Run: 2026-09-25-01M3CKG3PHD8C17Z0RDRWBSEDB

The knock came just as Rory was wiping grease from her hands onto her jeans. Three sharp raps, then a pause, then two more. Too deliberate to be a mistake. She froze, the dishcloth still dangling from her fingers. Eva never knocked like that. Neither did Silas. Another knock. Insistent. Rory exhaled through her nose and tossed the cloth onto the counter. The flat was a mess—takeaway containers littered the coffee table, a half-empty bottle of wine sat open on the kitchen side, and Ptolemy had knocked over a stack of Eva’s research notes, scattering them like confetti. She didn’t have time for this. She padded to the door, the wooden floorboards creaking under her socks. The peephole showed a distorted, fish-eye view of the hallway—empty. Too tall for Eva, too broad for Silas. A shadow shifted. “Who is it?” No answer. Just the faint scuff of a shoe against the worn carpet. Rory rolled her eyes and undid the first deadbolt. “If this is another one of your pranks, Eva, I swear—” She pulled the door open. Lucien Moreau stood there, one hand resting on the head of his cane, the other tucked into the pocket of his tailored charcoal suit. The hallway light caught the platinum strands of his slicked-back hair, turning them almost white. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—flickered over her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. “You’ve been avoiding my calls.” Rory’s fingers tightened around the door handle. Six months. Six months since she’d last seen him, since she’d walked out of that dimly lit bar in Soho without a word. Six months since she’d let herself think about the way his voice dropped when he was amused, or the way his cane tapped against the floor when he was impatient. “Yeah, well. Funny how that works.” He tilted his head, just slightly. “May I come in?” She should’ve slammed the door in his face. Should’ve told him to piss off, that whatever they’d had—whatever half-finished, half-broken thing it was—was over. But the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she stepped back, pressing her palm against the door to keep it open. Lucien didn’t wait for a second invitation. He stepped inside, the scent of bergamot and something darker, something like gunpowder, trailing after him. His gaze swept the room, taking in the chaos with a single, unreadable glance. “Eva’s not here.” “I know.” Rory crossed her arms. “Then why are you here?” He turned to face her, the cane tapping once against the floor. “We have unfinished business.” “No, we don’t.” “You left my jacket at the bar.” She blinked. “That’s it? You tracked me down for a bloody jacket?” A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Among other things.” Rory’s jaw clenched. She knew that tone. Knew the way his mind worked—layered, deliberate. He wasn’t here for a jacket. Not really. She gestured sharply to the armchair, the only clear surface in the room. “Sit. If you’re going to be a pain, you can at least do it comfortably.” Lucien moved with the grace of a man who knew exactly how much space he took up. He settled into the chair, the cane resting against his knee, his long fingers steepled. Ptolemy, who had been watching from the top of the bookshelf, let out a low, suspicious mrrow and slunk out of sight. Rory leaned against the kitchen counter, putting the width of the room between them. “Say what you came to say.” He studied her for a long moment, his gaze lingering on the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist—old, faded, but still visible. “You look tired.” “Flattery won’t get you anywhere.” “It wasn’t meant to be flattery.” His voice was smooth, unruffled. “You’ve been working too much. Deliveries, the bar, Eva’s… projects. You’re spreading yourself thin.” Rory’s nails dug into her palms. “Since when do you care?” Lucien’s fingers twitched, just once. “Since always.” The words hung between them, heavy and unyielding. Rory looked away, her throat tight. She remembered the way he’d looked at her the night they’d met—like she was a puzzle he was determined to solve. Remembered the way his hands had felt, warm and sure, when he’d pulled her close in the back of that jazz club, his breath hot against her ear. And she remembered the way he’d looked at her the night she’d left. Like she’d betrayed him. “You could’ve called,” she said finally. “I did.” “You know what I mean.” He sighed, shifting in his seat. The cane’s ivory handle gleamed under the lamplight. “You didn’t answer.” “Because I didn’t want to talk.” “And now?” Rory pushed off the counter, pacing the small space between the couch and the coffee table. The floorboards groaned under her weight. “Now you’re here. In my flat. So talk.” Lucien’s gaze followed her, dark and assessing. “I need your help.” She stopped mid-step. “My help?” “There’s a job. Something… delicate.” Rory let out a sharp laugh. “Delicate. Right. And you came to me because?” “Because you’re the only one I trust to do it without getting caught.” The words hit her like a punch to the gut. She turned away, her fingers curling into fists. “That’s rich, coming from you.” “Rory.” She whirled back around. “No. You don’t get to just waltz in here, drop that like it’s nothing, and expect me to—” “Expect you to what?” His voice was low, dangerous. “Forgive me? Forget?” “You’re the one who lied.” Lucien’s jaw tightened. “And you’re the one who ran.” Silence. The kind that crackled, that pressed in on her chest until she could barely breathe. She wanted to scream. Wanted to throw something. Wanted to demand answers, to make him hurt the way he’d hurt her. But all she said was, “What’s the job?” A muscle in his cheek twitched. “There’s a relic. An old one. Stolen from a collector in Paris. It’s in London now, and it’s causing… problems.” “What kind of problems?” “The kind that involves dead bodies and missing persons.” Rory exhaled sharply. “And you want me to steal it back.” “No.” He stood, the cane tapping once against the floor as he straightened. “I want you to help me find it. Before someone else does.” She studied him—the way his suit jacket pulled slightly across his shoulders, the way his heterochromatic eyes gave nothing away. He was beautiful, infuriating, impossible. And he was standing in her flat, asking for her help like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Why me?” Lucien took a step forward. Then another. Close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his amber eye, the way his dark eye seemed to swallow the light. “Because you’re the only one who ever saw me for what I am.” Rory’s breath caught. She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. Not when he was looking at her like that—like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing. “And what’s that?” she whispered. His hand lifted, his fingers brushing a strand of her black hair away from her face. His touch was light, barely there, but it sent a shiver down her spine. “Someone worth fighting for.” The air between them was electric, charged with something she couldn’t name. Something she’d tried to bury. Rory’s pulse pounded in her ears, her skin burning where he’d touched her. She should’ve pushed him away. Should’ve told him to leave, to never come back. But the words died in her throat. Instead, she reached up, her fingers curling around his wrist. His skin was warm, his pulse steady beneath her grip. “You’re a bastard, Lucien Moreau.” His lips quirked, just slightly. “And yet, here you are.” She wanted to hate him. Wanted to hold onto the anger, the hurt. But standing there, with his hand still tangled in her hair, his breath warm against her forehead, she couldn’t remember why she’d ever tried to walk away.