Chapter 17 Tristan
Chapter seventeen
Tristan
I spent the rest of the day clearing out Benji’s things.
Did it much the same way I had Ollie’s. By lunchtime the hallway looked as if a skip had exploded through it. Clothes, books, the mug he never washed. All of it in bin bags stacked by the front door, waiting for whatever car or van the Rothwells would send once the gossip reached them.
It already had, of course. Word travelled fast in our circles.
Zara and Henry were both home. Henry on a study day, having locked himself in his room for most of it, reading journals or whatever while Zara finished her afternoon of lectures.
By evening, we ordered pizza, opened wine, Henry and Zara sat together on the sofa and me on the loveseat, pretending we weren’t watching the front step every time a car slowed outside.
The first message came while we were mid-slice. Benji, of course.
I can explain.
Then, when none of us replied: You’re all snakes.
Zara barked a laugh over her phone. “Honestly, he’s one tantrum away from a daytime drama.”
“He’ll end up starring in one,” Henry said, not bothering to look up as he flipped a page in his medical journal. “Probably shirtless. Definitely misdiagnosed.”
“Hopefully syphilis,” I muttered. “He’d suit the aesthetic.”
Henry huffed. “Please. That would require commitment. This is more…deranged method acting.”
“I wouldn’t even want him landing that role.” I took a long sip of wine. “Too much realism.”
“Hopefully he’ll get cast in something that gets cancelled after two episodes and a lawsuit.” Zara tipped her glass towards me. “You can draft the claim, darling.”
I snorted. “Won’t need to. He’s a walking litigation risk. He’s chasing a scandal before he’s even had a job.”
“He’s certainly compiling enough background material for when he is famous.” Zara sank back into the sofa, her leg nudging Henry’s. He went pink around the ears. I pretended not to see.
Pretence was practically our fourth housemate.
Zara sighed, reaching for her wine again. “All we can hope for now is that the Rothwells have forgotten to cancel their monthly Fortnum they got questioned, cuffed, contained.
I couldn’t stomach the thought of it.
So I did the reckless thing. The human thing. The stupidly inevitable thing. I slid an arm around him and his weight sagged into me, solid and trembling, heat bleeding through the fabric between us. He smelt of rain and iron and adrenaline.
“Come on.” I guided him towards my bed. “Lie down.”
His breath brushed my neck, shallow and uneven. And I told myself this wasn’t about wanting him. It was about keeping him alive.
Even if the two felt dangerously the same.
“Just need to wash off,” he said. “Don’t…don’t call anyone.”
“Razor—”
“Please.” He looked at me with those eyes. The same look he’d had when he’d said sorry. And it undid every sensible thought I’d ever had. “You got a shower?”
I was suckered in. And I led him into the en-suite where he leant against the tiles, fumbling with his hoodie.
The fabric was stuck to him and when he finally peeled it off, the sound tearing from him made me wince.
Underneath, his body was a brutal canvas of colour.
Bruises bloomed across him in shades no human skin should wear.
Purple spreading into maroon, red smearing around blackened edges.
Angry, messy, cruel. Someone had done this recently.
But it was the gash stealing the breath from my lungs.
It ran diagonally along his side, shallow at the top but ripping deeper as it tracked toward his ribs.
Blood pulsed from it in sluggish, heavy beats, sliding over his tattoo as if the snake were slithering through the mess, jaws open, feeding on the spill.
He looked like violence given shape. Violence barely holding itself upright on my bathroom tiles.
My chest twisted. Panic, fury, something else tender.
Because he’d broken into my house like this.
He’d come to me.
I turned to grab towels, but he shoved down his jeans, stumbling into the shower cubicle in his underwear.
Water thundered to life. The steam rising quick, fogging the mirror.
The first hit of heat made him flinch, then he bowed his head under it.
For a moment he looked almost peaceful. Serene.
Water streaking down his back, pinked with blood and spiralling into the drain.
And despite the bruises, despite it all I stood there watching him.
Mesmerised by him. How stunning he was. How brutal and ripped and…
His knees gave out.
“Razor!” I caught him before he hit the tiles, full weight collapsing onto me.