Page 107 of Claim

But it meant I knew the sounds. The way pain changed a man’s voice. The moment begging tipped into primal fear. I’d listened to screams echo off concrete walls because someone was late with a payment, or skimmed a percentage, or got careless. I’d seen men dragged out afterward, shaking and bleeding, swearing it would never happen again. Then Doyle would wash his hands, make himself a cup of tea, grab a copy of the Metro, and the world would keep turning. I’d hated those days. There weren’t many of them, but they’d stuck. Embedded.

I thought I was prepared.

I wasn’t.

Nothing could’ve prepared me for walking into that room and seeing him like that.

My Tricky.

Tied to a chair in the middle of the space, still in his court gown, head slumped forwards. Blood slicked his chin, dark against white, his breathing shallow and wrong. Blindfolded. He was lined up for the same treatment I’d watched hard men break under. The same blow. The same lesson.

And behind him stood Doyle.

Calm. Unhurried. Rifling through a toolbox laid out on a trestle table, weighing his options as if choosing which condiment to slather over his fish and chips.

My insides tore loose.

“Lay one fucking finger on him,” I pointed right at Doyle, “and I’ll gut you alive.”

It was a stupid threat. I knew it even as it left my mouth. Me in a borrowed brown suit, ankle tag biting into my skin, with only a snapped toothbrush as if it was anything more than a joke. Almost funny, really. Cause that joke was definitely on me.

But I meant it.

“Razor…” Cormac’s singsong voice drifted in from my left.

He was as calm as anything. There in his farmer’s get-up of flat cap, tartan coat and wellington boots, reminding me of his other hobby. Not farming. No. Feeding pigs. “Nice of you to join us.”

“Let him go.”

Cormac laughed. Doyle joined him.

Then Tristan lifted his head and my heart slammed so hard it knocked the breath clean out of me. Alive. He was alive. Bruised to fuck. Blood split across his lip. But conscious. Though he couldn’t see me through the blindfold, my voice must’ve cut through whatever they’d done to him and shock flared across his face, sharp enough to break through the pain. His breathing hitched, as if he’d been crying. Or was about to. And fuck…I wanted to give him everything in one look. Tell him I’d get him out. That I’d burn the whole fucking world down if that’s what it took.

But he couldn’t see me.

So just like that night when it’d been me covering silk over his eyes, and me taking everything while he trusted what he couldn’t see, all I had was my voice.

“You alright, Tricky?”

His throat worked as he swallowed.

And fuck—yeah, that nearly broke me.

Cormac tilted his head, amused. “Listen to him, Niall. Our boy thinks he can make orders.” He rolled his eyes, dismissive, as if I were some mouthy kid turning up late and pretending I didn’t stink of smoke and bad decisions.

“Ain’t an order.” I held his gaze. “It’s a promise.”

Doyle snorted and picked up a pair of pliers from the table, wiping them on his jeans as if drying cutlery.

“One fucking finger.” I jabbed mine towards him, my voice cracking off the beams overhead. “Touch him, and I will come for you.”

Doyle cocked his head, curious. Almost amused. Then he lifted the pliers, raising his eyebrows as if to say these aren’t fingers. I could have killed him for that. That fucking dare. But he took a step closer to Tristan, sliding a single fingertip onto Tricky’s shoulder. He flinched, and Doyle left his rotten digit there on my man to test me.

I wanted to gut him.

Split him open and watch the realisation hit.

But I didn’t move.