Chapter Twenty-One Razor #3
“I know this isn’t ideal.” He swiped an imaginary speck from my shoulder. “But this is the way it has to be if we…want it another way another time. So…let’s get it over with.” Then, with a tilt of his neck, he tugged gently on my lapels. “Quite like you in this.”
“Anything you don’t like me in?”
“Prison.”
That wiped the smile clean off both our faces.
I let out a hard breath. “Yeah. Same.”
“Lucky you’re not then.” Though he winced. “But you may wish you were in about five minutes.”
Before I could say anything else, Tristan took my hand.
Not tentatively. Properly. Fingers laced, palm warm in mine, no pause to see if I’d pull away. It sent a jolt straight through me. I’d held hands before, sure. But not like this. Not in a place like this. Not with a man like him, guiding me forward as if proud of me at his side.
He didn’t let go as he led me into the drawing room.
Low light pooled around an open fire, flames licking up polished stone. Soft voices. Expensive furniture arranged in quiet, deliberate comfort. His family was already there, seated and standing in loose clusters, glasses in hand, waiting.
And fuck.
I was absolutely gonna fuck this up royally.
Tristan’s voice shifted as we stopped inside the room. Measured, calm, courtroom smooth. But his grip on my hand stayed firm.
“May I introduce you all to Mr Richard Slade?”
They stood almost as one.
Champagne flutes caught the firelight. A couple of heavy tumblers.
Gin, I guessed. Everyone was beautifully put together in that effortless way screaming old money and no apologies.
My gaze snagged on the older man in the tailored suit first. Tristan’s father.
He met my gaze. Stern. Assessing. Then, after a beat, he nodded and stepped forward with his hand out.
“Mr Slade.”
Tristan released my hand so I could shake his. His grip was firm, practiced. Mine was unpractised. I wasn’t used to shaking hands unless I was trying to prove a point.
“Rich,” I blurted. “Uh—call me Rich.”
“Very well. Then call me Charles.” He gestured to the woman beside him, elegant in a deep burgundy dress, hair immaculate, expression warm but assessing. “My wife, Victoria.”
She smiled and shook my hand, and Christ, my palm was damp. I hoped she didn’t notice. Or at least would keep it to herself.
“Welcome to our home. You really are quite handsome. Can see why Tristan likes you.” She smiled, though there was a hesitation in it.
Didn’t fucking blame her.
Another man stepped forward then, smart trousers, open-neck shirt, jumper slung casually over his shoulders as if he’d never worried about a dress code in his life.
“Marcus.” He offered his hand. “Tristan’s brother. Welcome, Rich.”
Fucking hell.
“And this is my wife, Eloise.” He drew the woman beside him forward, and only then did I notice the tiny baby strapped to her chest in one of those papoose things Keeley had never quite figured out.
She was glowing. Patterned dress. With the baby sleeping against her, one small fist curled under his chin.
I shook her hand carefully, unsure where to put my eyes with the baby wedged between us.
“It’s lovely to finally meet you,” she said warmly. “Keeley talks about you constantly.”
Ah. Right. This one.
“Yeah?” I snorted. “She mostly just… talks. Full stop.”
Eloise laughed, brushing her fingers over the baby’s downy head. “She’s very popular at Rosewood House.”
“I’ll bet.”
Marcus glanced down fondly at the small bundle against Eloise’s chest.
“And this,” he adjusted the sling so I could get a proper look at the little bundle, “is Arthur.”
I couldn’t help it. I lifted my hand before my brain caught up and stroked the backs of my fingers over the baby’s head.
Softly. I’d always liked doing that when Maisie had been born.
When she’d been all fragile and warm and impossibly small.
Something about it had felt… different. Something I didn’t come across much in a life built on hard edges and bravado.
“Hey, little man.” I then clocked Tristan looking at me all funny. Sappy-like. So I cleared my throat and straightened. “So, you’re an uncle, too?”
“Guncle.”
I snorted.
Then Tristan then reached out and tugged a younger girl to his side, slinging an arm around her shoulders. “And this is my little sister, Amelia.”
She was about Keeley’s age but might as well have been from another planet. Riding trousers, fitted top, boots still on, hair pinned back. She took my hand firmly as if taught it in school.
“Hi. Nice to meet you.”
Before the silence could stretch too far, the housekeeper appeared like a saviour, offering a silver tray of drinks. I glanced at Tristan.
“G no one could eat it all. Tiny portions. Perfect presentation. Food looking as though it had been arranged with tweezers.
Still didn’t stop it making my stomach twist.
All I could think about was how the cost of all this, this single meal, could’ve fed a family in my old tower block for a month. Easy. Probably longer. Some injustices never got their day in court, no matter how many men in suits sat around tables like this one.
I’d about wrapped my head around that when the main arrived.
And with it, the reason I was here.
“So.” Charles’ voice cut cleanly through the hum of conversation. “Richard.”
I swallowed a mouthful of whatever I was eating and shook my head. “Rich. Richard was my grandad’s name. Always hated it.”
He tilted his head, intrigued perhaps. “Your grandfather?” He picked up his wine. “What did he do for a living?”
I took a sip of wine to buy myself a second. “Worked the docks.”
Charles nodded, as if pondering that answer and finding it… acceptable.
Better than a drug dealer, I supposed.
I didn’t tell him how Grandad Richard used to skim from businessmen and let shipments through for a few quid on the side. Family trade, that. My nan had slapped him silly every time she found out, but it never stuck.
I kept that to myself.
The table settled into a careful quiet, everyone suddenly very interested in their plates.
And I had the sinking sense that the polite part of the evening had ended because Charles set his cutlery aside and rested his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers over his mouth, not in thought so much as intention.
The movement alone shifted the atmosphere.
Even the fire seemed to lower itself. Conversation elsewhere died completely.
Even Tristan drew in, subtly, his shoulder brushing mine.
I reminded myself I’d stood opposite men with guns. Men who’d buried bodies. Men who’d decided whether I lived or didn’t before breakfast.
This was just another man.
Come at me.
“I imagine,” Charles said eventually, “that you are somewhat uncertain as to why you have been invited to join us this evening.”
I glanced around the table.
Victoria tapped her delicately manicured nails on the stem of her crystal wine glass. Marcus sat close to his wife, a moses basket behind them where the sleeping baby, milk-drunk and happy, slept away, each of them fussing with the blankets.
Then I looked at Tristan next to me.
He lifted one corner of his mouth. For me. A small, private encouragement.