11
“You’re still not supposed to have knives.”
Shit. Kit had already shared too much today. He trusted both men far more than was sane or reasonable, but he felt too exposed. The shattered pieces of his story were getting hard to keep track of.
“None of your business,” Darius said coolly. Which Kit would usually appreciate. Holden didn’t know about the attempted contract killing by Smith. He didn’t need to know.
But Holden knew about Dad. He knew about the photos Kit found. If Kit didn’t explain now, Holden’s imagination would go to far darker places.
Mind racing, Kit tried to remember what bits and pieces he’d told Holden and Darius.
Would it be so bad to tell Darius everything?
Panic slammed so hard Kit’s vision darkened. He only breathed again when he rejected the thought. He still couldn’t talk about this. Holden was the only one whose emotions Kit fully trusted.
A chair scraped against the tile. “Kit?” Darius asked, poised to stand.
“Just thinking,” Kit said quickly. He didn’t look up to see whether they accepted the clumsy lie. “It’s fine if Holden knows.”
Darius leaned back in his chair. “Then you explain, because I still don’t fully understand.”
“You don’t have to say anything, darling.” Holden’s voice still had that edge. “I was just curious.”
Yeah, that was an obvious lie too.
Kit sighed. “The guy who made my fake ID had a change of heart. He hired Darius to kill me.”
Holden twitched but remained silent.
This part still made Kit uneasy. Something must have spooked Smith. Maybe the wrong people finally noticed Kit had slipped away from his fosters. Didn’t matter. It didn’t work. “Darius and James killed him first, of course.”
“Of course.” Holden’s expression didn’t change, but his voice softened. “What photos, darling?”
The words stuck in Kit’s throat. Holden would know why the photos were so triggering.
Kit unfairly punted the ball into Darius’s court. “Well, Mr. Photographer?”
Darius took his time answering. He had to be aware something was off about the conversation. “We took photos of Kit pretending to be dead as bait. James doctored the images after, to make them look more convincing.”
Blankness fell over Holden’s face like a veil. His chopsticks stilled, and then he set them down.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Darius asked as Holden stood.
Holden’s fake smile was the best of them all. “I’m going to the living room to do a hundred pushups.”
Maybe Kit should study Holden. Ask him for acting lessons, because he was damn good. If Kit hadn’t known what drove Holden to exercise, he never would have guessed the man’s murderous rage.
“Just leave the door open,” was all Darius said.
That night, when Holden was safely chained in another room, Kit curled in Darius’s arms. Darkness enveloped them, far softer than the cheap duvet. Kit’s forehead pressed against Darius’s bare chest, and his knees tucked tight between them.
Part of Kit desperately wanted Darius to tie him up and fuck his brains out. Wring his body free of every thought or fear.
But Darius seemed in silent agreement with the part of Kit that wanted tenderness. The part that wanted strong arms around him, and every breath flavored with soap and sweat and lingering aftershave.
And a few more truths.
“The first time I fucked you was in this house,” Darius said above Kit’s head. Each word rumbled between them. “I noticed a mark on your arm.”
Kit tensed. Exhaled. Relaxed. “You were very observant.”
Darius ran slow fingers through Kit’s hair. “When I checked the photos later, the mark wasn’t there. What really happened?”
Even after everything, Kit’s first instinct was resentment. How dare Darius ask. How dare Darius be concerned.
The toxic self-defense faded.
It was kind of nice Darius had noticed. Kit understood, in a visceral way he wouldn’t have understood a few months ago, why Darius had to ask now. Because if Kit had seen that burn on any of his men, he would have to ask too.
Ugh. Caring about people sucked.
“It was an accident,” Kit said quietly. It was true, even though it sounded like another lie. “The water in the bathroom sink gets really hot. I zoned out for a while.”
Darius didn’t pause petting his hair. “Was it really an accident?”
For a moment, Kit doubted himself. It just sounded so stupid. What if he’d told so many lies over the years, one had finally slipped into his memories?
An accident wasn’t better. Just different.
“I’ve hurt myself on purpose before,” Kit admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “But not that time.”
Darius kissed the top of Kit’s head. “Someday, I’d like you to feel okay telling me when you’re upset. You don’t have to tell me why. You just don’t have to hide.”
Kit melted against Darius’s chest. “I’d like that too,” he said, which wasn’t a promise. But it was true. So was this: “I’m not upset right now.”
Which was victory enough.
The next morning, Kit was lounging on the couch, his head in Holden’s lap, when the others arrived. The security perimeter alerted a few minutes in advance. Darius headed downstairs to get everything in order. Kit had time to finish up a level on a match-three game as the car pulled up.
Despite the ample warning, it was still a shock when James kicked open the door. “Honey, I’m home!”
The door bounced off the wall. Kit watched, fascinated, but James caught the rebound before it hit him in the face.
“Hi,” Holden said.
“Not you,” James said cheerfully. He bent over Kit, as if Holden wasn’t sitting right there.
The kiss was shallow. Teasing. At odds with the intense determination in James’s eyes. Kit sat up as James pulled back, stomach twisting.
“Where’s Darius?” James asked. “We need him in the garage—Bishop’s still outside with the hostage.”
Kit wasn’t used to being on this side of an abduction.
Not that he was doing much. He and Holden ate apple slices as James, Darius, and Bishop moved Melissa Vespers’s unconscious body from the garage to the basement.
After that, James and Bishop would conduct the interrogation, while Darius stayed upstairs to keep an eye on security. Kit and Holden would just sit around.
‘Stand by’ was how Darius had put it. But Kit knew Darius was just being polite. Kit was useless here. Holden was potentially useful, but nobody trusted him.
Bishop had tried suggesting that James should handle security, and Darius should help with the interrogation. One look from James had killed that suggestion.
“I can finish cutting the apple,” Holden offered.
“You’re still not supposed to have knives,” Kit pointed out. He split the second half of the apple into slices, the knife rapidly thunking against the cutting board. Then he jumped up to wash the knife.
There was a series of thuds from downstairs as Kit returned the knife to the sharps lockbox. Holden snagged him on his way back, and Kit welcomed the redirection into Holden’s lap. The fresh apple flavor of Holden’s kiss, the tentative devotion of fingertips under Kit’s shirt—
James walked through the kitchen with barely a glance at them. His face was calm, but his stride was quicker than usual. Raw energy lurked beneath his tense shoulders. He grabbed a duffel bag and returned to the basement.
With a sigh, Kit sat back on Holden’s thighs. “This isn’t going to work.”
“He’s fucked up.” Holden squeezed Kit’s ass in a tempting, teasing massage. “I’ll miss you, darling. Stay safe.”
Kit wound his hands in Holden’s long hair for one more slow kiss. “Miss you too,” he murmured. Then he extricated himself and headed for the basement.
He crossed paths with Darius on the way up. Darius just said, “Good idea,” as they passed.
The basement was better lit than last time. All the junk and shelves had been pushed to one wall, leaving a vast open space. In the center of the room, a figure slumped on a chair. A black bag covered her head. James and Bishop stood near her, talking in low voices.
Both looked up at Kit’s approach.
“Not to sound creepy as fuck,” Kit said, jumping down the last step. “But I wanted to watch. Um, she’s just unconscious, right?”
Melissa was alarmingly still. Was the slight movement of her loose shirt from her breathing, or just the draft from upstairs?
“She’s just unconscious,” Bishop said. “I’ll wake her up when we’re ready.”
James glared at Bishop. “This was your idea, wasn’t it?” His voice was too light. Tension clearly bristled beneath the surface. “You think I’m going to lose my shit, so you called Kit down here to control me?”
“I thought he’d be bored upstairs,” Bishop said easily. “This is part of his training as my assistant.”
Nice of Bishop to take the blame. Nice, but not necessary.
Ignoring the bound and hooded woman, Kit extended a hand, palm up.
“It was my idea. Tell me I’m wrong, and I’ll go back upstairs.
” He waved his fingers. “I’d rather stay, because I love you.
If my boyfriend is upset, why shouldn’t I be here for moral support? ”
James exhaled harshly, head rolling up to face the ceiling. He relaxed on his next breath and took Kit’s hand. “You manipulative little brat,” James accused—but he’d lost that dangerous tension in his voice. The insult was purely fond.
Kit squeezed his hand. Vulnerable embarrassment crawled down the back of his neck. Saying ‘I love you still’ felt weird, especially in front of Bishop. Because it was too fucking true.
He loved James, and he wasn’t here to control him. Nor to keep him from hurting someone else. Kit wanted to help James’s own hurts.
He couldn’t do much about James’s past, but he could be here now.
Subtly relaxing, Bishop moved to a nearby table.
The duffel bag was open, and Bishop drew out a small bottle and a packaged syringe.
“Ground rules,” Bishop said as he popped the needle onto the syringe.
“I’m asking all the questions, and I’m wearing a mask.
The hostage won’t see or hear either of you.
Stay against the wall behind her, and don’t talk.
If you have a question, my phone is right on the table. Text it to me.”
“Why don’t we just wear masks too?” Kit asked.
“She might recognize James’s voice or build. As for you…” Bishop shrugged. “Better safe than sorry. The less she knows, the better.”
Kit’s curiosity flickered brighter. He was new to this high-level criminal organization abduction thing, but he was very familiar with ordinary murders. If Bishop was this concerned about Melissa recognizing them… “You’re not going to kill her?”
“Not if we don’t have to.” Bishop’s glare at James was pointed. “Our intel could be wrong. If she’s not involved, or if there’s a chance she could lead us to someone bigger…”
“She’s involved,” James bit out. “My intel is solid, B.”
“We’re about to find out.” Bishop stuck the syringe into the bottle top, drawing out a clear liquid. Then he set the syringe down and pulled out a gray mask. “Let’s get started.”
The mask was stiff, made of matte gray material. It strapped over Bishop’s face like a children’s party mask, if party masks were blank and featureless. Only two narrow eye holes, and a slit above his mouth.
Bishop’s blue eyes were brighter and more eerie than ever.
Kit hadn’t realized how much Bishop’s familiar face softened his demeanor. With his expression hidden, Bishop looked just like the predator Kit first met, in the middle of a massacre.
“Can I see her face?” Kit asked, suddenly.
“It’ll be easier if you don’t,” Bishop said.
Kit swallowed hard. “Exactly.” Because masks hid victims too.
Bishop pulled the bag from the hostage’s head.
Melissa Vespers sat in pure, motionless oblivion. She was in her mid-forties, with dyed brown hair. Subtly darker brown roots were growing in. Two piercings in each earlobe. Slightly smudged makeup, likely thanks to the whole abduction thing. Fantastic eyebrows.
James stared down at her too, then took off for his place behind her.
“Thanks,” Kit said quietly.
Heart racing, Kit joined James behind the hostage. James leaned against the wall and drew Kit into a loose embrace. Like Kit was a stuffed animal he was holding for comfort.
Bishop leaned over Melissa. As he pierced her arm with the syringe, James’s grasp tightened.
Against Kit’s spine, James’s heart raced faster.