Page 80 of Crave

Because I knew that couldn’t last. My father had reminded me of that earlier.

I stayed downstairs, finishing the bottle while the silence pressed in. Tomorrow, I’d sort my life out. Tonight, I had a few good bottles of Chianti Classico waiting for me. Dark, dry, and brutally honest.

My phone buzzed for a voice note from Mother. I hit play.

“Darling,” her voice purred, syrup-smooth, perfectly composed, utterly pleased with itself. “I’ve just spoken to Tamara Montgomery. Poor woman is beside herself. Apparently, Oliver was mugged. Can you imagine? In Picadilly, of all places. Simply dreadful, but then that’s what happens when people stray off the straight and narrow, isn’t it? Karma, dear, that’s the word. He won’t even press charges, says he didn’t see the man’s face, so really there’s no point. Lost your father’s respect entirely for that, I must say. Anyway, he’s deferring a year. Thought you’d want to know. Big kisses. Come to lunch on Sunday, won’t you? I’ve bought the most divine goose from Selfridges.”

The message clicked off. I stared at the phone, then poured more wine.

Mugged.

I wondered what Razor could have possibly done to make Ollie defer and keep his silence. I’d never know. The whole thing was over. Except it didn’t feel over. What it felt was hollow, like the aftermath of a storm. A strange, echoing quiet where everything’s still standing, but nothing feels alive anymore.

I finished the wine, switched off the TV, and climbed the stairs. The house creaked the way old houses do when everyone’s trying not to be heard. I decided to do what Henry suggested and get an early night. So I showered off in the en-suite, got into my comfy PJs as there wasn’t anyone here to laugh at me about that anymore, then stripped back the duvet from my bed. I was about to dive in when the window crashed open and a shape tumbled through.

I gasped, the sound catching sharp in my throat.

A figure hit the floor. Hard.

“Jesus—” I lurched back.

The shape moved. Groaned. Then lifted its head.

Razor.

He looked as if he’d crawled out of a war zone. Blood smeared down one side of his face, hoodie torn, dark patch blooming over his ribs. His eyes darted up at me through wet lashes, unfocused, hollow.

“Don’t—” His voice cracked. “Don’t scream.”

“As if I would.” I dropped to my knees beside him before I could think. “Christ, what happened?”

“Walked into a door.” He tried to laugh but it came out a cough. “Fuck, that hurts.” He winced. “Need a minute.”

“You need more than a fucking minute. You need an ambulance,”

When I reached for my phone, he shot his hand out, catching my wrist, grip still iron. Then it slackened. He looked past me, somewhere far away. “No. Please. Just give me a minute. Maybe a plaster. And some paracetamol. Then I’ll go.”

There’s this myth about people like me. Mayfair blood, silver spoon, no instinct for street smarts. But I knew exactly what I was looking at. He’d been stabbed and in a fight with people who would follow him to A&E and finish the job. So he’d bleed out before he let anyone see him weak. And, yes, he needed a hospital, but he wasn’t in any frame of mind to deal with what would happen when he got there. Men like him didn’t get treated; they got questioned, cuffed, contained.

I couldn’t stomach the thought of it.

So I did the reckless thing. The human thing. The stupidly inevitable thing. I slid an arm around him and his weight sagged into me, solid and trembling, heat bleeding through the fabric between us. He smelt of rain and iron and adrenaline.

“Come on.” I guided him towards my bed. “Lie down.”

His breath brushed my neck, shallow and uneven. And I told myself this wasn’t about wanting him. It was about keeping him alive.

Even if the two felt dangerously the same.

“Just need to wash off,” he said. “Don’t…don’t call anyone.”

“Razor—”

“Please.” He looked at me with those eyes. The same look he’d had when he’d said sorry. And it undid every sensible thought I’d ever had. “You got a shower?”

I was suckered in. And I led him into the en-suite where he leant against the tiles, fumbling with his hoodie. The fabric was stuck to him and when he finally peeled it off, the sound tearing from him made me wince. Underneath, his body was a brutal canvas of colour. Bruises bloomed across him in shades no human skin should wear. Purple spreading into maroon, red smearing around blackened edges. Angry, messy, cruel. Someone had done this recently.

But it was the gash stealing the breath from my lungs.