Page 93 of Claim

And even that only worked if I never gave him a reason to turn it against me.

“Your father’s reputation.” Wolfe pulled down his sleeve, cufflinks gleaming. “The family name. The professional insulation currently shielding your brother. Your sister-in-law. Her charitable assets. Her unborn child. Even your sister’s prospects. None of those are separate from the choices you have made. Consequences have a way of travelling, Mr Hale-Fitzroy.”

I felt the cold recognition of how small the margin really was then, the narrow space where the law still protected me, and how easily it could be erased by nothing more than a change in how I was seen. I’d just told Razor I could fight for him because I had distance. Weight behind me. A name that opened doors instead of closing them. But Wolfe could destroy that with one phone call. And suddenly I wouldn’t be insulated.

I’d be implicated.

“You’re threatening me with shame.” I clenched my jaw.

“I’m reminding you how efficiently it spreads.”

“You’re done here.” I nudged my chin towards the door. “Leave.”

“I don’t think we are done.” Wolfe smiled. “But I don’t require your agreement tonight.”

He then picked up his coat and moved towards the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “You’ll do the sensible thing. You always do. You’ll advise your client as you see fit.” He opened the door, then glanced back over his shoulder. “And I trust you understand what happens when resistance is mistaken for principle.”

He stepped into the hall and almost collided with Henry.

“Ah, Dr Redmayne.” Wolfe stepped aside, smooth and expansive. “Perfect timing. Tristan was being reminded that some paths are tolerated, and others, no matter how fond one might be of them, are quietly deemed unsuitable.” He continued down the stairs, his voice carrying up. “A lesson your own household understands well.”

Then he was gone.

Henry stood there for a beat, brow furrowed, before looking back at me. “What the hell was that?”

I rubbed a hand over my damp hair.

The flat felt altered. Violated. As though Wolfe had redrawn its boundaries while he’d been inside it, leaving an invisible fault line running straight through the middle. Nothing looked out of place. Everything felt wrong.

Henry came closer. “You okay, Tris?”

I glanced at him. “You know what, Hen? I think it’s time you grew some balls and stood up for what you want.”

“Excuse me?”

“Claim her, Hen. If Zara is worth it to you, then go fucking claim her.”

If only it were that simple for me.

chapter sixteen

Razor

I stepped out of Lennon’s shower with a towel knotted low around my waist and stopped short at the door to my room.

Well, it wasn’t my room. It was Lennon’s boys’ room. But the twin beds were neatly made, the thin duvet smoothed out, the space made temporary-liveable. Can’t say it was the best night’s sleep I’d had, but the beds were a fuck lot better than the shit I’d been sleeping on of late. Though the problem wasn’t the bed, it was what was laid out on one of them. The only clothes I owned were prison issue. And I couldn’t wear them. Not today.

I’d never been a bloke with much stuff. Growing up broke does that. Teaches you early that things are for using, not keeping. Even when the money started coming in, when the streets paid better than any legit graft ever would, most of it didn’t stay with me. It went to Mum. Keeley. To rent. Food. Fixing whatever was about to fall apart next. Hadn’t even paid for the car I used to drive. That had been a gift from Cormac.

Fuck knew where it was now.

Impounded. Stripped. Crawled over. Maybe already flattened into a cube of metal and evidence.

So yeah. I’d never had much. Clothes had always been about function. Clean enough. Dark enough. Replaceable. But standing there, damp and smothered in Lennon’s shampoo and shower gel, staring down at the grey jumper and joggers I’d been wearing for months inside, a realisation struck hard and furious.

I didn’t want to put them back on.

Ever.