Chapter Thirteen Tristan #3
Without breaking eye contact, he pulled a white T-shirt from the back seat.
Then he turned and dragged it on. Fuck. It fitted him as if cut for sin.
Simple, clean, and somehow better than anything hanging in a Bond Street window.
The deep V framed his chest, fabric stretching over carved muscle, sleeves gripping tight around his biceps.
And he let it drop just enough to tease the trail of hair disappearing into his jeans.
He didn’t have a body. He had a weapon.
And I surrendered to it.
He looked at me and his jaw flexed. For a second, something shifted beneath that hard expression.
Not embarrassment, exactly. More like discomfort at being seen.
Admired. As if he could feel the heat between us and didn’t know where to put it.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t anger or rebound or lust and the afterburn of an alleyway mistake.
It was inconceivable, sure. But also, uncontrollable.
I don’t think he liked that one bit.
“Get out.” He shouldered the door open and stepped out.
I followed, cool air rushing in to replace his scent, and I peered along the closed off lane, narrow and claustrophobic, hemmed in by the backs of buildings and bins overflowing with city rot. His car sat across it, blocking the way.
I glanced down the alley. “You’ll rack up quite the fine parking here.”
“Do I look like I give a fuck about parking fines?” He rounded the car, opened his boot and took out an ankle length leather jacket. He slipped it on.
“You might when they send the bailiffs.”
“Private education don’t teach you everything, then, eh?” He slammed the boot, meeting my gaze. “If you think this car’s in my name, you have a lot to learn, posh boy.”
So many offences in one sentence.
So much allure, too.
I was living my dissertation. And failing the ethics module spectacularly.
He angled his head. “Come on.”
The Champion’s Arms was on a corner plot, all polished brass fittings, stained-glass windows, dark wood walls smelling of wax and whisky.
Men in cashmere and women in diamond earrings, laughing in tight circles, voices smooth and educated.
The air was heavy with perfume and money, the clink of crystal against laughter sharp as glass.
As we entered, Razor scanned the room in a single sweep, posture loose but alert.
I could almost hear his thoughts. Assessing exits, lines of sight, the crowd density.
Every movement was deliberate, predatory.
Watching him was like watching instinct dressed in muscle and leather.
Then he leant in close, warm breath trickling down my neck. “You see him?”
I looked at Razor. He had his gaze locked on a table at the back.
The usual table, I should know. Where Ollie and his rowing mates, all button-down arrogance and easy smiles, were laughing around pints.
Razor wasn’t asking me to point him out.
He didn’t need me to. He’d already found him, learnt what he looked like from the photos in my room and stored it to memory.
It was as impressive as it was terrifying.
“Yeah.” I kept my gaze on Ollie laughing, pint in hand.
Razor nodded towards a shadowed corner. “Go wait over there. Don’t let him see you yet.”
I obeyed. Stupidly. Instinctively. As if something in me had already learnt to follow his lead. I slipped into the nook he’d pointed out, half-hidden behind a column, shadows pooling in the corners. Dim light. Close air. Nowhere to look but him.
Razor disappeared into the crush at the bar, swallowed by the hum of voices and the gleam of glass.
When he came back, two bottles in hand, he stepped right in front of me.
The pub was crowded, sure. Three deep at the bar, laughter and conversation pressing from every side.
But the space between us was tighter than it needed to be.
He didn’t leave room to breathe, and I couldn’t tell if it was deliberate or not. Tactic or instinct. Predator or man.
He passed me a bottle. “Watch him.” He lifted his beer to his mouth, eyes sweeping the room. “Tell me if he moves.”
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure he saw. Then a group pushed past us, laughter spilling too loud, and an accidental shove sent Razor into me.
Hard. His hand flew out to hit the wall beside my head, catching his weight before he crushed me completely.
But the damage was done. His body pressed to mine, heat bleeding through fabric, breath ghosting my skin.
I was pinned, caught in the solid press of muscle and strength, nowhere to move.
Nowhere I wanted to, either. Then he looked down, eyes locking on mine, and he was so close I could see the flecks of gold glinting through the velvet brown like light catching on broken glass.
Every nerve burnt. My pulse went feral. And in that split second, I couldn’t tell if he meant to hurt me or kiss me.
Only that either would’ve felt the same.
Razor straightened, but his eyes betrayed him by sweeping down to my lips, lingering there, and he lifted his bottle, taking a long swallow, throat working as he stared at my mouth.
And right then, I’d’ve given it over to him.
I’d offer every scrap of whatever it was I was worth to have those lips wrapped around his beer bottle devouring me again, just to see what he’d do with me once he had all of me.
The spell broke with a crash, glasses clattering, chairs scraping. The rowing team. Ollie was on his feet.
“He’s moving.” I nudged my chin in Ollie’s direction.
Razor glanced over his shoulder. Ollie broke away from his mates, heading for the stairs at the back, the ones leading down to the basement level, to the toilets and fire exit.
Razor set his bottle down on the ledge behind my head. “Come on.”
He moved fast, cutting through the crowd.
I followed, pulse hammering, but Razor’s focus never broke.
He hit the basement door hard, shoving it open so the sound cracked down the narrow stairwell.
Ollie was reaching the men’s when Razor caught him with a fist in the back of his jacket, jerking him off balance.
The shock in Ollie’s voice barely formed before Razor dragged him down the corridor, shoes skidding on the tiles, half shouting, half choking, probably thinking this was some twisted rowing club prank gone wrong.
But Razor didn’t stop. Using his forearm, he slammed through the fire exit and hurled him out into the yard, a square of slick concrete boxed in by high brick walls and industrial bins.
I ran out, the door swinging shut behind me, sealing us in that tight, dim space. Razor, Ollie, and me. And the night suddenly felt too small to hold what was coming.
Ollie tried for bravado with a scoffing laugh, brushing himself down. But the fear was there, raw and animal, twitching behind his eyes. Then he saw me. “Tristan? What the fu—”
“You address me.” Razor stepped into him, slamming his forehead against Ollie’s.
Bone met bone with a sharp crack cutting straight through the night.
Not quite a headbutt, but more a physical shove of superiority.
A way of telling him Ollie didn’t own his body then, it was Razor’s to move as he wanted.
Not the way he’d pressed his forehead to mine.
Not for closeness. This was dominance. A pure show of power.
A reminder of exactly who owned the air.
Razor did.
Ollie went rigid. “Sorry, I— Do I… do I know you?”
He tried to glance over at me, even with Razor’s forehead pinning him in place.
Typical. Entitlement made flesh. He thought proximity to me equalled protection.
That my presence here meant negotiations, mercy, a way out.
He probably believed I’d brought Razor along as leverage. That my name still bought him safety.
“Tris?” he whispered, eyes pleading.
And God, he made my skin crawl. Because he still hadn’t realised I wasn’t the one he should be begging.
Razor shoved him, hard. “Did I not make myself clear?” The bins behind him shuddered, metal echoing through the yard like a gunshot. “You talk to me.”
“Yeah, yeah. Okay. Fuck. Yes.” Ollie tried to gather the shards of the polished arrogance he’d paraded all night. “Who are you? What do you want?”
Razor stepped in close, dropping his voice to nothing more than a rasp. “What you fucking stole from me.”
Ollie straightened, attempting disdain but falling short. “I can assure you; there’s nothing of yours I’d want.”
Razor stepped back. A short, humourless laugh left him. He wasn’t amused. Anyone with eyes could see that. Beneath it, I saw the calculation set in. Felt the fury coil. The patience of a man deciding when, not if.
Jesus Christ.
Ollie really did have a death wish. Too privileged to understand danger when it stood breathing in front of him. Too arrogant to see that I wasn’t here to defend him. That no one was.
He still thought this was about me. About us.
He had no idea what was coming.
“Fuck’s sake, Ollie.” I could feel the heat of my own anger. The entitlement. The smug limitlessness. Had he always been like this, or had I not seen it through the things I wanted?
Razor then wiped at his nose, then reached into his back pocket and withdrew a phone. He woke the screen, scrolled once, then held it out to me. “Read those.”
I took the phone and recognised it immediately as Benji’s.
The one taken from him outside The Yard.
My stomach tightened as the screen lit up to a WhatsApp thread between Benji and Ollie.
Banter dressed as bravado. Posh slang. Careless jokes.
But the meaning underneath was ugly and plain.
Every message lodged like a stone in my gut; whatever pity I’d felt evaporated with each bubble.
Razor glanced over his shoulder at me. “Out loud. Like you would in a courtroom, Master of the law.”