Run: 2026-10-07-01M4AVM1NG6S84W344T535H22K

The first knock came just as Rory was wiping grease from her fingers onto her already-stained jeans. She froze, the dishcloth suspended in midair. No one ever knocked on Eva’s door without calling first—especially not at this hour, when the scent of cumin and coriander from the curry house below still clung to the hallway like a second skin. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, lifted his head from his perch on the windowsill, ears twitching. The knock came again, sharper this time. Insistent. Rory exhaled through her nose and set the cloth down. The flat’s three deadbolts were still fastened—Eva had drilled that into her after the incident with Evan. She padded across the cluttered floor, sidestepping a stack of books that had spilled from the coffee table. The peephole offered a distorted view of the hallway, but the figure standing there was unmistakable: tall, impeccably tailored, his platinum hair slicked back under the dim yellow light. Lucien. Her pulse jumped. She hadn’t seen him in months. Not since that night in the back room of Silas’ bar, when words had been exchanged like blade strikes, when she’d walked away before he could see the way her hands shook. Another knock. “I know you’re in there, Aurora,” he called, voice smooth, amused. “I can hear you breathing.” Rory pressed her forehead against the door. Damn him. Damn his half-demon hearing, damn his arrogance, damn the way her stomach still flipped at the sound of his voice. She undid the first deadbolt, then the second, then the third, each click a tiny surrender. When she finally pulled the door open, the scent of him—bergamot and something darker, like gunpowder and old parchment—rushed in before he did. Lucien leaned against the doorframe, one hand resting on the head of his ivory cane, the other tucked into the pocket of his charcoal suit. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—flickered over her with the kind of assessment that made her feel both exposed and invisible. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said. “No,” Rory lied. “Just busy.” His mouth quirked. “Delivering takeaway?” She crossed her arms. “What do you want, Luc?” He pushed off the doorframe, the cane tapping once against the floor as he stepped inside, uninvited. The flat seemed to shrink around him, the stacks of books and scrolls suddenly less like a fortress of knowledge and more like kindling. Ptolemy hissed and arched his back, tail puffing up. Lucien ignored the cat. “We have unfinished business.” Rory shut the door behind him, the three deadbolts clicking back into place like the chambers of a revolver. “We had a conversation. It ended.” “It ended with you storming out.” “Because you were being an insufferable arse.” His laugh was low, rich. “And here I thought I was being charming.” She shot him a glare, but the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. That was the problem with Lucien—he disarmed her without even trying. “You’re not here to rehash old arguments,” she said. “So cut the crap. What’s the real reason?” For a moment, his expression darkened, the amusement bleeding out of it. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper, the edges singed as if it had been plucked from a fire. “This was left at my office. Addressed to you.” Rory took it, her fingers brushing his. A spark, static or something else, made her flinch. The paper was thick, expensive, the kind Lucien would use. But the handwriting wasn’t his—it was jagged, urgent. *Meet me at the old docks. Midnight. Alone. Or the next body will be yours.* Her breath hitched. “Who left this?” “A courier. Human. Scared out of his wits.” Lucien’s jaw tightened. “He didn’t see who gave it to him, but he described the scent—sulfur and rotting meat.” Rory’s stomach twisted. Demons. Or something worse. “And you didn’t think to, I don’t know, *open it* before bringing it to me?” “I recognized the handwriting.” She looked up. “Whose is it?” “Evan’s.” The name hit her like a physical blow. Evan. Her ex. The man who’d left bruises on more than just her skin. The man she’d run from, the reason she’d fled to London in the first place. She’d thought she was free of him. She’d *hoped* she was free of him. Rory’s fingers trembled. She crumpled the note in her fist. “Bullshit.” Lucien’s gaze didn’t waver. “You think I’d joke about this?” “You think I’d believe Evan’s suddenly resurfaced with a dramatic note and a flair for the theatrical?” She threw the paper onto the nearest surface—a pile of Eva’s research notes. “He’s in Cardiff. Or he was. Last I heard, he’d moved to Glasgow after the restraining order.” “People lie. Especially people like him.” “People like *you*, you mean?” Lucien’s cane tapped against the floor, once, sharp. “I’m not the one threatening you, Rory.” No. No, he wasn’t. But he was the one standing in Eva’s flat, looking at her like he could see straight through the walls she’d built. Like he knew exactly how much the mention of Evan’s name unraveled her. She turned away, rubbing her temples. “This is ridiculous. If Evan wanted to find me, he wouldn’t send a damn note. He’d just show up.” “Unless he’s not the one who wants you,” Lucien said quietly. “Unless someone else is using his name to lure you out.” Rory’s skin prickled. She knew that tone. Knew the way his voice dropped when he was switching from teasing to deadly serious. “You think this is a trap.” “I think it’s *possible*.” She whirled around. “And you brought it to me *why*? So I could walk into it blind? So you could watch me get myself killed?” His expression was unreadable. “I brought it to you because you deserve to know. And because if you’re stupid enough to go, I’d rather be there to pull your arse out of the fire.” Rory barked out a laugh. “Oh, so now you’re my knight in shining armor?” “I’m the only one who knows where the old docks are without getting lost,” he said dryly. “And I’m the only one who can get you out alive if this *is* a setup.” She wanted to argue. Wanted to slam the door in his face and pretend this conversation never happened. But the note was still there, taunting her. And the truth was, she *did* know where the old docks were—Eva had dragged her there once on a wild goose chase for a cursed artifact. But Lucien was right about the rest. If this was a trap, she’d need backup. And as much as she hated to admit it, he was the best she had. Rory exhaled sharply. “Fine. But we do this *my* way.” Lucien raised an eyebrow. “Which is?” “No heroics. No disappearing into the shadows to ‘handle things’ on your own. We go in, we see what’s what, and we get the hell out. Together.” A slow smile spread across his face. “You always did have a flair for the dramatic.” She rolled her eyes. “And you always did have a death wish.” His smile faded, just a little. “I have a *promise* to keep.” The words hung between them, heavy with something unspoken. Rory looked away first, her gaze landing on the singed edges of the note. “What time is it?” Lucien checked his watch—a sleek, silver thing that probably cost more than her flat. “Ten past eight.” She had less than four hours. “We’ll need to gear up.” “Already taken care of.” He tapped his cane. “And I assume you still have that knife I gave you.” Rory’s hand went to her boot, where the familiar weight of the blade pressed against her ankle. She’d almost forgotten he’d been the one to give it to her, back when she’d first started delivering for Yu-Fei and he’d decided she needed “proper protection.” “Yeah. I’ve got it.” “Good.” He turned toward the door, then paused. “One more thing.” She braced herself. “What?” He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his amber eye, the way his black eye seemed to swallow the light. “If this *is* Evan…” “Then I’ll handle it.” “Rory.” “Lucien.” His jaw worked. “If it’s him, you don’t engage. You run. Or you let me handle it. Understood?” She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him she wasn’t some damsel who needed saving. But the truth was, she *did* need saving—from Evan, from whatever game he was playing, from the way her past kept clawing its way back into her present. So she nodded, once, sharp. “Understood.” For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then Lucien reached out, his fingers brushing against her left wrist, tracing the small crescent-shaped scar there. The touch was light, almost accidental, but it sent a jolt through her. “You’re shaking,” he murmured. Rory pulled her arm back. “I’m fine.” He didn’t push it. Just gave her that infuriating, knowing look. “Liar.” She should’ve kicked him out. Should’ve told him to go to hell. But instead, she found herself saying, “We should go. Now.” Lucien inclined his head, the picture of gallantry. “After you.” Rory grabbed her leather jacket from the back of the chair, the worn material familiar under her fingers. As she pulled it on, her gaze snagged on the note again. The handwriting *did* look like Evan’s—messy, aggressive, the letters slanting like they were trying to escape the page. But Evan had never been one for theatrics. He’d been more about fists and fear, not games and riddles. Unless he’d changed. Unless *she* had. Rory followed Lucien out of the flat, locking the deadbolts behind her. The air in the hallway was thick with the scent of the curry house below, but beneath it, she caught the faintest trace of sulfur. Her stomach twisted. Lucien paused at the top of the stairs, his cane tapping once against the step. “You’re quiet.” “Just thinking.” “Dangerous habit.” She shot him a look. “Says the man who’s about to walk into a potential demon trap.” He grinned, all teeth. “Where’s your sense of adventure?” “Buried under my sense of self-preservation.” His laughter followed her down the stairs, warm and rich and entirely too comforting. For a moment, it was almost possible to forget why they were doing this. Almost possible to pretend this was just another night, another job, another dance with danger. But the note in her pocket was a brand, and the past had a way of catching up.