13
‘Have you tried yoga to cure your murderous rampage’
Kit’s hands were cold. Empty. He missed James’s long fingers intertwining with his, the heat, the playful embrace. Kit’s hands were cold, and instead, dark steel glinted in James’s grasp.
Time accelerated, and Kit struggled to keep up. The gun was in James’s hand before Kit processed Melissa’s words. Evelyn Zhou, Kit heard, as James surged forward.
The third Rat King, Kit heard, as the muzzle pressed against Melissa’s head.
“Stop!” Kit shouted, but the word already echoed with the gunshot. The sounds collided, amplifying each other, and time tripped over the collision. Seconds ground to a halt, revealing every intricate detail.
James’s shadow loomed over the hostage, and fluorescent light scattered from his silhouette. He stood slightly to the left. Kit had a perfect view of the gun in his right hand, the muzzle parting tangles of brown hair. It angled down from the upper back of her skull.
Melissa’s head rocked in a spray of blood and bone. The chair scraped against the concrete.
James’s knuckles were white.
Bishop stood frozen, halfway to Melissa. Streaks of red spattered the right side of his gray mask.
Kit’s cold hand fell from midair. He didn’t remember reaching out.
He had seen dead bodies. In person and in photographs. But he had never witnessed death before. The last severed breath between living and not. Murder itself, rather than its rotting aftermath.
“She was lying,” James snarled.
He whirled, facing Bishop, then Kit. Shadow shrouded his face, and he said nothing more. One harsh breath lifted his shoulders. Then he stalked to the basement stairs.
A door slam broke the frozen tableau.
“Oh my god,” Kit said, voice thin.
Ripping off his mask, Bishop veered around Melissa. In the next blink, strong hands cradled Kit’s face. Bishop’s shoulders blocked out the light and blood.
“Are you hurt?” Bishop asked, his voice as gentle as his grasp.
Kit flinched into the tenderness, desperately grateful Bishop hadn’t asked if he was all right. Because he wasn’t. He didn’t know. He was never all right, not really, and not now.
What were you supposed to do when someone died? Kit wanted to run, but he should probably—you were supposed to check for a pulse, right? Oh god.
“Is she,” Kit stumbled over his words. “She’s—we should check—”
“She’s dead,” Bishop said firmly. He touched Kit’s shoulders now, still so achingly gentle.
Kit shook between a laugh and a sob. “Right. Yeah. I guess that’s obvious.” He closed his eyes. Counted to four. He couldn’t make it to ten, even racing through the numbers. “I should check on James.”
“James is fine,” Bishop said, just as firmly. But under the weight of Kit’s disbelief, Bishop sighed. “You can’t help him right now. You shouldn’t help him right now.”
James just murdered their hostage. There were no screams, no final words. Melissa was so powerless, she never saw her killer coming. One moment, she was a person. The next, she was a body. Right now, she was still bleeding out on the same concrete floor Kit lay on once, pretending to be dead.
The idea of helping James at this moment was absurd.
Almost as absurd as how Kit’s heart rebelled against the idea that he shouldn’t. He wanted to comfort James. He wanted to make sure James was okay.
But Bishop was right. Darius was upstairs, and Holden. They would have to deal with James, for the simple reason that Kit’s shaky knees wouldn’t allow him upstairs.
“I need to sit down,” Kit whispered.
“That’s a good idea,” Bishop said soothingly, almost sounding relieved. Like he expected Kit to fly upstairs on shaky wings.
Sitting was easy with Bishop supporting his elbows. Kit folded into a broken puzzle, and Bishop folded too. And it was even easier to take the coward’s route, turning away from the silent corpse. Bishop sat with his back against the wall, and Kit crawled into his lap.
A small, bruised piece of Kit’s heart expected to be shoved away. Instead, Bishop cradled the back of Kit’s head, drawing him in. Kit’s cheek pressed against the soft fabric of Bishop’s t-shirt, the warmth of muscle beneath.
There was nothing sexual about it. The intimacy was simply a shelter. Bishop was protecting him.
Maybe Kit should turn around. Maybe he owed it to Melissa to look at her body, like he’d looked at her face when she was unconscious. Maybe he should bear witness instead of escaping.
But he carried so many rigid faces in his heart already. He couldn’t.
Helplessness stung. Kit had thought he had power over James. That his presence alone could control James’s rage—like with Holden’s obsession. But the power of comfort and connection had snapped in an instant.
Evelyn Zhou was the third Rat King.
Bishop stroked soothing shapes up and down Kit’s back. The touch failed to unwind Kit’s nerves, but that wasn’t the point. Keeping Kit from spiraling worse was victory enough.
“I couldn’t stop him,” Kit whispered, hands twisting in Bishop’s shirt.
Bishop’s breath feathered through Kit’s hair. “I could have. Not in the moment, but at any point prior… I could have kept him out of this basement. I could have refused to help with the abduction.”
Typical Bishop. Always so eager to take responsibility.
“Interesting,” Kit remarked, not as shaky anymore. “You lie to yourself sometimes, too.”
“Blame is a comforting lie, isn’t it? But you’re right.” Bishop’s hands settled behind Kit’s waist. “James would take this road with or without my help. Stopping him would require choices I’m unwilling to make.”
“Turning him in, or your own justice.” Kit’s thoughts were starting to clear, and he resented them for it. Melissa sat dead in her chains behind him. Kit shouldn’t be coping this well.
He’d probably panic again later, when it was least convenient. That sounded like him.
“I believe in James’s goal, and every day, I choose to be complicit,” Bishop said quietly. “He’s motivated by vengeance, but taking down his family’s killers will serve justice too. Which is a nice way to justify helping him because he’s my friend.”
Kit buried his face in Bishop’s chest, taking comfort in the steady heartbeat. Maybe he shouldn’t ask this of Bishop, but he felt too safe to restrain his words. “Is it wrong of me to love him so much? Or Darius, or Holden…”
Bishop’s chuckle vibrated through both of them. Fondness bled into his voice. “It’s very unwise, but it isn’t wrong.”
Then warmth bloomed as Bishop pressed a soft kiss to Kit’s head.
Darius didn’t flinch when the basement door slammed open. Holden did, which was funny. The captive psycho might have the instincts, but he didn’t have Darius’s training.
Said training drove Darius to his feet, clear of the table and chairs, at the sight of James’s face.
“Give me the gun,” Darius ordered, his voice icy, before he even saw the gun in James’s white-knuckled hand. Lessons in threat assessment hammered so deep into Darius that they felt like instinct.
The safety was off. Darius wasn’t close enough to see any residue on James’s arm. The basement was soundproof. James had fired the gun, and his eyes were hollow.
Realization hit with brutal inevitability. Darius should have expected this, working a job for James’s vendetta.
The hostage was dead.
James glared. Instead of handing the gun over, he stripped it in ruthless, precise movements. Inert parts skidded across the granite counter. Then James yanked open the freezer.
“Stay put,” Darius ordered—to Holden, whose quiet beeline to the basement wasn’t quiet enough.
“I need to see Kit,” Holden snapped, anger painted thin over his concern.
Darius flinched at that.
He should have asked. He should have thought about Kit, instead of just trusting his instincts, his knowledge of James and Bishop and the whole situation. He shouldn’t have been solely absorbed with the immediate threat of James, hurt and furious with a gun in his hand.
Reason number one thousand Darius shouldn’t be in a relationship. He was only good at being alone.
James slammed the freezer door shut, bottle of vodka in hand. “Kit’s safe. Bishop’s with him.” He fished a plastic cup from the cupboard, movements still viciously precise. “I shot the hostage.”
“In front of Kit,” Darius said, and now that he was thinking about Kit, he couldn’t stop. He wanted to leave James in this unstable state to check on Kit. Which was yet another reason Darius shouldn’t be in a relationship. “Why the fuck would you do that?”
Holden leaned against the granite island, though his attention was still clearly fixed on the basement door. “Because he wanted to. Best reason to kill someone.”
James downed his shot, cup crinkling in his hand. He was so tightly strung, it probably took all his willpower not to crush it. Grabbing the bottle again, he paused. Inhaled. Exhaled.
“She lied about my mom,” James said.
It wasn’t a lie. Whatever it was. Nothing but the truth could cut that deep.
“That wasn’t the fucking plan,” Darius said, still cold. Losing his temper would light James’s fuse. James may have given up his weapon, but he was still itching for a fight. “Did you at least get any information out of her?”
“You should do some pushups,” Holden suggested. “Or go for a run. That sometimes helps when I feel the murderous rampage coming on.”
James’s gaze cut towards Holden.
Maybe Darius should send Holden to the basement after all. ‘Have you tried yoga to cure your murderous rampage’ was not what James needed right now.
“Why do you give a shit?” James demanded, rounding on Darius again. “This is my job. You don’t have to be here.”
This was why Darius worked solo. Having partners meant he couldn’t control everything. He wasn’t in the basement. Someone else was comforting his boyfriend right now, while Darius was stuck defusing a loose cannon. James was right. This wasn’t Darius’s mission, and he didn’t have to be here.
So why was Darius so fucking pissed that James was fucking it up?
“You’re right,” Darius said, letting his anger bleed into his voice. Because he did care, damn it. “I don’t have to be here. None of us have to be here.”
“Except me,” Holden pointed out.
“Except the psycho undergrad,” Darius conceded. “The rest of us? We’re here anyway. Because we want to be here, you fucking asshole.”
James snarled. “We are not having a moment right now.”
“Not right now,” Darius said, getting into James’s space. Staring deep into his dark, angry eyes. James was two inches taller, but he looked more than four years younger right now. Vulnerable and lashing out. “I have two things to do first.”
“Skip the lecture,” James said, bristling.
Darius punched him in the face.
The rapid movement melted seamlessly into a defensive posture. Darius still felt the warmth of James’s cheek on his knuckles as he prepared to counter James’s retaliation.
But James snarled and jerked back, controlling himself. The pain punctured his anger, and as his emotions bled out, he looked a little saner. A little sadder.
Empty.
“First, I have to punch you,” Darius said firmly. “Second, I have to pour us both a drink.”
James exhaled. “You’re a bastard.”
The insult rang with gratitude.
James slumped at the kitchen table. Darius poured a shot of vodka for each of them, the amount looking absurdly small in the plastic cups. They both pretended not to notice Holden slipping through the basement door. Bishop could handle Holden. Kit probably could too.
“What did she say?” Darius asked, setting the cup in front of James.
“It was a fucking lie,” James said, but with none of that furious denial. This was more desperate. “She said Mom was one of the Rat Kings. That my entire family died because of an internal affair.”
Oh. Shit.
Kit held still, as if Bishop’s breath in his hair was an iron chain. The most tender binding. Bishop kissed the top of his head, and with every heartbeat, Kit expected Bishop to yank away.
But when Bishop finally moved, the separation didn’t hurt. Eyes shining in the shadows, Bishop laid a hand on Kit’s cheek.
“Every day, you get to make a choice too,” Bishop said, quiet and certain. “You aren’t stuck with us, and if you ever want out, you let me know.”
Kit didn’t want to leave. The thought repelled him. Even if these men were murderers, they were his.
But he appreciated what Bishop was offering. Nice to have an escape route, now that he didn’t want to escape anymore.
“Thank you,” Kit whispered.
Bishop’s gaze dropped to Kit’s lips—then darted up, wary, as the basement door creaked open.
At the sound of footsteps, Bishop relaxed. Kit recognized the footsteps a moment later and turned in Bishop’s lap.
Holden paused halfway down the stairs. Eyebrows lifted, he took in the scene: the bound body, the spray of blood and brain matter, and Kit, embraced in Bishop’s lap.
“Well,” Holden remarked. “This looks fun.”