Page 125 of Claim

If he pushed me away, I’d take it.

If his family walked in, fuck it.

If this whole place collapsed on top of us, at least I’d have this.

But he didn’t push me away. He kissed me back. Sliding his hands up my neck, pulling me closer, as if the waiting had killed him too. The kiss didn’t last long, though. It broke into something quieter. Messier. And I buried my face into the warm space beneath his jaw, his arms tight around the back of my neck, and we stood there, in the middle of that vast, perfect house, holding each other.

No words.

No audience.

Him in my arms and the solid, living proof that he was okay. And the way he held me back, not out of politeness or obligation, but because he wanted to. Needed to? That did me in.

I sniffed, sharp and stupid.

“Hey.” Tristan stroked his hands up and down my neck. “It’s all right. Honestly. They’re not that frightening.”

I pulled back enough to look at him. He smiled as if choosing lightness on purpose. I fucking loved him for that.

“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.”