Page 27 of Protected By Razor

“You are going to remember my face. You are going to remember this apartment. You are going to remember that you put your hand on her. And every night for the rest of your life when you close your eyes I want you to see me. And I want you to know that I let you live. Because I don’t want Darcie to have to see me kill a man. Do you understand me?”

His mouth moves. Nothing comes out.

“Do you understand me.“

He nods. He’s crying. I don’t care.

I drop him.

I am breathing like I’ve run a marathon. My hands are shaking. My knuckles are split to the bone and I can’t feel them. There is a sound somewhere behind me that might be my name.

“Razor.”

Her voice. Shaking. Quiet.

“Razor. Stop. Please. Stop.”

I turn.

She’s still against the wall. Her jumper is pulled at the collar. Her hair is across her face. Blood on her chin. She’s looking at me like she’s trying to reach me through glass.

“He’s done,” she whispers. “They’re both done. Stop. Please.”

I look down at my hand. It’s red to the wrist.

I unclench my fist. I take one breath. Two.

“Darcie.”

She takes one step toward me and her legs buckle.

I catch her before she hits the floor.

I slide down the wall with her. I end up sitting on her kitchen floor with my back against the cabinets and her in my lap, one of my arms around her shoulders and the other already in her hair, and I am shaking and she is shaking and somewhere behind me the first man is making small wet sounds and I do not give a single fuck about him any more.

“Let me see,” I say. “Baby. Let me see.”

She tilts her face up.

Her lip is split at the corner. It’s already swelling. The mark on her cheekbone is going to be a proper bruise and there’s a scrape along her jaw from where he shoved her into the wall.

I look at my hands. They are covered in someone else’s blood. My knuckles are split to the bone. These are not hands that should be touching her.

I touch her anyway.

I wipe my right hand on my jeans first — useless, it doesn’t come clean, but I do it anyway — and then I lift it very slowly and I put it against her cheek, and I feel her lean into my palm like it’s the only warm place in the room.

“I’m sorry,” I say. I don’t know where it comes from. “I should have been here. I should never have left you. I’m sorry.”

“Razor?—”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay.”

“I’m okay.“ She presses her face harder into my hand. “Look at me. I’m okay. You got here.”