Chapter Thirteen Razor #2
Mercer gathered the papers, and Tristan waited until his and Imogen’s backs were to us, then mouthed only to me: “I got you.”
Jesus.
All I could do was nod.
Then he was gone.
The black sweep of his robe vanished through the doorway, and the room hollowed out around me, air rushing in where he’d been standing as if something vital had been pulled free.
Then the next thing I knew, I was led out by the guards into the courtroom, guided to the dock, uncuffed but locked inside it.
Glass in front of me.
Wood beneath my palms.
I sat with my hands folded, eyes forward, posture neutral, as the room filled by degrees. Papers whispered. Chairs scraped. Somewhere above, the public gallery murmured itself into silence, the sound flattening under expectation.
And there he was.
In front of me.
Robe. Wig.
Tristan.
For a while, nothing else reached me. The room blurred at the edges as if my vision had narrowed deliberately, cutting away everything that wasn’t him. I took him in the way you take in a shoreline after weeks at sea. Proof of solid ground, proof you’d survived long enough to see it again.
The prosecution rising snapped me back to the proceedings.
“Your Honour. The Crown opposes this application. The defendant is alleged to be a senior figure in a large-scale drugs conspiracy. The seriousness of the offences alone justifies continued remand.”
I stared at the glass. Let the words slide.
“The incident in custody demonstrates precisely the risk we have raised from the outset. That this defendant is prone to violence and unable to regulate his behaviour.”
If I were honest, the bloke wasn’t wrong. But he was wrong about why.
“The Crown also notes the potential for interference with witnesses and the clear likelihood of further charges.”
Imogen rose. “If I may, Your Honour. Seriousness alone is not a bar to bail. Nor is unparticularised reference to ‘potential’ charges. The prosecution has had ample opportunity. None have materialised.”
She glanced towards the CPS.
“As for the incident relied upon, this was not spontaneous violence. It was the foreseeable consequence of a placement decision taken in full knowledge of existing intelligence. My client did not create the risk. The state did.”
Then, Christ.
Tristan stood. “Your Honour.”
The sound of his voice cut straight through me and I lifted my head fully, eyes locking onto him, unable to look anywhere else. This was the only way he could touch me now. With words. Control. And the law placed carefully between us.
“Yes, Mr Hale-Fitzroy.” The judge peered at him over his specs.
Tristan inclined his head. Calm. Contained. Beautifully steady.
Beautifully him.
“I address the custody incident relied upon by the Crown.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried.
As if he understood exactly how to make a room listen.
“The prosecution invites the court to infer future risk from an event that occurred entirely within the state’s control.
That inference cannot stand. The risk was known.
The placement decision was made, regardless.
What followed was not evidence of criminal propensity; it was evidence of a failure in risk management.
To detain him further on the basis of that failure is not protective. It is punitive.”
The courtroom went still. Not a shuffle. Not a cough. Even the air seemed to hold. And Tristan finished with a brief nod and sat back down, as if he hadn’t reached across a system built to crush men like me and forced it to hesitate.
My chest felt too tight. I dragged air in through my nose and fixed my face into something neutral, something that wouldn’t give me away.
I didn’t properly understand half of what he’d said.
That language wasn’t made for ears shaped by streets and cells.
But I understood the gist. I got that he’d stood up and told them I wasn’t what they’d decided I was.
That I wasn’t just risk and violence and inevitability.
I didn’t know why that hit so hard, why it twisted sharp in my gut and set my heart skidding, but I knew no one had ever done that for me before. No one had ever stood up in a room like this and said I was worth something other than containment.
And Christ, it hurt.
Not because it was painful.
But because it was the first time I believed it might be true.
The court went on. Something about conditions. Imogen answered crisply. Approved address. Curfew. Electronic tag. No contact. Restricted devices. The CPS objected weakly. Risk. Optics. Seriousness.
The judge nodded. “I will adjourn briefly. Ten minutes.”
My heart slammed so hard it hurt.
They took me back down. Another bench. Another locked door. Time stretching itself thin. Then, when they brought me back, the judge was seated.
“Mr Slade,” he looked directly at me for the first time, “I am satisfied that bail conditions can adequately manage the risks identified. Bail is granted.”
For a second, I didn’t breathe.
“Strict conditions will apply. Any breach will cause immediate remand. Do you understand?”
I had to clear my throat to speak. “Yes, Your Honour.”
Still, the guards owned me. They moved for me straight after. Routine. Efficient. The machinery of it resetting around the decision. But before they turned me fully away, I risked one last glance across the courtroom. At Tristan.
He was watching me.
There wasn’t anything on his face that anyone could fault.
Nothing that belonged in evidence. But his chest rose, as if he’d been holding his breath the same way I had and was letting himself take air for the first time since he’d stepped in here.
Then his gaze shifted. And whatever he saw made his face close down.
Not fear. Not shock. Something colder. More alert.
And he looked away from me, gathered his papers, straightened his robe and switched on the professional again.
I followed his line of sight.
Public gallery. Third row back. Immaculate suit.
Legs crossed. Hands resting loosely in his lap as if waiting for a train, Lord Wolfe watched not me and my life tilt on a judge’s pen, but Tristan.
And in that second, with the courtroom still and the decision ringing in my ears, I understood how this hadn’t been about whether I got bail. This had been about who won the room.
And Tristan had.
He left the courtroom, and I got turned towards the door then, the guard’s grip firm around my arm. But as I walked out, heart crashing into my ribs, one truth settled hard and sure in my chest: This wasn’t over. This was just the last wall before I got to reach for Tristan again.
And Wolfe was standing on the other side of it.