Chapter Thirteen Razor
Chapter thirteen
Razor
I was halfway through my push-ups, shirtless in only boxers, when the door went and Dent stepped inside my solitude.
I didn’t stop. If they were moving me again, they could wait until I hit the hundred. So I shifted my weight and did the last few one-armed to make a point.
Seg hadn’t broken me yet.
Until Dent said, “You’re up for court.”
Then my arm gave out, and I landed flat on the floor, breath punching out of me, palms burning on the concrete. For a second I stayed there, face to the ground, as if it might explain what the fuck that meant.
“Court?” I pushed up, dragging air back into my lungs. “When?”
“Few minutes. Get ready.”
I looked down at myself. I was a sweaty, stinking, disgusting mess. Three hours of squats, pull-ups, sit-ups, push-ups had done its worst. The cell stank of metal and body and effort.
“Can I shower?”
Dent laughed. “No.”
Then he stepped out and shut the door.
Shit.
I scrubbed a hand over my hair, stiff with salt. Typical. Hauled up for court right after I’d worked myself into a state. Normally I wouldn’t have cared. I’d walked into worse places looking worse than this. But court meant lawyers. My lawyers.
Which meant Tristan.
If he was going to see me today, I didn’t want the first thing he noticed to be how much this place had taken from the man he was fighting for on the outside.
So I turned to the tiny, stainless-steel piece of crap sink that spat out only cold and splashed water over my face and body, gasping at the temperature.
I dragged my fingers through the worst of the sweat, using the thin prison soap and working up what little lather it would give, then scrubbed under my arms, across my neck, over my collarbones.
No mirror. Had to go by feel.
I then rinsed off and grabbed a paper towel.
It was rough and mostly useless, but I pressed it to my skin anyway, blotting at my chest, my hair, doing what I could with what I had.
Then I brushed my teeth hard enough to sting, gums burning, spit hitting the sink with a dull echo.
Rinsed. Again. Pulled on my standard-issue grey joggers and the white T-shirt they’d finally let me switch into after the last one had crusted dark with blood.
It was too small, stretched tight across my shoulders and chest, clinging to my bulk as if chosen for that exact reason.
Probably had.
Walk a man into court looking like a problem and half the work’s already done. Let the fabric do the talking. Let the judge clock the size, the shape, the threat, and think twice about letting someone like me back out onto the street.
In this place, nothing was accidental.
I hadn’t heard a word from the outside. Not from Tristan. Not even from Mercer. This was the first I knew of any movement beyond these walls. Fuck knew what strings they’d pulled to make this happen, or what it would cost. Fuck knew if it would even work.
But it was something.
And right now, something was all I had.
The keys came again, and Dent returned, another screw with him. No small talk. No warning. Cuffs out.
“Hands,” Dent said.
Cold metal closed around my wrists and I stepped back automatically, letting them do it. The door opened, and I was walked out, through the seg corridor, past doors I didn’t look at anymore, right into the search room.
I hated this part.
The room was bare. A bench was bolted to the wall, a drain in the floor, and nothing else. The door shut behind me with a final, echoing thud. Dent stayed. The other guard took up position by the door.
“Standard procedure,” Dent said, as if it was an apology. “Strip.”
I did. One item at a time. Tee. Joggers.
Socks. Everything folded and placed where they told me to put it, even though it wouldn’t matter in a minute.
This was about compliance. Reminding me that no matter what I’d scrubbed away in my cell, no matter how human I’d tried to make myself, they still got this part.
After, Dent said, “Get dressed.”
I pulled the clothes back on, hands shaking and pissing me off. The cuffs went back on immediately after. Control restored. Then they marched me out, through another gate, another corridor, down to transport.
The van waited.
Metal. Plastic seats. A cage welded into the back like a mouth.
They locked me in; the door slamming shut, and the engine kicked over.
As my mobile prison moved, I leant my head back against the cold metal wall and shut my eyes. I didn’t let myself hope. Hope was a luxury that came with interest. Hope led to missteps. Disappointment. Things cracking open that needed to stay sealed if I was going to survive this.
But no matter how this played out, one thing was true.
I might get to see Tristan again.
Not the version my head tortured me with at night. Not the memory that softened when it wanted to ruin me. The real one. In the flesh. Breathing the same air.
My heart did a treacherous leap.
The van slowed, then jolted to a stop. Doors clanged open. Metal on metal. Keys rattling, voices sharp and clipped. And with my hands still cuffed, they dragged me out and marched me inside, where Woolwich Crown Court swallowed me whole.
Right. This was serious shit then.
This wasn’t some local nick or quick hearing. This was where they brought the heavy cases. Organised crime. Conspiracies. The ones they’d already decided were dangerous before a word was even said. This was where people like me disappeared into the system and had to fight like hell to get back out.
They took me straight down to the holding cells beneath the courtroom.
Another bench bolted to a wall. Another locked door.
Another place designed to make me feel temporary and owned at the same time.
The guards stayed outside, and I sat with my head bowed, wrists cuffed in front of me, resting my forearms on my thighs, my leg bouncing out of control.
I couldn’t stop it. Nerves were finding their way out however they could.
So I stared at the floor and waited.
When the door opened, a voice I didn’t recognise cut in. “Mr Slade?”
I lifted my head.
A woman came in first. Black robe. White wig set neatly over dark hair. Glasses low on her nose. “I’m Imogen Barrett KC. Your senior counsel.”
She filled the space without trying and Mercer followed behind her in a suit, files tucked under his arm.
“You already know Mr Mercer.” Imogen gestured to him. “And Mr Hale-Fitzroy.”
Then Tristan walked in. Robed.
And for a second, my brain stalled.
Black fabric fell clean from his shoulders, white bands stark against his throat, hair set neatly. He looked taller somehow. More distant. The version of him belonging to courtrooms and judges and rules I’d never be allowed to break without consequence.
I’d seen him naked.
Had kissed every inch of him.
I’d never seen him like this.
And the air left my lungs in a single, silent rush. I had to lock my jaw to keep it from showing, curling my hands into fists in the cuffs as my pulse slammed hard enough I was sure the whole room could hear it.
Christ.
I’d known we were from different worlds but right then, that realisation spat right in my face. There wasn’t a version of me that belonged anywhere near a man who was born to wear that court gown and wig.
He gave me a small smile, though. Polite. Controlled. A nod that said client, not lover. My mouth went dry instantly.
Fuck.
He was so far out of my league it hurt. Standing there immaculate and untouchable, while I’d scrubbed myself with a shit bar of soap and pulled on the same joggers I’d worn all week.
I didn’t let the thought spiral. Couldn’t let it turn into something soft or useless.
But it lodged in my throat anyway, sharp and unwanted.
“This will be brief. We’re on in minutes.” Imogen looked at me directly. “You didn’t know this was happening.”
“No.” My voice sounded rougher than I liked. “First I heard.”
“That’s intentional.” She adjusted her gown across her shoulders. “You don’t need forewarning to do your job here. Your job is to sit, listen, and say nothing unless addressed.”
Mercer slid a single page onto the bench beside me. “Bail application. Renewed. Material change in circumstances.”
Tristan stood close enough I could see the faint crease between his brows.
Close enough that his scent reached me through the starch and wool.
Familiar, intoxicating, wrong in a place like this.
I’d had my face buried against his skin often enough that my body recognised him before my head caught up.
It made it harder to stay still.
Harder not to reach for him. Not to close that last inch of space and remember what it felt like to have him within it.
I kept my hands curled in the cuffs. Kept my weight firmly on the bench.
Because there were a lot of things I wanted in that moment.
And none of them were allowed.
“This isn’t about innocence,” Imogen continued. “It’s about risk. The state placed you in foreseeable danger and failed to protect you. That failure now outweighs the justification for remand.”
“They’ll use the incident against me,” I said.
“Yes,” Imogen replied without hesitation. “And we will say they created it. If bail is granted, it will be strict. Curfew. Electronic tag. Approved address only. No contact with named individuals. No devices except those cleared.”
I nodded once.
“Tristan.” Imogen glanced at him.
He stepped forward, close enough for his presence to press into my awareness even when I didn’t look at him. He cleared his throat.
“We’ll do the talking. It’s important you don’t react, don’t interrupt, don’t try to help.”
I lifted my head properly then, met his eyes from where I sat slumped on the bench.
He held my gaze. Professional. Steady. Then, “Let us handle this.”
That nearly did me in. Him, taking over. Being the hardball.
Sorta turned me on, too. Though I kept that to myself.
Imogen straightened. “Time.”