14
“Newsflash. Your boyfriends are weird.”
Kit scrambled to his feet, as if he’d been caught doing something wrong. But he hadn’t been. No, it was anger, not guilt, that spurred him from Bishop’s grasp.
Everything was a mess. James shot Melissa, and her dead body sat stiffening in the middle of the room. Shreds of information swirled like a tornado. The Viper was back. The Viper wasn’t back. The Rat King was two people. The Rat King used to be three people, and one of them was James’s mom.
Which was why James shot the hostage. Which was why the top of Kit’s head still burned from the light touch of Bishop’s lips.
The latter was all Kit could think about. As if he needed more evidence that something was fundamentally wrong with him.
Once again, emotions were high. Kit needed comfort. And Bishop had drawn close enough to kiss.
But Kit knew how this worked. As soon as the crisis passed, Bishop would retreat. Maybe Bishop sensed the brokenness at Kit’s core, and he was smart enough to stay away. Or maybe something was wrong with Bishop too.
Kit refused to play that game today.
“Where’s James?” Kit asked, his voice only slightly shaky. He moved forward, closer to the body, as Bishop stood behind him.
Holden barely glanced at the corpse before closing in on Kit. “Darius has him on a leash. If by leash we mean vodka.”
Kit’s worry jumped again. “Vodka? Great, exactly what we need, getting him drunk and murderous instead of just—”
Holden caught his hand, and Kit’s heart lurched as Holden pulled him close. “Darius also punched him in the face,” Holden said, clearly amused. “Which calmed James down, because they’re both fucking freaks.”
“Oh, that makes…” Thinking was hard when Kit was this deep in Holden’s orbit. That intense gaze like gravity. Every inch of height looming over Kit. “That makes zero sense, but okay.”
Holden’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “Newsflash. Your boyfriends are weird.”
Bishop walked past—his steps deliberately loud to avoid startling Kit, because he was considerate, the fucking asshole. “You should head upstairs to your weird boyfriends. They’ll want to see if you’re okay.”
Kit leaned into Holden as he faced Bishop. Those bright blue eyes were closed off again. Distance stretched between them, far greater than the bounds of the bloodstained basement.
“I’m okay,” Kit said, with a breezy confidence he didn’t feel. Then added, with dark sarcasm he definitely felt, “What, like this is my first dead body?”
“Hey, Bishop,” Holden asked, even as he tugged Kit towards the stairs. Seemingly casually, but every movement kept him between Kit and the body. “What are you doing with Melissa next?”
Bishop stooped, picking up his bloodstained mask. “Too risky to take her to a proper lab, so Darius and I will look her over, take some samples.”
“After that?” Holden asked.
Bishop looked at Kit. As if assessing whether Kit could handle what he was about to say, which Kit would usually find sweet but currently found annoying. Kit kept his mouth shut, because he didn’t trust his own tangle of emotions right now.
“After that, we have chainsaws and acid solution in the closet,” Bishop said eventually.
Silence echoed for a heartbeat.
Holden squeezed Kit’s hand and asked, with strangely endearing hopefulness, “Can I help?” His eyes shone with enthusiasm. “I’ve never dismembered a body before.”
Bishop stared blankly at Holden. Then upwards. “Sure,” Bishop told the ceiling. “Why the fuck not?”
Holden’s grin was like sunlight. “Awesome, thanks B!”
“Don’t call me B,” Bishop growled.
“Vodka sounds great now,” Kit interrupted, because as used to fucked-up murder nonsense as he was, the thought of dissolving Melissa in acid still made him queasy. “Think Darius has finished soothingly punching James, or whatever?”
“Christ, I hope not,” Holden said, as he obligingly pulled Kit towards the stairs.
The kitchen was empty when they reached it. The bottle of vodka sat alone on the table, and low voices murmured from another room.
Holden steered Kit to the counter. He leaned in, palms flat on the linoleum, his arms a cage around Kit. “You okay, darling?”
“I’ve been worse.” Kit cracked a grin. “A lot worse.”
Holden grinned back. There was no tension in him. No anger or guilt or expectation. Only worry for Kit, but even that was tempered with delight.
Kit needed all his men in different ways. Right now, he was desperately glad that Holden was the one pinning him to the counter. Holden’s offbeat emotions were easier to carry than anyone else’s, when Kit felt so raw and vulnerable.
“You’re angry,” Holden said, like he was interested, not accusing. He trailed a finger up Kit’s arm. “Not at me. James, then? I’m angry that he upset you. Not murderously angry, don’t worry.”
Yeah, it was good Holden was here. Because he wouldn’t judge Kit for saying—
“I’m angry at Bishop for being a fucking cocktease,” Kit complained, slumping forward. His forehead pressed against Holden’s chest. “He’s the worst.”
Holden froze, then melted into a laugh. “Tell me about it.” His arms tightened around Kit. “No, seriously, tell me all about it.”
Okay, that was more enthusiastic than Kit expected. “You’re not jealous? Or do you just love gossip that much?”
“I’m always jealous.” Holden nudged his knee between Kit’s thighs.
Nowhere near Kit’s cock, but the tight denim tugged distractingly.
“Which is why I want all your secrets. All your precious desires. I want to know every piece of you—even the pieces you think belong to someone else. Because those pieces still belong to you.” Holden leaned back just enough to touch Kit’s chin, lifting his face up. “Which means they belong to me.”
Kit’s chest thrummed with his quickening heartbeat. Years ago, he never dreamed obsession could be so comforting. There was no doubt in his mind, no fear that this was fleeting, when Holden kissed the warmth back into Kit’s lips.
Kit gave them all another hour, waiting until Bishop collected Holden for their dismemberment bonding exercise. Fresh bitemarks still wet on his throat, Kit sauntered into the safehouse bedroom.
“Are you two done punching each other?” Kit asked from the doorway.
Darius and James looked up in unison. Darius, sitting at the head of the bed, exuded a welcome, steady calm. No hint of tension in the set of his dark-stubbled jaw.
James stopped mid-pace, at the boarded-up window. The fire of his anger had quenched, but uncertainty smoldered in its ashes.
“There’s no ‘each other’ about it,” Darius said, with a hint of amused arrogance. “The punching was entirely one-sided.”
Normally, James would have a cocky retort. He would already be drifting into Kit’s orbit.
“I’m sorry,” James told Kit instead.
“For killing Melissa?” Kit sat at the foot of the bed. His back to Darius, his face tipped up towards James. “Or for killing her in front of me?”
“Are you all right?” James asked. His concern was reassuring. Both because Kit always liked when James was concerned about him, and because it made James seem closer. More himself, less uncontrolled.
Kit’s first instinct was to laugh it off. Insist he was fine. But the bed shifted, and a glance at Darius quelled that instinct.
It was okay not to be okay.
“You freaked me out,” Kit said honestly, leaning back on his hands. “But I’m kind of glad I was there.”
James’s brow furrowed, and Darius’s chuckle warmed the room. “I’d expect that from Holden, not you,” Darius teased.
“I’m not saying I enjoyed it.” Kit took his time sorting out his words. He knew what he felt, but expressing it was more difficult.
Except it was also okay if he didn’t express himself perfectly. He belonged to James and Darius on an intrinsic level. They would understand what he wanted to convey.
“Last time you killed someone—at least, last time I’m aware of,” Kit added hastily.
He couldn’t keep track of Darius’s business trips.
“I was at Bishop’s house, safely away. The death was distant.
Easier to get over, and I don’t want to just get over this sort of thing. I don’t want to be that fucked up.”
James drew closer, guilt giving way to contemplation. He cupped Kit’s cheek, and the gentle touch unraveled a knot of worry in Kit’s heart.
This palm clasped the gun. This finger pulled the trigger.
This pulse drummed indelibly into Kit’s soul.
“You’re a little fucked up,” James said, with a tiny, crooked grin. “You have to be, to date bad, bad men like us. But there’s this goodness in you, too. This sweetness. I want to protect every part of you, the sweetness and the fucked-up-ness and the fucked-up sweetness.”
As Kit’s breath hitched, the bed shifted, and Darius’s broad hand settled over his shoulder. “Don’t forget the sweet fucked-up-ness,” Darius added.
“I’m not sweet,” Kit protested, aghast.
“You’re deliciously sweet,” James said. “I should know, I’ve tasted every inch of you. However.” He tapped Kit’s cheek. “You aren’t going to distract me with sex this time. I’m still sorry I shot the hostage in front of you.”
Kit leaned into James’s touch, and Darius kneaded gentle circles behind his neck. Occasionally, he dug into the bruises left by Holden’s teeth. Look who was distracting whom.
“Apology accepted,” Kit said firmly. Even though he was hardly the true injured party in this situation. Just a bystander, yet again—but never just a bystander, wasn’t that always the case? He carried his baggage close, just like the man leaning over him. “James, what Melissa said about your mom—”
“We’ll talk about that tomorrow,” James said, pulling away.
Kit caught his wrist. “We don’t know what it means. We don’t know how long the Rat Kings have been operating, or if they’ve always been pieces of shit. All we have is a new angle.”
“Leave it for now,” Darius said, a soft warning.
“Even if your worst fears are true,” Kit said in a rush, because fuck, this felt important. “The good parts are still true, too. Nothing you learn will ever change the mom you knew.”
He meant it as comfort, but maybe it was a curse. Kit grew up happy and beloved too, unaware of the monster prowling his cage.
James sighed, breaking eye contact. “We’ll talk about that tomorrow,” he said again, not angry, just tired. But when he looked up again, new energy lit his dark eyes. “I’d rather think about something else tonight.”
And Kit fell back with a laugh as James shoved him into Darius’s arms.
Bishop was right. Every day, Kit made a choice. Today, the choice to stay was easy.
Bishop didn’t let Holden help with the dismemberment. Or the acid. He handcuffed Holden to the basement table—which was heavy enough Holden wouldn’t be able to lift it without Bishop hearing.
Just a sensible precaution, but Holden was almost disturbingly cooperative. He watched with rapt attention as Bishop took blood, hair, fingerprints, and retina photos from Melissa. Then with even more intense focus as Bishop spread out the tarp and turned on the chainsaw.
Somewhere upstairs, Kit was with James and Darius. Bishop’s imagination could fill in the gaps.
After the dismemberment, Bishop took a break to clean the chainsaw and the bits that flew off the tarp. The work was tiring. It would be easier with help, but like hell was he handing Holden a chainsaw.
Holden had enough weapons at his disposal already.
“He’s mad at you,” Holden said, sounding amused.
Bishop glanced over. Just to make sure Holden was still slouching on the floor. The handcuffs still tethered his wrist to the table leg.
Holden gave a sunny grin. “Apparently you keep kissing him, then backing off.”
Bishop bit back protests. Explanations. Caveats. He only kissed Kit on the top of the head today. He was comforting him.
The excuse rang hollow, even in Bishop’s own heart.
“He’ll get over it,” Bishop said gruffly, and regretted it. The last thing he wanted was a relationship talk with Holden. This piece of shit was the reason Bishop turned Kit down.
Nothing to do with Bishop’s previous trust issues.
“Yeah, that’s the problem.” Holden stretched out one leg. “You’ll reject him one too many times, and that’ll be that. A switch flips from attraction to resentment. No more chances.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Bishop asked, also a mistake.
“Only if Kit was happy about it,” Holden said, with the earnest sincerity he reserved for Kit.
Maybe this wasn’t a mistake. Bishop could turn the conversation to Holden, instead of revealing more of himself. “Why do you want that?”
Holden took the question seriously. “I just feel very strongly that he deserves to be happy.”
Something hid beneath his words. Intuition drove Bishop’s next question, leaping beyond the bounds of evidence. “What do you know about Kit’s past?”
Holden looked away, his nonchalance clearly feigned, and didn’t answer for a long time.
“I know his dad’s name,” Holden said eventually.
Jealousy swept through Bishop.
It was an unfair, hateful reaction. Despicable. But Bishop was too clear-eyed to deny it. He was jealous that Holden knew more of Kit’s past than he did.
So jealous, his awareness of the current moment struggled to keep up. Entire seconds passed before Bishop read the hesitation in Holden’s face. The young man’s features, usually cold or sardonic or absurdly cheerful, tightened with uncertainty.
Then Holden came to a decision. “I promised not to dig deeper into his past,” Holden said, gaze burning like acid into Bishop’s soul. “I intend to keep that promise—even if it’s a mistake.”
The message was clear.
He wanted Bishop to dig instead.