Page 112 of Claim

“No.” I gripped him tighter. “Stay with me. Don’t you fucking dare leave me.” I bent my head, brushing my lips into his hair. “I’ve got you, baby. Hold on. Ain’t letting you drown either!”

The sirens faded, then flared again. Somewhere else, redirected. A helicopter overhead too. Tyler took a hard left, then another. Shortcuts. Side streets. He drove like a man who knew London well enough to survive it. Minutes stretched thin and vicious. Then the hospital lights rose ahead.

“Pull in,” I snapped. “Right up to A&E.”

Tyler skidded into the drop-off bay.

I kicked the door open and hauled Tristan with me, shouting before my feet even hit the ground. “Gunshot wound! Help!”

Staff moved instantly. Scrubs appeared. A trolley slammed forward.

I laid Tristan down only when hands replaced mine, when pressure was transferred and I physically couldn’t hold him anymore.

“He’s been conscious. Fading,” I said fast. “Bullet’s still inside. I packed the wound, fabric, no exit that I saw.”

“Okay, okay,” someone said. “Step back, sir.”

I didn’t.

They tried to pull me away. I resisted until a nurse locked eyes with me. “If you don’t let go, you’re killing him.”

That did it. My hands came away, slick with blood. Shaking now that I’d stopped moving.

Tristan’s eyes fluttered open once more as they wheeled him back. Found me. “Richie…” Barely sound. Barely there.

“I’m here.” I kept pace with the trolley, not letting them lose me. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right here.”

I meant it. Right up until they blocked me. When hands pushed my chest and the doors swung shut between us. Silence hit like a fist to the ribs. Until blue lights flooded the bay. Doors burst open. Boots on concrete. Armed officers spilling in, voices sharp and cutting through the air.

“Hands where we can see them!”

Fuck.

I froze for half a second, then threw my hands up, dropping to my knees before they could force me there. Compliant. Easy. Like I’d learnt.

But the worst part?

It looked like I’d lied to him.

I wasn’t staying.

I was going somewhere, alright.

Straight back into a cell.

Chapter nineteen

Razor

Turns out if you show up bleeding, half-adrenalined and shaking hard enough that even the filth notice it, they have to look you over first. Hospital protocol. Duty of care. All that shit.

Didn’t mean I wasn’t under arrest, though.

But I wasn’t in a cell. Yet.

Cause I’d stacked up a fresh list of offences on the way here. Firearms, assault, whatever else they’d throw at me. Blown straight through my bail conditions as if they were tissue paper. And I had police escorts the whole way in. Two of them. Hands cuffed in front because of my injuries, not kindness.

Funny thing though, that ankle tag going mental might’ve been what saved Tristan’s life. Pinged my location. Flagged movement. Drew attention.