Run: 2026-09-25-01M3CKJTEN0EYT069GZ1YC004T

The knock came just as the kettle began to whistle. Rory froze, her hand hovering over the stove. Three sharp raps, then a pause, then two more. Not Eva’s rhythm. Eva would’ve barged in by now, shouting about forgotten keys or another obscure text she’d unearthed. Ptolemy lifted his head from the armchair, ears twitching. Rory exhaled through her nose and turned the gas off. The flat was a mess—books stacked like Jenga towers, a half-unpacked rucksack from last night’s delivery shift, and a bra draped over the lamp. She nudged a pile of scrolls aside with her foot and made for the door. The third deadbolt stuck. She jiggled it, cursed under her breath, and yanked. The door swung open. Lucien Moreau stood in the hallway, one hand resting on the head of his cane, the other tucked into the pocket of his tailored charcoal suit. The overhead light caught the platinum in his hair, the sharp line of his jaw. His heterochromatic eyes—amber and black—flickered over her, lingering on the scar on her wrist before meeting her gaze. “You’ve been avoiding my calls.” Rory’s fingers tightened around the door handle. “Funny. I don’t recall giving you my number.” “Eva did.” Of course she did. She should’ve slammed the door. Should’ve told him to piss off. But the way he looked at her—like she was a puzzle he’d been trying to solve for years—rooted her in place. “What do you want, Luc?” He stepped forward, forcing her to retreat. The scent of bergamot and something darker, something like gunpowder, followed him inside. “To talk.” “About?” “You know about what.” She did. The last time they’d spoken, it had been in the back room of Silas’ bar, her voice raw from shouting, his from trying to reason with her. That had been six months ago. Six months of radio silence, of her telling herself she didn’t care. Ptolemy chose that moment to slink between her legs, tail brushing against Lucien’s trousers. The half-demon didn’t flinch. Just watched the cat with mild amusement before his gaze snapped back to her. “You’re still angry.” “No shit.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I handled it poorly.” “You lied to me.” “Omitted.” “Same thing.” He exhaled, low and controlled, and adjusted his grip on the cane. “I had my reasons.” “Reasons you couldn’t share with me?” “Reasons that would’ve put you in danger.” Rory barked a laugh. “And now? Am I in danger standing here?” Lucien’s mouth thinned. “Not from me.” The air between them crackled, thick with everything unsaid. She wanted to hit him. Wanted to kiss him. Wanted to scream. Instead, she crossed her arms. “You’re not here to apologise.” “No.” “Then why?” He lifted his free hand, as if to reach for her, then stopped. His fingers curled into a fist. “Because the situation’s changed. And because I need your help.” Rory’s pulse spiked. “My help?” “There’s a job. One that requires… your particular skills.” “You mean my ability to get into places I shouldn’t?” “Among other things.” She studied him—the way his shoulders filled the doorway, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his cane tapped once, impatiently, against the floorboards. He was always so damn composed. Except when he wasn’t. Except when she’d seen the cracks in that armour, the nights he’d let her see the man beneath the fixer. “And if I say no?” His voice dropped. “Then I’ll have to find someone else.” “You’ll find someone else anyway.” Lucien’s black eye gleamed. “Not like you.” The words hung there, heavy and dangerous. Rory looked away first, her gaze snagging on the chaos of the flat. Eva’s research notes were everywhere—pages of scribbled theories, red string tacked to the walls like some mad detective’s board. A half-empty glass of wine sat on the coffee table, lipstick smudged on the rim. “You’re stalling,” Lucien observed. “No. I’m thinking.” “About?” “Whether I want to work with a liar.” He flinched. Just a fraction, just enough for her to see. “Fair.” Rory exhaled sharply. “Why now, Luc? Why not six months ago? Why not when it actually mattered?” The question seemed to knock the wind out of him. For the first time since he’d arrived, he looked uncertain. His thumb traced the ivory handle of his cane, back and forth, back and forth. “Because I was an idiot.” “That’s not an answer.” “It’s the only one I’ve got.” She wanted to press. Wanted to dig until she found the truth beneath the polished surface. But the way he stood there, like a man bracing for a blow, made her hesitate. Ptolemy chose that moment to leap onto the back of the sofa, knocking over a stack of books. The thud echoed in the silence. Lucien’s mouth quirked. “Still keeping dangerous company, I see.” Rory rolled her eyes. “He’s a cat.” “And I’m a half-demon. You’ve never been one to judge.” “Don’t flatter yourself.” He chuckled, low and rough. The sound sent a shiver down her spine. “There she is.” “There who is?” “The Rory Carter who doesn’t take shit from anyone. Not even me.” She should’ve been immune to it by now—the way his voice wrapped around her name, the way his eyes darkened when he looked at her. But she wasn’t. And that pissed her off more than the lies, more than the silence. “You don’t get to do that,” she snapped. “Do what?” “Act like you know me. Like you’ve got some claim on me.” Lucien’s expression shuttered. “I never said I did.” “You didn’t have to.” The words were out before she could stop them. His gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. The air between them thickened, charged with something electric, something that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the way her body still remembered his. Rory took a step back. “You should go.” He didn’t move. “Not until we’ve settled this.” “There’s nothing to settle.” “Bullshit.” She bristled. “Excuse me?” “You heard me.” He took a step forward, closing the distance between them. “You’re still angry. Still hurt. And I’m still…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening. “Still what?” His free hand came up, hovering near her cheek but not quite touching. “Still here.” Rory’s breath hitched. She should’ve pushed him away. Should’ve told him to leave. But the heat of him, the sheer presence, made her knees weak. “Luc—” The cane clattered to the floor as his hand cupped her face. His thumb brushed her lower lip, and she hated how her body leaned into the touch, how her traitorous heart pounded. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured. She should’ve. But the words died in her throat. His mouth was on hers before she could think, hot and demanding. Rory’s hands flew to his chest, not to push him away but to anchor herself. The kiss was a collision—teeth and tongue and six months of pent-up frustration. He tasted like whiskey and sin, and she hated how much she’d missed it. Then, just as suddenly, he pulled back. His breathing was ragged, his eyes dark. “Tell me to stop,” he repeated. Rory swallowed. “I should.” “But you won’t.” She didn’t. Couldn’t. Not when her body was alight, not when the old wounds between them felt like they might finally, finally scab over. Lucien’s hand slid to the nape of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair. “Say something, Rory.” She licked her lips. “You’re an arsehole.” He laughed, low and rough, and kissed her again. This time it was slower, deeper. The kind of kiss that promised more than just a truce. When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against hers. “I missed you.” The words were a punch to the gut. She wanted to believe them. Wanted to forgive him. But the past wasn’t that easy to outrun. “You’ve got a funny way of showing it.” His thumb traced her cheekbone. “Let me make it up to you.” “How?” “Let me in.” His voice was rough. “Not just the flat. All of it.” Rory’s chest ached. She wanted to. God, she wanted to. But trust wasn’t a switch she could flip. She stepped back, putting space between them. “You don’t get to waltz back in here and expect everything to be fine.” “I know.” “Then why are you here?” “Because I can’t do this without you.” His voice was raw. “Because I don’t want to.” The vulnerability in his eyes was new. Or maybe she’d just never let herself see it before. Rory exhaled, long and slow. “You’re lucky I’m a sucker for lost causes.” A slow smile spread across his face. “Does that mean you’ll help me?” She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “It means I’ll hear you out.” Lucien bent to retrieve his cane, his movements fluid. “That’s all I ask.” “For now.” He straightened, his gaze locking onto hers. “For now.” Ptolemy meowed, winding himself around Rory’s legs. She reached down to scratch behind his ears, her fingers trembling slightly. “So,” she said, forcing her voice steady. “What’s the job?”