Page 89 of Claim

“How so?”

“Other people might not want it. Not once they see the names on your file. And if they do take it, they might not give you the best of themselves.”

His eyes searched mine. “And you would?”

“Not just would but can. There are things my name gives me. Access. Leverage. And a very well-cushioned safety net my father built, whether I want it or not. It makes me harder to lean on. Harder to threaten quietly. To freeze out. Another junior with no backing, no institutional weight, no family shadow? They could be pressured. Sidelined. Reassigned. Or scared. Especially with Wolfe in the background.”

He tightened his grip on my neck.

“And I won’t be,” I finished softly.

“So you’re not saying you’re the best. You’re saying you’re… difficult to manipulate?”

“Exactly. Though I’d probably argue I was also the best.”

A slow smirk tugged at his mouth. “Modest.”

I reached up and kissed that smirk. “It’s honesty. Not modesty.”

“Really? So are you this hard for all your clients?”

I tilted my head, letting my gaze travel down the brutal line of him before returning to his eyes. “Only you. My other clients get my semi.”

Razor laughed. Then he shifted, pushing himself up to sit, pulling me with him. He kissed me. And he stayed there, mouth warm and certain, before drawing back and resting his forehead to mine.

“Always had a thing for men who don’t scare easily.” He ran a thumb over my lips. “Especially when they’re as pretty as you.”

I felt my mouth curve, wanting to swoon at the compliment, but then I winced.

“Then this can’t happen.” I looked down. “Not again.”

He held my face, then nodded once and let me go.

Which was perfect timing as vibrations rattled the walls as the front door opened and closed downstairs. Razor stood and dragged his jogging bottoms back into place. I did the same with my suit trousers. We dressed with less haste than we’d undressed. Sliding back into our reality. And Razor straightened the room without really doing anything to it. Tugged the sheet smooth. Righted a pillow. As if order could undo what we’d done or protect us from it. I slipped my coat back on.

He went to the door, closing his fingers around the handle.

Then he stopped.

Turned back to me.

For a moment he stared. Then he reached out and swiped the lapel of my coat, wiping away a spec that wasn’t there. A ghost-touch. An excuse.

“Before we…” He dragged a hand over his face, palm to brow, as if fighting with himself about whether he should even speak. “Can I ask you for something I know I shouldn’t? That you should tell me to fuck off when I do. That I don’t deserve and you shouldn’t give?”

I lifted an eyebrow. “You answering for me before you’ve asked?”

His eyes met mine.

God, they were wrecked. Stripped. No armour left in them at all.

He chewed his lip, then, “Can you… not be with anyone else?”

The words were quiet. Bare. But they hit me harder than anything he could have said. I blinked, completely wrong-footed.

He shook his head immediately, as if trying to take it back. “I know it’s a lot. I know I don’t deserve to even ask it. I know I should tell you to go find someone clean. Someone safe. Some posh boy who takes you to dinner and holds your hand down the street and fits into your life without burning it.” He scratched his head. “But… while this is happening. While this case is hanging over me. I know it could be months. Longer. And I know that ain’t fair. I know that.” He glanced down at the carpet, and his voice went very quiet. “But…I don’t think I’ll survive this if I’m in a room with you knowing someone else has had their hands on you.”

The honesty of it was brutal.