Run: 2026-10-20-01M5C6CGGSQ40P6A9E7ZEVTHRD

The third deadbolt had just clicked into place when the knock came—two quick raps, a pause, then one more. Rory froze with her hand still on the brass chain. Eva never knocked. Eva texted from the street and complained about the stairs until Rory buzzed her in. Rory had been at the flat for three days, feeding Ptolemy and pretending she wasn’t reading the research notes Eva had left in teetering stacks on every available surface. The curry house below had started its dinner rush; cumin and chili and hot oil drifted up through the floorboards and mingled with the smell of old paper and the cat’s litter box. She crossed the cramped room, stepping over a folio on demonic contracts and a mug that had been empty for two days, and pulled the door open. Lucien Moreau stood in the stairwell. For a moment neither of them spoke. Rain beaded on the shoulders of his charcoal suit, darkening the wool to almost black. His platinum hair was slicked back, but a few strands had come loose and clung to his temple. He held his ivory-handled cane in one hand, the tip resting on the top step, and his heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black as a pupil swallowed whole—fixed on her face with an expression she couldn’t read. “Aurora,” he said. Only he called her that. Everyone else got Rory. The sound of it in his voice, low and careful and touched with that faint French edge he’d never bothered to sand off, hit her somewhere below the ribs. She tightened her grip on the door. “No,” she said. His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “No?” “No. Whatever it is.” She started to close the door. His cane came up—not fast, not threatening, just there, the ivory handle catching the light from the stairwell bulb. The door stopped against it with a dull thud. “Five minutes,” he said. “That’s all.” “You had six weeks.” The words landed like a slap. She watched them hit him; watched the small flicker in the amber eye, the way his jaw tightened. Good, she thought. Then immediately: don’t be cruel. Then, louder: he deserves cruel. “Eva asked me to collect the Marchetti codex,” he said. “She said it’s under the window seat.” “Eva’s not here.” “I know.” “Then why are you?” He looked at her. Just looked, steady and unapologetic, rain dripping from the edge of his sleeve onto the worn stair carpet. “Because I hoped you might be.” Ptolemy chose that moment to bolt. The tabby slipped between Rory’s ankles and made for the open door, tail high, a streak of brown and gray fur. Rory lunged, but Lucien was faster—or rather, his cane was. It came down lightly across the threshold, and Ptolemy pulled up short, sat, and fixed Lucien with an expression of profound betrayal. “Traitor,” Rory muttered at the cat. Lucien crouched, slow and deliberate, and scratched Ptolemy behind the ears with two fingers. The cat immediately began to purr. Rory wanted to kick them both. “Five minutes,” she said, and stepped back. He came inside. The flat seemed to shrink around him. He was only five-eleven, but he had a way of taking up space, of making the books and the stacks and the sagging armchair look like set dressing. He set the codex—a fat, cracked-spine volume Rory had seen on the window seat but hadn’t touched—on the nearest pile and looked around. His gaze caught the open notebook on the table, the page Rory had been reading, the margin notes in Eva’s cramped hand. “You’ve been reading her research.” “Someone has to.” Rory crossed her arms. “She’s been gone four days. Did you know that? Four days, no word, and then you show up for a book.” “She’s not missing. She’s in Cardiff. Following a lead on the Ellis line.” Rory blinked. The Ellis line. Her mother’s family. “She didn’t tell me.” “She didn’t want you to worry.” “She told you.” “She told me because I asked.” He turned to face her fully. “Because I’ve been asking about you.” The room went very quiet. Even Ptolemy stopped purring. Rory could hear the curry house fan humming below, the rain ticking against the window, the blood in her own ears. She wanted to say something cutting. She had a hundred sharp things saved up, six weeks’ worth, and every one of them turned to ash in her mouth. “You left,” she said finally. It came out smaller than she wanted. Lucien didn’t look away. “Yes.” “No note. No call. I had to hear from Eva that you’d left London.” “I wasn’t in London.” “I noticed.” She took a breath. “You kissed me, Lucien. In the alley behind the Golden Empress, with the bins and the smell of duck fat, and you kissed me like—” She stopped. Swallowed. “And then you disappeared. I thought something had happened to you. I thought you were dead. Do you know how many times I checked the wards on my flat? How many times I called a number that went straight to voicemail?” His hand tightened on the cane. “I’m sorry.” “That’s not good enough.” “I know.” He set the cane against the wall, leaned it there carefully, and took a step closer. “I had reasons.” “Everyone has reasons.” “Mine had teeth.” His voice dropped. “There were people looking for me. For what I am. My father’s people, and worse. If they’d seen you with me—if they’d known you were important to me—” He stopped, and for the first time since she’d opened the door, he looked uncertain. “I couldn’t risk it.” “You didn’t ask me if I wanted to be risked.” “No.” “I’m not a package to be rerouted for safekeeping, Lucien.” “No.” He stepped closer again. “You’re not.” She could smell him now—rain and cedar and something underneath, smoke and old books and the faint metallic tang of the blade hidden in his cane. His eyes were very bright. The amber one had gone almost gold. “You could have called,” she said. “Once. To tell me you were alive.” “I know.” “You could have trusted me.” His jaw worked. “I’ve never been good at that.” “I noticed.” He laughed—a short, surprised sound, more breath than laugh. Then he reached out, slowly, giving her time to pull away, and touched the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. His fingers were cool. Rory’s heart slammed against her ribs. “I thought about you every day,” he said quietly. “That’s not an excuse. It’s just true.” “Lucien.” “I’m not here to reopen old wounds.” “Then stop looking at me like that.” “Like what?” “Like you’re deciding whether to stay.” He was close enough now that she could see the rain still caught in his eyelashes, the faint bruise fading at his temple, the careful way he was holding himself. He lifted his hand from her wrist to her face, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. “I should go,” he said. Neither of them moved. “The codex is right there,” Rory said. “I know.” “You could take it and leave.” “I know.” The rain kept falling. Ptolemy, disgusted with both of them, jumped onto the armchair and began washing his paw. Rory leaned into Lucien’s hand, just slightly, just enough to feel the pressure of his palm against her cheek. Her eyes stung. She was so tired of being angry. “If you leave again,” she said. “I won’t.” “You can’t promise that.” “No.” His thumb moved against her skin. “I can’t.” “Then don’t promise.” She reached up and curled her fingers around his tie, pulling him down. “Just stay for five minutes.” He kissed her. It was not a gentle kiss. It was six weeks of silence and fear and sleepless nights, and Rory made a sound against his mouth that she would deny later. His hand slid into her hair; her back hit the stack of books by the window seat, and a folio toppled to the floor with a slap. Ptolemy yowled and fled. Lucien’s mouth tasted of rain and coffee, and his body was warm through the damp wool of his suit, and Rory held on to his tie like it was the only thing keeping her upright. When they broke apart, they were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against hers. The deadbolts were still locked. For once, she didn’t mind being trapped. “Five minutes,” he murmured. “Shut up,” she said, and kissed him again.