Jude kept his mouth shut. Because that was safer. Because if he spoke, the words might crack and give Callum exactly what he wanted. He tried not to hear him. Tried to let the words slide off, meaningless. But Callum’s voice had lived in his head for years. Had burrowed so deep it still found the raw seams, even now. Every syllable was a scalpel, slicing at scars never fully healed.
If he stepped back, analysed it the way he made his students analyse history—essay plan, bullet points, balanced argument—the question would be brutal in its simplicity:How did the Southeast major crime police network bring down Worthbridge’s biggest crime operation?The answer:By using a nobody. A man too easy to manipulate. A man who fell in love with one of them.
Just as he had with Callum.
Jude’s stomach turned. He remembered the early days. The charm, the heat, the illusion of safety. How being with Callum had felt like a shield against loneliness. Of the crushing weight of silence. Better to have someone than no one. Better to have Callum’s lies than live on the street. He’d convinced himself it was love. That Callum might even love him back.
But love had become a leash. Safety had turned into a cage. And by the time he saw it for what it was, it was already too late.
History repeats.
The thought pressed in, heavy and suffocating. He could be making the same mistake all over again. Warren wasn’t Callum, he knew that, but the echo still whispered, low and insidious:He used you. Got what he wanted. He’ll leave when this is over.And maybe he would. Maybe once this op was wrapped, Warren would walk out of his life without so much as a thank you, leaving Jude with nothing but the echo of his touch.
Even so—Jude would take it. Because Warren had been worth it. Worth the risk of opening the door a crack. Of letting someone see inside again. And if nothing else, if Warren left tomorrow, at least Jude had learned he could still feel this. Still trust faster than he used to. Still believe, even for a moment, that not everyone who reached for him meant to break him.
Fixing his eyes on the road unfurling ahead, he watched the sea keeping pace beside him, a smear of ink on the horizon. Restless, crashing over the cliffs below, its roar muffled by steeland distance. Beside him, Callum lounged as if they weren’t heading into the lion’s den, bouncing his knee in a ceaseless rhythm of arrogance. They’d promised him Callum hadn’t managed to warn Radley. Promised the gang wouldn’t know. Promised Jude’s wire was a secret. But Callum had always found ways to worm around promises, twisting them into knives Jude never saw coming. And once they stepped into that cliff-top palace, glass and stone glowing like a beacon, it wouldn’t be officers at his back.
It would be Callum.
And a room full of men who’d tear him apart if he faltered.
The driver said nothing, eyes locked to the tarmac. The officer in the passenger seat checked his watch, then the mirror. “Two minutes.”
Jude’s throat tightened. He shifted, collar stiff where the wire clung under his shirt. Every breath seemed to echo back at him through the device.
Callum caught his fidget, lips curling. “You’ll give yourself away if you keep twitching like that. Radley smells nerves a mile off.” He leaned closer, dropping his voice to a mockery of intimacy. “You always were a shit liar, lamb. And I ain’t gonna be taken down cause you can’t stop shaking.”
Jude forced his gaze out the window, away from Callum’s grin. The coastline blurred. Jagged rocks, white froth, the vast sea stretching to nothing. But Callum was right. He couldn’t stop shaking.
Then Callum reached over. Took his hand. Laced their fingers.
Jude looked at him.
Callum traced lazy circles over Jude’s knuckles as if it were tenderness. “You’ll give yourself away if you keep twitching like that.” His mouth edged closer, voice pitched low. “Remember your tattoo? When I inked you? You were trembling worse thanthis, till I held your hand. Then you stilled. Took it. Became mine.” He chuckled, soft but cruel. “Always needed me for the hard things, didn’t ya, lamb? You did better when you let me guide you. Like when we first met, you’d have had your mouth around that geriatric prick if I hadn’t held your hand and led you out. I was your knight then, wasn’t I, Curls? Me.”
Jude’s stomach clenched. The memory was sharp as a blade, the buzzing needle, the sting of ink, the way Callum’s fingers had locked around his like a shackle disguised as comfort. He told himself not to bite, not to let Callum’s voice inside his head again. But the words still burrowed, dragging up every crack in his armour. Warren would hear all of it through the wire. Hear Callum rewinding Jude’s past and dressing it in chains.
Jude fixed his eyes on the dark smear of sea through the glass, forced his breath even, and held his silence as the car slowed. Up ahead, Radley’s house clung to the cliff like a dare. All glass walls and pale stone floodlit so the entire coast could see its edges cut into the night. Music and chatter bled out through the open terrace doors, the gardens strung with light, the pulse of bass carrying on the salt air.
The car rolled into the sweep of the drive. One of the plainclothed officers swung the back door open. Jude stepped out, collar tight around his throat, the wire beneath his shirt burning. Callum followed, stretching loose and casual, as though he were walking into a bar he owned instead of the lion’s den.
“Chin up.” Callum leaned into him. “Smile. You’re looking like a lamb heading to slaughter.” He laughed.
Jude didn’t.
Inside, the house throbbed with heat and money. Sharp suits with collars open, chains glinting gold on tan skin. Designer loafers clicking on polished concrete. Women poured into bodycon dresses and tailored jumpsuits, all heels and handbagscosting more than a teacher’s yearly wage. Diamonds and fake lashes caught the light, perfume hanging thick enough to choke.
The glass walls framed the black churn of the sea, but no one was looking outside. Tables gleamed under strips of powder left out in plain sight, cards and notes already dusted. Deals were struck in low voices, baggies sliding across surfaces with less discretion than spare change. And Callum cut through it like water, nodding at men Jude didn’t recognise, clasping hands with others who looked as if they’d slit throats before they shook them. He didn’t falter, didn’t slow, just carved a path through the noise until the crowd thinned at the far side of the open-plan room.
And there he was.
Graham Radley.
Not holding court centre stage but sunk into a low leather armchair in the shadows, a tumbler of whisky dangling loose in one hand. He didn’t need to move; the room moved around him. Laughter rippled where he glanced, voices hushed when his eyes swept past. His stillness carried more weight than all the noise combined.
But it wasn’t Radley stopping Jude cold.
It was the woman standing before him.
