Page 64 of Crave

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.”

I inhaled so hard the air felt sharp, then reeled off the conversation between my housemate and my then boyfriend from a couple of weeks ago. The words scraped the inside of my throat.