Page 89 of Corrupt

“Hi.” Tristan stopped a careful distance away, as if proximity itself might be a mistake. He looked different in running gear. And it made the ache under my ribs flare sharp and stupid.

“Sorry to just…” I gestured vaguely at the door, the building, him. “Turn up but…”

The words died before they made it out. Because the truth sitting in my head was too honest to say out loud.

I need you.

I don’t know where else to go.

The world I live in has finally caught up with me.

“I’ve not heard from you.” He checked his phone as if it might suddenly light up with all the messages I should’ve sent.

“No.” My voice came out rough. “I’ve been away.”

He lifted his gaze. “Away where?”

“Somewhere I couldn’t take my phone.”

He bowed his head, nodding once. He didn’t ask for more. He didn’t need to. Pupil Barrister Tristan Hale-Fitzroy, according to his business card still in my car, would understand exactly what that meant. No GPS. No trace. No evidence I’d existed anywhere for days at a time.

A thug, doing what thugs do.

He folded his arms, hugging himself, and I saw the war play out behind his eyes. Duty versus instinct, sense versus the part of him caring far more than he wanted to admit.

“Why are you here?”

I could’ve lied. I was good at that. I could’ve deflected. Flirted my way past the tension. I could kiss him. Carry him upstairs and bury myself in him, the way we’d been doing to each other for a while now.

But I couldn’t.

Instead, I did the one thing that felt vaguely honest.

I rubbed a hand over my face, feeling suddenly exposed. “I’ve been running on fumes. Needed somewhere quiet for five minutes. Somewhere that ain’t… everything else.”

I met his gaze then. Held it. He said nothing.

“If that ain’t okay, I’ll go.”

I meant it. That was the difference between the Razor I’d been this past week and the man standing on Tristan’s doorstep.

The silence stretched, thick and loaded.

Tristan let out a breath, dropping his gaze to the step between us. He didn’t look at my face. He looked at my shoes. My hands. Taking in the tension coiling through me I hadn’t even tried to hide.

Then he looked at me. “You look wrecked.”

“I feel it.”

He held my gaze. Long enough for the fragility to surface. Then he moved, skirting past me as if proximity itself was dangerous. As if he didn’t trust himself not to reach out. I caught his scent as he passed. Salt and sweat from the run, soap underneath. Clean. Alive. Everything I wasn’t right now. And I stepped closer without thinking. To be near him. He unlocked the door, hesitated, and I saw the fine hairs lift at the back of his neck, the way his body reacted before his head caught up.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Wait here.”

Then he slipped inside, leaving the door ajar by a few inches.

I could’ve followed him. But I didn’t. I stayed put. Listening to his footsteps up the stairs to his flat, the sound grounding and unbearable at the same time. I waited, bracing myself for him to come back down with an apology and a firm no. I would have taken it. I’d told myself I would.

Then the door opened again, and he held out a small rectangular card. “Go put that on your car.”