Page 119 of Claim

“I know it was ill-advised to get involved with him from the start. I know it was reckless. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t go looking for it. And honestly, I believed it would fade out. That whatever it was between us would burn itself out and I’d go back to my life. I waited for him to be the person in that file and for me to realise he was nothing more.” I gave a weak, humourless breath. “But he is more. And every time I saw him, he showed me who he really was. And my feelings grew. Quietly. Persistently. Now it’s too late to pretend it isn’t real.”

I met my father’s gaze then, holding it despite the ache everywhere else.

“I didn’t fall in love with Razor. Not the man in your files. Not the accumulation of charges and statistics and carefully chosen language. I have fallen in love with Richie. The man I know. The man who holds me and the world quiets a little. Who kisses me as if I’m something to be cherished, not spent. Who looks at me and tells me I’m beautiful as though it’s simply a fact, self-evident, not an act of mercy.” I glanced down at my hands. “That’s who I love.”

My father remained quiet. And I understood it. There was so much in there he shouldn’t know. That could damage everything for him. And yes, I felt guilty about that. I did. But I couldn’t deny my feelings.

“The same way you loved Oliver Montgomery?”

I snorted. “No. Very much not. This, with Rich, this is real. Ollie was…convenient. This, how I feel about Rich…I can’t help it. If I could, I would have walked away. He is, as we can both agree, anything but convenient.” I looked up at my father, tilted my head, softening my eyes. “You think distance will make this go away. That if you put enough conditions around him, the risk evaporates. But it won’t.”

“I think allowing you anywhere near one another right now would hand the men at the top exactly what they want.” He stood, came closer to the bed, lowering his voice. “You are a witness. He is a defendant. Whatever you believe your relationship to be, the law will not interpret it kindly.”

I closed my eyes. “So what? I lie here and you pretend he didn’t save me?”

“I am not blind to what he did for you.” He adjusted the drip at my wrist, brushing his thumb over wires and tape unconsciously. “I am not unmoved by it. I am your father. I am profoundly grateful that you are alive. But I am also entangled in this thing. I know exactly who is at the top of it. And if you want justice, real justice, then this cannot go anywhere else.”

“And meanwhile, what’s happening to them?” I pressed. “The men at the top. The ones who actually did this to me. Who controlled and threatened Razor?”

“They are not going home, if that’s what you mean.”

Something cold and steady settled in my chest. “Dead?”

The word tasted wrong the moment it left me. If they were dead, if Razor had killed them, then everything shifted. Murder. Manslaughter. Charges he couldn’t walk away from. A future he couldn’t outrun.

“Remanded,” my father said sharply. “Violence on that scale? Weapons? organised crime? The court has very little appetite for risk.” He inhaled. “They are known perpetrators. This is the first time there has been something concrete to hold onto. And in a way”—his voice lowered—“that is also down to him.”

I swallowed.

“With them unable to leave the warehouse, with witnesses, evidence preserved at the scene, the narrative didn’t move. It held. They will not be seeing daylight for some time.”

“So when do I get to see him?” My ribs ached as I shifted, the question pressing harder than the pain. “Richie.”

He held my gaze the way he used to, back when a look from him could still end an argument. “That is a question I cannot answer right now.” He swiped the hair from my forehead like a father might. “You concentrate on getting better. We will transfer you for proper care. Then you will come home. With us. And we will look after you while this case runs its course. There will be no negotiations.”

I didn’t have the strength to argue, even if I’d wanted to.

The door opened, a doctor slipping in with a familiar, efficient air. A syringe. A quiet explanation I barely caught. More medication, no doubt—Henry’s influence written all over it. And as it entered my bloodstream, the world softened at the edges.

By the time my father’s hand squeezed mine once, firm and final, I had already drifted back under.

Chapter twenty-one

Razor

Six months. That was all it took for my life to empty itself out and refill with different shapes.

“Think of the lie-ins.” Lennon came up behind me, cheerful in the way only someone who was finally getting rid of me. “Got to be better than waking up with twins bouncing on your bad ribs, right?”

I snorted. For the past six months, that was exactly how I’d woken. Baby twins. His baby twins. Amara and the boys had eventually come back to their own place, which had left me on the fold-out in the living room, waiting for my life to restart. Or end. Or rebrand itself into something I could live with. And six a.m. with twin boys launching themselves onto my chest and demanding I fix whatever toy they’d broken overnight wasn’t something I’d miss.

And something I very much would.

“You’ve lived in worse.” Lennon stepped past me, dropping the last box onto the narrow kitchen counter. Kettle. Mugs. The stupid plant he’d insisted on. He’d done most of the heavy lifting, if I was honest—calls, forms, chasing people who didn’t return them unless your name still carried weight. Mine didn’t anymore. That was the point.

“I’ve also lived in better.” I eyed the tiny room. “South of the fucking river, mate.”

“And west,” he shot back. “They’ve shoved you so far out you’re officially someone else’s problem.”