Page 91 of Corrupt

“Know what what is?”

“This.” He gave a vague gesture. “This thing. Us. I know what this is to you.”

I tilted my head. “Do you?”

He hesitated, then peered at the floor. To his lovely, nice trainers. “I know what it isn’t.”

“And what ain’t it?”

He looked up then, as if he’d found his courage in the cruel reality of it all. “It isn’t holding hands in the street. Nor is it Sunday lunches and introductions to the family.”

“And you want that?”

He laughed under his breath. “Fuck, Razor—”

“Don’t.” The word came out fierce.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t call me that.”

He froze. Waited. Then, “What do you want me to call you?”

Good fucking question.

I took a breath, almost rising off the sofa. Then resigned myself to letting me out for a bit. “Razor’s a street name. A thing that grew out of blood and fear and bad choices I didn’t get to opt out of. I earned it the day I cut a man who nearly raped my mum and had his eyes on my sister next.” I flexed my hands, knuckles aching, memory biting. “It’s a name people use so they don’t forget what I’m capable of. And they shouldn’t. I ain’t a nice man out there.”

“I know—”

“But there’s still three people who remember who I was before all that. Who call me Rich cause they remember the tearaway kid with scraped knees and grass stains on his school trousers. The one who patched Keeley up when she fell off her bike, cause Mum was too wasted to care. And the boy who stayed out too late kicking a ball with Lennon because neither of us wanted to go home. And when they call me Rich, I remember who I was. Who I am. Can still be. I don’t want to lose him completely.”

Tristan blinked. Clearly not expecting all that. Neither had I, to be honest.

“The people who call me Razor are the ones I want afraid of me.” I drew a breath. “Are you afraid of me?” I asked the same question I’d asked him all those months ago, when I couldn’t understand why he’d walked on my path. Why this pretty boy, this beautiful fucking specimen, had looked at me as if I were human.

He thought about it, though.

“Sometimes.” He shrugged.

“Have I given you a reason?” I flapped a hand. “Ignoring when I punched you.”

“You also blindfolded me, kidnapped me and dragged me into a cupboard.”

“Yeah.” I chewed my lip. “Ignore those, too.”

A breath of laughter escaped him. But his expression sobered. “You may not have raised a hand to me. Well, since that first time. But it doesn’t mean I won’t get hurt.”

“But that’s not Razor you’re afraid of.” I swallowed hard. “That’s me. Rich. The one who don’t know how to do this without fucking it up. Razor hurts people on purpose. Rich does it by accident.”

Tristan waited a moment, then set his water bottle down beside him. “And Sunday? That was Rich?”

“Yeah. Cornered. Panicking. So I let Razor take over.”

He reached out and slid a hand on my forehead, stroking his thumb along my temple, catching me completely off guard. “Must be crowded up there.”

I held his gaze. “There’s only room for one at a time.”

Tristan let his hand go. “And when you’re with me?”