Page 79 of Claim

“No.” My voice sounded rougher than I liked. “First I heard.”

“That’s intentional.” She adjusted her gown across her shoulders. “You don’t need forewarning to do your job here. Your job is to sit, listen, and say nothing unless addressed.”

Mercer slid a single page onto the bench beside me. “Bail application. Renewed. Material change in circumstances.”

Tristan stood close enough I could see the faint crease between his brows. Close enough that his scent reached me through the starch and wool. Familiar, intoxicating, wrong in a place like this. I’d had my face buried against his skin often enough that my body recognised him before my head caught up.

It made it harder to stay still.

Harder not to reach for him. Not to close that last inch of space and remember what it felt like to have him within it.

I kept my hands curled in the cuffs. Kept my weight firmly on the bench.

Because there were a lot of things I wanted in that moment.

And none of them were allowed.

“This isn’t about innocence,” Imogen continued. “It’s about risk. The state placed you in foreseeable danger and failed to protect you. That failure now outweighs the justification for remand.”

“They’ll use the incident against me,” I said.

“Yes,” Imogen replied without hesitation. “And we will say they created it. If bail is granted, it will be strict. Curfew. Electronic tag. Approved address only. No contact with named individuals. No devices except those cleared.”

I nodded once.

“Tristan.” Imogen glanced at him.

He stepped forward, close enough for his presence to press into my awareness even when I didn’t look at him. He cleared his throat.

“We’ll do the talking. It’s important you don’t react, don’t interrupt, don’t try to help.”

I lifted my head properly then, met his eyes from where I sat slumped on the bench.

He held my gaze. Professional. Steady. Then, “Let us handle this.”

That nearly did me in. Him, taking over. Being the hardball.

Sorta turned me on, too. Though I kept that to myself.

Imogen straightened. “Time.”

Mercer gathered the papers, and Tristan waited until his and Imogen’s backs were to us, then mouthed only to me: “I got you.”

Jesus.

All I could do was nod.

Then he was gone.

The black sweep of his robe vanished through the doorway, and the room hollowed out around me, air rushing in where he’d been standing as if something vital had been pulled free. Then the next thing I knew, I was led out by the guards into the courtroom, guided to the dock, uncuffed but locked inside it.

Glass in front of me.

Wood beneath my palms.

I sat with my hands folded, eyes forward, posture neutral, as the room filled by degrees. Papers whispered. Chairs scraped. Somewhere above, the public gallery murmured itself into silence, the sound flattening under expectation.

And there he was.