Page 17 of Corrupt

“Speak out of turn again, and instead of eating that bloke’s dick, you’ll be eating my floor.”

Tyler moved in behind me instantly. Ready to break it up, or back me up, whichever way I swung. But I pressed harder. Making the point land. Elliot’s breath cut off, and he clawed at my arm, eyes wide. Sadly, I was gone. Feral. Deadly. That’s who he’d released. The monster I kept chained under my ribs. And he didn’t know how close he was to making that chain snap.

“I will gut you right here,” I whispered, voice low as gravel. “If you ever, ever, question how I do things. Are we crystal?”

He couldn’t speak. Could barely even nod. All I had were his eyes. And right then they were shouting yes. Maybe even a yes, sir.

So I released him and stepped back.

He dropped like a cut rope, hitting the floor hard, clutching his throat and gasping.

“Now,” I adjusted the too-tight polo glued to my ribs, “I gotta go see a man about a dog.” I yanked him up and tapped his cheek. “Get us all another wad of cash in our rockets.”

Then I moved around him, grabbed the door, and yanked it open.

But before I stepped out, I paused.

Tyler watched me, eyes narrowing in a way I didn’t like. Elliot wheezed against the wall while the screen behind me showed the ghost-trail of Tristan crossing the restaurant in my shirt.

I shut the door behind me.

And as I started down the stairs, hand tight on the rail, a nasty twist tightened in my chest.

I’d lost my temper.

I’d lost focus.

And all because of a man who shouldn’t have meant a thing.

The Firm didn’t tolerate cracks. Men like me didn’t survive them. But tonight, for the first time in a long time, I felt one forming. And I wasn’t sure how much more pressure it would take before the whole thing broke.

Chapter FOUR

Tristan

I stepped out of The Velvet Lounge and stood there like an idiot, not sure what the hell I should do next.

It hit me then. The pathetic truth of it. Because I was waiting. For instruction. For him. Like some obedient, kept thing who didn’t know where to walk unless a hand pushed me there.

Utterly stupid.

I’d spent years hacking at the silver shackles of my family, trying to carve out independence molecule by bloody molecule, only to discover I actually wanted shackles. Just those of a very different kind.

Razor’s.

Christ.

I was in an absolute daze.

Eight months of wondering if he was dead. Of swinging between fury and grief. Drowning myself in alcohol and watching my friendships slide through my fingers because there was only ever one person in my head. Then tonight, he’d been real.

Alive.

Breathing.

Thriving.

That did things to me.