Page 50 of Crave

“But you suspected?”

“They were…aligning.”

“Jesus, Henry. What the fuck does that even mean? And why not tell me?”

“Because you’d have told me to butt out. You like evidence, remember? You don’t like me saying someone looks as though they’re a wrong’un. You’d want a full report with exhibits. You’re a bloody lawyer, Tristan. It’s why when you noticed his location pinging out east, I called the cab immediately. Provide us both with the proof.”

Annoyingly, he had a point. But still…

“Besides.” Henry snapped his first aid box shut and stood. “Benji’s off his face half the bloody time. He probably thought he was fucking both of you.”

I nodded, chewing on that. “Is he in?”

“No, he’s off again. Some travelling showcase thing with his theatre group.”

“Right.”

“I’m throwing some pasta on. Want any? Zara’s out with the girls. Could be a boys’ night in. Bit like Harrow again.”

Not quite like Harrow. Henry had gone off those nights now girls were allowed in.

I tried to smile, but my face ached too much to manage it. “Think I’ll get my head down. Long day.”

“Right-oh.”

He gave me one last look, that mix of worry and patience only Henry could manage, before heading back to the kitchen. I lingered on the stairs a little longer, listening to the hiss of boiling water and the faint clatter of Henry moving around the kitchen, domestic sounds that used to mean safety. Now they made me feel like a fraud. My lip stung, my jaw pulsed, and under the hum of it all, Razor’s voice echoed in my head. Dirty, pretty boy.

Why wasn’t I telling Henry? My oldest, steadiest friend. The person who’d patched me up more times than I cared to admit, who’d seen every version of me and stayed? I wasn’t sure. Not really. But the reasons I could name, the ones I could bear to look at, all sounded worse the longer I sat with them.

For starters, Henry would go straight to the police. Of course he would. Duty, instinct, family training, take your pick. An attack on “our sort” would go from a street scuffle to an official incident within the hour. Someone in his family almost certainly sat on a Met oversight board or shared a members’ lounge with half the senior brass. Which meant reports. Statements. A file with my name stamped across the top.

And once there was a file, my father would know.

Charles Hale-Fitzroy KC didn’t miss things like that. A violent incident involving his son? He’d have the CPS loop him in before the ink dried. He’d demand to see CCTV, push for charges, call in favours from the Home Office if he felt it “necessary for public safety.” And Razor, whatever he was and whatever world he came from, wouldn’t stand a chance. Not against my father. Not the full weight of a prosecution designed to make an example of him.

I wasn’t blind to who Razor was. Dealer. Enforcer, maybe. Someone who lived by rules I didn’t pretend to understand. But the idea of him being hunted, cornered, destroyed because of me? It sat wrong. Lodged somewhere deep in the part of me I tried to ignore.

Why?

Because if I told Henry…

I’d never see Razor again.

And the truth I didn’t want to look at, the one crawling under my skin, was that I already wanted to. Whether I found anything out for him or not.

The second reason was simpler: Razor had told me not to.

And somehow, against all logic, that meant something.

So yes. It was complicated. Excruciatingly so.

I showered in my en-suite, scrubbing hard enough to sting, trying to wash off the night. The alley, the taste of him, the part of me that hadn’t fought back. All that massage and eucalyptus oil had been replaced by a memory far seedier and far more seductive. But I killed the light, slid into bed, and told myself not to think about his mouth.

Or his hands.

Or the sound of his voice when he said my name like a mating call.

But the harder I tried, the more it came back. The heat of his breath, the rough press of his lips against mine, the kiss I hadn’t offered but already knew I’d crave again.