Run: 2026-10-05-01M46B6EG2FQB3FK30F3KQX9BD

The door opened as far as the chain allowed, and Lucien Moreau stood on the other side with blood on his collar. Rory kept one hand on the last deadbolt. “No.” His amber eye dropped to the chain. His black eye stayed on her face. “Good evening to you, too.” “You’ve got the wrong flat.” “I knocked on your door first. Your landlord directed me here.” “I’ll have a word with Silas.” “He had several for me.” Lucien held his ivory-handled cane against his thigh. Rain darkened the shoulders of his charcoal suit, and a split in his lower lip spoiled the precise line of his mouth. Rory had kissed that mouth in a stairwell six weeks ago. Four weeks ago, she had watched it shape the words You misunderstood. She started to close the door. He put a folded envelope through the gap. Her name covered the front in her father’s handwriting. The door stopped against his knuckles. “Where did you get that?” “Let me in.” “Answer me.” “From the man who cut my throat.” Her gaze caught on the blood again. Beneath his collar, a narrow wound ran from the hollow of his neck towards his jaw. “That’s a scratch.” “The distinction mattered more before he made it.” Someone opened a door downstairs. Voices rose through the stairwell, followed by the clatter of takeaway containers. Lucien turned his head towards the sound, and Rory saw him shift his weight off his left leg. She shut the door, lifted the chain, and opened it again. “Inside. Don’t mistake this for forgiveness.” “I wouldn’t dare.” “You’ve dared plenty.” He crossed the threshold. Rory slid all three deadbolts home while he stood among the tottering stacks of books that narrowed Eva’s hallway to a sideways passage. Ptolemy emerged from beneath the coat rack, sniffed Lucien’s shoe, and bit the hem of his trousers. Lucien looked down. “An excellent judge of character.” “He likes people who bring him chicken. You’re below chicken.” Rory took the envelope from him. The paper had softened at one corner, but the seal remained intact. She knew the blue fountain-pen ink, the long stroke of the C, the way her father pressed too hard at the end of her name. “Who had it?” “A collector named Vey.” “Collector of what?” “Debts. Objects. People, when his clients lacked imagination.” She looked up. Lucien’s jaw tightened. “He bought a batch of intercepted post. Yours caught my attention.” “Because you’ve been looking for my name?” “Yes.” No smirk. No polished deflection. The answer made her grip the envelope harder. “Eva’s out.” “I know.” Rory pointed at him with the letter. “Choose your next words with care.” “I called her before coming here. She told me where you were. She also told me she would remove my teeth if I upset you.” “That sounds like Eva.” “She didn’t specify an instrument.” “She owns pliers.” Rory backed into the sitting room. Books covered the sofa except for the narrow hollow where she had spent the past hour with her knees tucked beneath her. An open takeaway carton sat on a stack of photocopies. Curry-house heat seeped through the floor, carrying cumin and the noise of a kitchen extractor. She moved three books from a chair. “Sit.” “I’d prefer—” “Bleed on Eva’s rug and you can negotiate with her yourself.” He sat. The movement cost him. He caught the chair arm before his body settled, and the cane struck the floor with a sharp click. Rory put the letter on the mantelpiece. “Show me.” “It looks worse than it is.” “You used that line about the woman in your office.” He went still. “She was a client.” “She had your hand under her blouse.” “She had a blade against my ribs.” “And you couldn’t have opened with that?” Ptolemy sprang onto the table and pushed his head into Lucien’s sleeve. Lucien moved his hand away from the cat before it reached the blood. “I could have.” Rory waited. The radiator ticked behind her. “I should have.” She went to the bathroom for Eva’s first-aid box. When she returned, Lucien had unbuttoned his jacket. Blood soaked his shirt beneath the left side of his waistcoat. Rory stopped beside the table. “That isn’t your throat.” “No.” “How many holes have you brought into this flat?” “Two.” “Any more will cost extra.” She dragged a stool in front of his chair and sat with the first-aid box between her feet. “Jacket off. Waistcoat, too.” He obeyed without his usual flourish. His fingers slipped on the bottom button, and Rory caught his wrist before he could reach for it again. “Leave it.” His skin felt cold. That unsettled her more than the blood. She undid the button and eased the waistcoat aside. The shirt clung to his ribs. A cut crossed his flank, shallow at one end and deep enough at the other to make her put down the little packet of gauze. “You need stitches.” “I heal.” “Then get on with it.” “That blade interfered.” “Of course it did.” She reached for her phone. Lucien caught her hand. Rory looked at his fingers around her wrist. He released her. “Don’t call an ambulance. They can’t treat this.” “You don’t get to arrive bleeding and rule out everything useful.” “There’s a vial in the inner pocket of my jacket. Green glass. It needs pressure on the wound while it takes effect.” “Why haven’t you used it?” “I needed somewhere to stop.” “And every chair in London was occupied?” His gaze moved to the letter on the mantelpiece. “Vey’s men followed me from the shop. Eva’s wards cover this flat.” Rory glanced towards the hallway. Eva had spent an entire Sunday painting symbols beneath the doorframe while Rory held a bowl of something that smelled like burnt pennies. “Are they outside?” “They lost me near Spitalfields. I won’t leave until I’m certain.” “You could have told me that at the door.” “You were closing it.” “I had reasons.” “Yes.” She found the vial, held it to the light, and watched a dark liquid coat the glass. “How much?” “All of it.” She handed it over. He pulled the stopper with his teeth and drank, then bent forward with his fist pressed against his knee. Rory opened a sterile pad and placed it over the cut. His breath caught. “Sorry.” “Don’t be.” “I’m not apologising for anything else.” “I understood.” She pressed harder. His hand gripped the chair arm, tendons standing out beneath his skin. Up close, he smelled of rain, iron, and the cedar soap she remembered from his bathroom. She shifted her stool back an inch. Lucien noticed. He looked towards the window instead of following her face. “Was the letter bait?” “I don’t think your father intended it as such.” “That wasn’t what I asked.” “Yes. Vey knew I would come for it.” “Why?” His mouth opened. Closed. Rory reached into the box with her free hand and took out another pad. “You were fluent enough when you told me to go home.” “I had an audience.” “You had me.” The words scraped more than she intended. She kept her eyes on the wound. In his office, she had stood with a bottle of wine in one hand while the woman behind his desk fastened her blouse. Rory had offered him a chance to explain. He had looked past her towards the open door and smiled as though she had delivered a meal to the wrong address. Lucien leaned back against the chair. “Her name was Sabine. She came to establish whether you mattered to me.” “And you gave her a demonstration.” “Yes.” Rory lifted the pad. Fresh blood welled, thinner than before. She replaced it. “You could have called me afterwards.” “I thought distance would protect you.” “You thought.” He took the rebuke without looking away. “I made a decision that belonged to you.” The flat held the sounds from downstairs: metal against metal, an order called across the kitchen, a burst of laughter. Rory watched a pink stain spread beneath her thumb. “Evan used to do that.” Lucien’s face changed. He drew his hand off the chair arm and set it on his knee. “I know.” “No. You know what I told you. That isn’t permission to decide what I can bear.” “No.” “He would lock the door and call it looking after me. He’d read my messages because he worried. There was always a lovely reason.” Lucien lowered his gaze to her hand on his ribs. “I won’t offer you one.” “That’s a start.” She checked the wound again. The edges had begun to draw together. Against her fingertips, his skin warmed. “Does it hurt?” “Yes.” “Good. That means you’re not dead.” His split lip curved, then flattened when she refused to return the smile. “I missed you, Rory.” She reached for the tape. The roll dropped from her fingers and bounced beneath the stool. Lucien bent to retrieve it. “Stay put.” He stayed. She picked it up herself. “You don’t get to slip that in while I’ve got my hand inside your shirt.” “When would you prefer?” “When I can walk away.” He nodded towards the pad. “You can stop. I can hold it.” For several seconds, she kept pressing. Then she took his hand, placed it over the dressing, and stood. He made no move to follow. Rory crossed to the mantelpiece. She slid a finger beneath the envelope’s flap and tore it open. Her father had enclosed a bank statement she had sent to the Cardiff address by mistake, along with a sheet of thick paper. Aurora, Your mother insists you have no need of a reminder about Sunday, which means I have received three reminders to remind you. Rory folded the note before she reached the next line. “People went through his post.” “Yes.” “Can they get to him?” “Not through this. Vey wanted leverage over me.” “And you gave it to him by going there.” Lucien glanced down at his ruined shirt. “I recovered the rest of the batch, too. No one kept copies.” “Did you kill him?” “No.” “Would you tell me if you had?” “Yes.” She pressed the fold flat with her thumbnail. “Another answer I have to take on trust.” “I can give you Eva’s source. She checked what I brought out.” “So you spoke to her before you spoke to me.” “I asked her how to do this without making it worse.” “What did she suggest?” “Honesty. She expressed doubts about my ability.” Rory put the letter back in its envelope. “Eva has a gift.” She returned to the stool, but didn’t sit. Lucien held the pad against his side with one hand. The other rested open on his thigh. “Move your hand. I need to tape that down.” He lifted it. The bleeding had stopped. She secured the dressing, smoothing the tape along the curve of his ribs. He watched her face, and she felt every glance where her fingers touched him. “Stop looking at me like that.” “Like what?” “Like you remember.” “I do.” She tore the final strip with more force than it needed. “Your bathroom had terrible lighting.” “You complained about the towels.” “They were decorative. They repelled water.” “You used my shirt.” “You weren’t wearing it.” He drew a breath through his nose. Rory’s hand paused against the dressing. There it was: the same small hitch she had heard when she touched his neck that night. She removed her hand before memory could make the decision for her. “Throat next.” She tilted his chin with two fingers and cleaned the cut. His eyes closed at the first sting. A strand of platinum hair had fallen across his forehead; without the slick line of it, he looked less like a man who charged for every minute. “You could have told me to wait outside your office. You could have said anything except what you said.” “I know.” “I stood in the lift with that bottle until the doors opened on the ground floor. Then I stood there until someone asked me to move.” His jaw shifted beneath her fingers. “Rory—” “No. Listen.” He opened his eyes. “I wasn’t embarrassed because another woman was there. I was embarrassed because I’d believed you. That morning, you asked me to leave a toothbrush.” “I wanted you to.” She pressed the clean gauze beneath his jaw. “Then you should have acted like it.” He swallowed against her hand. “Yes.” Rory reached for a small plaster. Her fingers brushed his collar, and he held his breath until she drew them away. “You can breathe. I’m treating you, not kissing you.” “I noticed the difference.” She looked at his mouth despite herself. Lucien didn’t move. Rory peeled the backing from the plaster and fixed it over the cut, then sat on the stool again, close enough that his knee touched hers. “What else didn’t you tell me?”