Page 95 of Corrupt

I hovered uselessly. “You…know how to fix this stuff?”

He twisted a bolt. “I was dragged up in a council gaff where stuff breaks. All the time. And when you ain’t got no money, or staff, you either learn to fix it or you live without.”

He went back to work.

And I stood there watching him.

I’d always known there were layers to him. Beneath the brute force and reputation there was a man who knew how to do things. I just hadn’t realised how I would feel seeing it.

Useless.

And…absolutely smitten.

So I forced myself to move, opening windows, coughing as dust rose into the light. Shook the sofa covers out in the garden. Wiped down surfaces that hadn’t been touched in years. Behind me, metal clinked softly. Water ran, then stopped. And every so often Razor called for something. A cloth. A torch. A towel. And I brought it. We moved around each other easily, trading tools, brushing hands. I watched him fix the leak with a strip of rubber and reset the fuse with a muttered curse ending in a satisfied grunt when the lights held.

He crouched at the boiler, coaxing it back to life.

“Least we might get a warm shower,” he said, straightening his back.

By the time the cottage felt less like a mausoleum and more like somewhere a body could exist, the afternoon had thickened into heat. The sun pressed in through every uncovered window, heavy and relentless, turning the air syrupy and bright.

“Come on.” I headed for the back door.

The garden sloped away into long, untamed grass and hedgerow, opening out onto a narrow wooden deck reaching straight into the lake. The water lay dark and glassed over, broken only by the shimmer of sun across its surface and the slow drift of green beneath.

Razor dropped onto one of the old loungers with a faint groan and dragged his sweat-drenched T-shirt over his head, then kicked off his trainers and socks. I stepped onto the warm boards of the deck, the heat of the day still stored in the wood and looked out over the water. It sparkled deceptively, bright and inviting.

So I stripped down to my underwear and angled my head at the lake. “You coming in?”

Razor pushed himself up on his elbows, staring at me as if I’d suggested we jump off a cliff. “You’re joking.”

“No.”

He gave me a look that said I’d lost my mind, then dropped back onto the lounger instead, bare feet, bare chest, dark jeans riding low on his hips. Fuck knew why that sight still hit me so hard, but it did. My attention snagged helplessly on the familiar sprawl of ink across his skin. The serpent at his side, the poisoned heart over his chest. Sunlight caught on muscle and scar alike, and warmth uncoiled low in my stomach.

I didn’t give him time to see what he was doing to me.

I dived.

The lake closed over me in a cool, shocking rush, the world turning instantly dark and soundless. When I broke the surface again, I gasped, slicking my hair back, skin alive with cold.

Razor sat up.

Watching me.

“You’re missing out.” I splashed water in his direction.

“On hypothermia? Or whatever Victorian-era disease you can catch from open water.”

“Fun?”

He snorted.

I shrugged and swam a few lazy strokes, letting the cold work its way through me. We’d had a pool at the Mayfair house. I’d spent whole afternoons in it growing up, gliding back and forth to quiet my thoughts, to feel my body instead of my head. I’d swum in rivers and lakes too. Port Meadow when I was at Oxford, mostly. Early mornings. Cold water. I missed it.

I surfaced near him and braced my arms on the edge of the deck. “Come on. It’s a lake, not your canal.”

“Still looks like shit floats in there.”