Page 57 of Claim

I knew exactly what this was. A petty delay. A quiet reminder of who controlled the doors. I had other meetings today. Other files. Other obligations. None of them mattered. I would sit here until they brought him up, or until the walls fell in around me. Eventually, movement outside the door caught my attention. Shuffling. Keys. Low voices. And through the narrow window, two officers escorted a prisoner. Head down. Hands cuffed in front. Grey sweats. Nothing distinctive at first glance. Nothing more than another body being moved from one place to another.

Yet my heart kicked hard enough to make me swallow.

I forced myself still. Forced everything I was feeling back into the narrow lane of professionalism that hadn’t yet collapsed under the weight of this case.

Then the door opened.

And fuck.

Razor was wrecked.

Bruised. Swollen. Blood dried and smeared dark into his skin, cuts half-cleaned and congealing. His face was a map of damage, one eye so puffed I wasn’t sure he could see out of it properly. His T-shirt was torn, stained with red and flecks of what looked like food. And he didn’t walk so much as shuffle, as if every step was pain and his body no longer trusted itself.

This was worse than the last time. Significantly.

One officer spun him sharply towards the chair, grip firm and unnecessary. Razor sucked in a breath, pain flashing clean and bright across his face.

I stood without thinking.

Every instinct in me screamed to tell them to stop. Be careful. Leave him alone. But I said nothing. Then the cuffs came off. Metal clinked. Final. And the officers nodded at me. I returned it, curt and controlled, and they stepped back out, the door closing behind them. But not all the way. Waiting. Watching. Razor lifted his head. Or tried to. And his eyes found me. Or I hoped they did. It was hard to tell through the swelling.

So much for fixing my hair.

“Jesus,” I breathed out.

Razor limped towards the chair opposite and lowered himself into it carefully, jaw set to hide the pain that must have cost him. And in that moment, watching him manage his body as if it no longer quite belonged to him, professional distance finally cracked. Whatever they’d done to him in here hadn’t been incidental. It had been deliberate.

And it wasn’t over.

I sat, keeping my eyes on him and searched for words belonging in a legal conference but found none of them would do. Not for this. Not for him.

Then Razor pointed to the empty chair beside me his voice, when he spoke, was rough as if scraped raw and unused in days. “Where’s the other bloke?”

I forced myself back into work. “He’s not needed today.”

“Why not?”

“He’s the solicitor. His work happens outside these walls. I’m counsel. I deal with the court. That’s why I’m here.”

Razor swallowed and held my gaze as best he could through the swelling around one eye. It might have been relief. Or maybe resignation. As if he thought the absence meant someone else had abandoned him. So I glanced down at the file, trying to clutch onto the detached professionalism I needed that would mean I could do this job cleanly. Which was to get this man out of here. Out of danger.

But that already thin thread had frayed.

I couldn’t bare for him to think no one cared. That I didn’t care. And Lennon’s warning pressed achingly at the edges of my mind: “Give him a reason.”

I closed my eyes.

Then—fuck it.

I stood and went to the door, rapping once. When it opened, I kept my voice measured. “Could we have some water, please?”

I received a muttered response. Then a pause. Then a plastic cup appeared with another. I took them, closing the door again with a soft finality, then set a cup down in front of Razor. His hand shook as he reached for it. And I watched him lift it, the way his fingers struggled to grip, and couldn’t bear it anymore. So I rummaged in my bag, pulling out the small cloth I kept for cleaning my screens, then dipped it into my cup.

I paused for a moment, contemplating the risk versus the need.

Then I stepped around the table and stood next to him.

I cupped his face gently. Carefully. And I felt him freeze before he leant into it, into me. Allowing me to clean him. His skin was hot beneath my palm. Too hot. And familiar. And when he peered up at me, I could see those eyes hidden beneath the swelling and cuts and bruises, and my heart twisted. I knew exactly how inappropriate this was. I knew the rules. The risks. The consequences. But in this moment, the law felt very far away, and the human cost sat right in front of me, bleeding and breathing and tearing me in two.