unpacked box by the window—Eva’s things, still waiting to be sorted. “You didn’t answer my letters.” “I read them.” “Not the same thing.” Lucien stood abruptly, the cane thudding against the floor. “What did you want me to say, Rory? That I was sorry? That I should’ve stopped you from leaving?” “That you *wanted* me to stay.” He was in front of her before she could blink, his free hand cupping her face. His thumb brushed the scar on her wrist, the one she’d gotten as a child, the one he’d kissed a hundred times. “I did. Every damn day.” Her breath hitched. The heat of his palm seeped into her skin, familiar and infuriating. “Then why didn’t you?” “Because you needed to go.” His voice was rough. “Because I wasn’t what you needed.” Rory laughed, sharp and humourless. “And now?” “Now,” he said, “I’m here.” She pulled away, but he didn’t let go. His fingers slid to the back of her neck, tangling in the short strands of her hair. “Tell me to leave.” She should. She *should*. But the words stuck in her throat, tangled in the memory of his mouth on hers, the way his demon’s eyes had glowed in the dark when he— “Rory.” Her name on his lips was a command. A plea. She swallowed. “You’re an arse, Lucien.” His grin was wicked. “And you’re still terrible at goodbyes.” Then his mouth was on hers, hot and demanding, and for a second, she let herself forget. Forgot the months of silence, the letters she’d burned, the way her chest had ached when she’d realised he wasn’t coming after her. His cane clattered to the floor. His hands were everywhere—her waist, her hair, the small of her back—pulling her against him like he was afraid she’d vanish. She kissed him back, just as desperate. Just as angry. When they broke apart, his forehead rested against hers. “I’ve missed you.” Rory’s fingers curled into his shirt. “You’ve a funny way of showing it.” “Let me show you properly, then.” He didn’t wait for an answer. His lips trailed down her neck, teeth grazing the pulse point beneath her ear. She gasped, her head tilting back to give him better access. The stubble on his jaw scratched her skin, a delicious contrast to the softness of his mouth. “Lucien—” “Hmm?” “We’re not doing this.” “Aren’t we?” His hand slid under her shirt, calloused fingers mapping the dip of her spine. She shivered. “Not until you tell me why you’re *really* here.” He stilled. For a heartbeat, she thought he’d pull away. Then his breath was hot against her ear. “Fine. But not here.” Rory blinked. “What?” Lucien stepped back, though his hands lingered on her hips. “I need your help.” The words were a bucket of cold water. She extricated herself, putting distance between them. “My help.” “There’s a job. A dangerous one.” His eyes darkened. “And you’re the only one who can pull it off.” Rory crossed her arms again, the warmth of his touch already fading. “Flattery won’t work on me, Luc.” “It’s not flattery.” He bent to retrieve his cane, the movement fluid. “There’s a relic. An old one. Stolen from Avaros.” The name sent a chill down her spine. Avaros—the demon realm. His father’s realm. “And?” “And it’s in London. Hidden somewhere in the supernatural black market.” He met her gaze. “I need you to find it before someone else does.” She scoffed. “You’re a fixer. You’ve got connections, resources. Why me?” “Because,” he said, voice low, “the last person who tried to track it down ended up with their throat slit. And because, despite your many flaws, you’re the only one I trust to not get yourself killed.” Rory wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him to sod off, that she wasn’t his errand girl anymore. But the look in his eyes—the raw, unguarded need—stopped her. Ptolemy chose that moment to reappear, winding himself around Lucien’s legs with a purr. Traitor. She exhaled. “You’re lucky I’m bored.” Lucien’s smile was slow, triumphant. “I was hoping you’d say that.” “But,” she added, holding up a finger, “we do this *my* way. No secrets. No disappearing acts.” He inclined his head. “Agreed.” “And,” she said, poking him in the chest, “you’re buying me dinner first.” His laughter was a rich, dark sound. “Deal.” Rory turned towards the kitchen, but not before she caught the way his gaze lingered on her, the hunger in his eyes that had nothing to do with relics or black markets. She ignored the flutter in her chest. Business first. Always.