Run: 2026-09-25-01M3CKJ1H5C0K3XRMKSZRJXRHG

The first knock came just as Rory was wiping flour from her hands, the scent of freshly rolled dough still clinging to her fingers. She froze, the dish towel suspended mid-air. No one visited Eva’s flat unannounced—not without calling first, not with the way the building’s stairs groaned underfoot like a warning. The second knock was firmer, deliberate. A man’s knock. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, lifted his head from his perch on the windowsill, ears twitching. Rory exhaled through her nose and set the towel down. The flat was a mess—scrolls unspooled across the coffee table, a half-empty cup of cold tea beside them, Eva’s latest research on demonic sigils splayed open like a fan of tarot cards. She smoothed her hair back, though it did little good. The black strands had escaped their loose knot hours ago. The third knock came before she reached the door. “All right, all right,” she muttered, flipping the deadbolts one by one. Three clicks, three turns of the wrist, and then the door swung inward. Lucien Moreau stood in the dim hallway, his platinum hair slicked back as always, his charcoal suit immaculate despite the hour. The amber and black of his mismatched eyes caught the light from the flat, sharp as a blade’s edge. He leaned slightly on his ivory-handled cane, though Rory knew it wasn’t for support. The cane was a prop, a statement. A reminder. Her pulse jumped. She hadn’t seen him in six months. Not since the night she’d walked out of his office without a word, her pride the only thing keeping her upright. “Rory,” he said, voice low, accented. French, but not the kind you heard in tourist cafés. This was the kind that curled around vowels like smoke. She crossed her arms. “Luc.” A beat. The air between them thickened, charged with all the things they hadn’t said the last time. The things they’d said before that, in hushed tones and stolen moments, when his hands had been in her hair and his mouth on hers. He tilted his head, just slightly. “Are you going to let me in?” She should say no. She should slam the door in his face, re-engage the deadbolts, and pretend this never happened. But the way he was looking at her—like she was a puzzle he’d been trying to solve for years—made her step aside. Lucien moved past her, the scent of bergamot and something darker, something like gunpowder, trailing in his wake. He took in the flat with a single glance, his gaze lingering on the chaos of Eva’s research. “She’s still chasing ghosts, I see.” “She’s not here,” Rory said, shutting the door behind him. The locks clicked back into place, a sound that felt too final. “No,” he said. “I didn’t come for Eva.” Ptolemy chose that moment to slink over, winding himself around Lucien’s legs. The half-demon didn’t flinch, though his fingers twitched, as if resisting the urge to reach down. Cats and demons had a history, after all. Rory folded her arms tighter. “Then why are you here?” He turned to face her fully, the cane tapping once against the floor. “You left something behind.” Her stomach dropped. “I didn’t.” “You did.” His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of a verdict. “My number. My trust. My—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “A lot of things.” She looked away, heat creeping up her neck. The flat suddenly felt too small, the walls pressing in. “That was a long time ago.” “Six months,” he said. “Not so long.” “Long enough.” Lucien exhaled, a sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so bitter. “You always did have a talent for understatement.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a small, leather-bound book. Her journal. The one she’d left on his desk the night she’d stormed out, the pages filled with half-formed theories and sketches of sigils she’d been too afraid to test. She reached for it, but he didn’t let go. His fingers brushed hers, and the contact sent a jolt through her, sharp and familiar. “I didn’t come just to return this,” he said. “Then why?” His thumb traced the spine of the book, slow, deliberate. “Because I need your help.” Rory barked out a laugh. “That’s rich. Since when do you need anyone’s help?” “Since the job in Whitechapel went sideways.” His voice was flat, but his grip on the journal tightened. “Since someone started killing half-demons in my territory.” She went still. “What?” “Three in the last fortnight. All of them mine.” His heterochromatic gaze locked onto hers. “And the only person I know who’s ever walked away from a demon’s curse is you.” Rory’s breath hitched. She knew what he was referring to—the night she’d carved a sigil into her own wrist to break a binding spell, the night she’d nearly bled out on Eva’s floor. The scar on her left wrist throbbed, as if in memory. She stepped back, shaking her head. “I don’t do that anymore. I’m not—” “You’re the only one who can,” he cut in. “Eva’s too deep in her books, and Silas would rather burn the city down than help me. That leaves you.” Ptolemy chose that moment to leap onto the couch, knocking over a stack of papers. The sound broke the tension, just for a second. Rory exhaled, running a hand through her hair. “You’re asking a lot.” “I know.” He finally released the journal, letting her take it. His fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary. “But I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.” She flipped the journal open, her eyes scanning the familiar handwriting. There were notes in the margins in Lucien’s precise script—corrections, suggestions, the occasional sharp remark. She’d forgotten he’d even read it. “You annotated it,” she said, stupidly. “You left it on my desk,” he replied, as if that explained everything. She closed the book with a snap. “Fine. But I’m not doing this for free.” One corner of his mouth quirked. “I wouldn’t expect you to.” “And I’m not working for you.” “No,” he agreed. “With me.” She wanted to argue, to tell him to leave, to slam the door in his face and pretend this conversation never happened. But the truth was, she’d missed this—the way her mind raced when he was near, the way every word between them felt like a negotiation, a dance. She’d missed him. “One job,” she said finally. “That’s it.” Lucien inclined his head. “One job.” She should’ve known better. Should’ve remembered that with Lucien, nothing was ever just one thing. But the way he was looking at her now, like she was the only variable in an equation he couldn’t solve, made her chest ache. “When do we start?” she asked. “Now,” he said. “Unless you’d rather I come back later.” She glanced down at her flour-dusted clothes, the mess of the flat, the way her hands still trembled from the ghost of his touch. “Now’s fine.” He smiled, slow and knowing, and for a second, she forgot how to breathe. “Good. Because I’ve already booked us a room at the Savoy.” Her head snapped up. “The Savoy?” “Neutral ground,” he said, as if that made sense. As if any ground between them had ever been neutral. Rory opened her mouth to protest, but the look in his eyes stopped her. There was something there, something raw and unguarded, that she’d never seen before. Fear. Not for himself—for his people. For the ones he couldn’t protect. She swallowed. “Fine. But I’m expensing the minibar.” Lucien’s laugh was soft, real. “I’d expect nothing less.” She turned away before he could see the way her hands shook, busying herself with gathering her things. The journal went into her bag, along with a pen, a small knife she kept for emergencies, and the vial of holy water Eva had given her last Christmas. Just in case. When she turned back, Lucien was watching her, his expression unreadable. “You’re really doing this,” he said. She hoisted the bag onto her shoulder. “Don’t sound so surprised.” “I’m not.” He held out his arm, the picture of old-world chivalry. “After you.” She hesitated, then slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. His suit was warm, the muscle beneath solid. The contact sent a shiver down her spine. As they stepped into the hallway, Ptolemy let out a plaintive meow from the couch. Rory paused, glancing back. The cat stared at them with wide, knowing eyes. “Traitor,” she muttered. Lucien chuckled. “Cats have always had excellent judgment.” She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t pull away. Not yet.