Chapter 17
far too fragile to hold
Bishop left the Wellingtons’ rented house for the last time.
The Wellingtons were leaving San Corvo, desperate to reach the healing stage of grief as winter loosened its grip on the city.
They weren’t giving up, Mrs. Wellington had said forcefully, refuting an accusation Bishop hadn’t made.
They were taking a different direction and were just getting in everyone’s way by staying in San Corvo.
The meeting lasted ten minutes. Surrounded by piled-up cardboard boxes, Bishop expressed regret that his leads had gone nowhere.
Mr. and Mrs. Wellington teared up and assured him that his services had been invaluable.
They shook hands firmly—Bishop was relieved they weren’t the hugging types—and without anyone saying those precise words, Bishop was fired from the case.
This should feel good. No more lying to the murder victim’s parents. No more faked reports and concealing Bishop’s precise knowledge of Timothy Wellington’s fate. But as he drove home, Bishop felt strangely empty.
He needed a new project. Something crowd out the guilt, the ruminating over Melissa Vespers, and the all-consuming knowledge that at this very moment, Kit was helping Darius pack.
The six weeks of renovations at the new house were almost over. The four of them were moving in soon. Bishop felt it like a seismic shift in his own life.
Even though he wasn’t going anywhere. Because nothing had changed with him.
Bishop had no claim over Kit. All he ever did was kiss him, then turn him away.
Bishop had no right to be jealous that Darius and Holden were going to join James in living with Kit.
He had no right to miss those first few days.
Kit lounging on his couch. Flipping through boring magazines. Drinking all of Bishop’s coffee.
Because Bishop had boarded up the windows, keeping Kit prisoner.
He’d had Kit in his clutches, but Kit had been far too fragile to hold back then. Far more fragile than Bishop had realized at the time.
As Bishop pulled up to his driveway, he passed a middle-aged man sticking an Open House sign in a yard.
The realtor’s wispy gray-blond hair flew up in the wind, and his baggy button-down shirt looked rumpled.
Bishop resisted the urge to punch his steering wheel, unreasonably furious at the universe.
Was everyone fucking moving houses?
“You need to get your shit together,” Bishop muttered as he turned the car off. He pressed a button, and the garage door rumbled. “They’re not moving at you.”
Yeah, he needed a new job. A new obsession. Something to keep him from fuming at the sight of a normal real estate agent.
Once inside, Bishop went upstairs to turn on a light. Then he crept back to the foyer window.
Standing at a discreet angle, he took a photo with his phone camera zoomed all the way in. Checked it once, then took it again. That one worked—a photo of the Open House sign. He could look up the real estate agent’s phone and license numbers when he had a chance.
There was no such thing as too careful when strangers showed up in the neighborhood, Bishop thought as he moved to the kitchen. He needed some fucking caffeine.
And okay. Investigating random real estate agents sounded like an easy win.
Bishop could resolve that quickly before moving on to something more difficult, like soothing his own jealous nerves.
Learning more about the Rat Kings. Learning more about that warehouse James owned and whether the old Viper ties were going to bite them in the ass.
Learning more about Holden’s parents. Learning more about what the fuck Kit was thinking moving in with Holden—
Bishop paused at his open cupboard, hand on the pastel ACAB mug. The one Bishop had almost used to get a subtle DNA sample from Kit.
A connection sizzled in his mind, like electricity arcing across space. The wires weren’t touching yet, but the spark could still travel between them.
Bishop set the mug down and shot off a quick text.
Bishop: Up for some torture tomorrow?
A minute passed. Bishop measured it out in precise amounts of water and coffee grounds. The machine hummed to life as Bishop’s phone buzzed.
Kit: see THAT sounds fun but i know you’re just talking about filing papers :(
Bishop: Digitizing files. We’re almost done with Holden’s murder archives.
Kit: filing papers. weirdly fascinating papers, but still filing, aka torture
Kit: which yes, i’m up. see u at… ??
Bishop: 10 am?
Kit: i’ll try to be awake. i mean, perfect, a normal hour for normal people to be normal awake
Bishop’s lips twitched into a smile, before he remembered his plan.
Giving Kit one more chance to answer questions.
Complaints aside, Kit was happy about the plans for tomorrow. Hopefully he and Bishop could get back to normal, bonding over Holden’s murder archives and Bishop’s temperamental scanner. For now, though, Kit had to help Darius pack.
For a given value of help.
Not that Kit wanted to be lazy. It wasn’t his fault Darius was a professional assassin. Way too many of his belongings were of the Do Not Touch, Examine, or Breathe On variety. With a hefty side of You Don’t Want to Know.
Holden was at class, with Carla or someone staking out his building. James was probably at home, brooding over the same old family files that had ensnared him all month.
Kit tossed his phone onto Darius’s couch—then reconsidered. Setting it on the coffee table was much safer. Darius’s gray couch was the sort of plush that swallowed phones and remotes like quicksand.
Which was great when Kit flopped onto it, like right now. Settling into the cushions, he eyed Darius’s return from the hallway.
“Need help?” Kit asked.
Darius held the cardboard box like it weighed nothing. Knowing Darius’s strength, that could either mean the box was empty or it had a million pounds of stuff squeezed into it.
Give or take. Kit wasn’t great at estimating weight. Especially when Darius was walking around looking so distractingly casual.
Apparently, packing up the apartment called for light gray sweatpants. Which had a wonderful tendency to emphasize what else Darius was packing.
“I’m good,” Darius said, setting the box down next to the others. The small cardboard army huddled along the wall between the kitchen and the TV. A muted college basketball game played on the screen, Devil Whales vs. Woodcocks. “Don’t touch that box, all right?”
Kit straightened up.
Then he leaned his elbow against the arm of the couch, trying to cover his sudden alertness. “Why? What’s in it?”
By Darius’s eyeroll, Kit’s feigned nonchalance wasn’t fooling him. “If I was willing to answer that, I wouldn’t tell you to stay away.”
“Is it dangerous?” Kit asked, twirling a finger in his hair. “Is it a bomb?”
“It’s not a bomb,” Darius said. He picked up the packing tape and moved to a different open box.
As the tape screeched out in Darius’s hands, Kit moved to the coffee table. Swinging his legs put his sock-covered toes mere inches away from the mysterious Do Not Touch box.
“Is this too close?” Kit asked, in an innocent voice.
Darius folded down the top of the other box. He didn’t seem to look up, but there was a one-hundred-percent chance he knew exactly what Kit was doing.
Kit inched closer, toes stretching just shy of the forbidden cardboard. “Is this too close?”
Darius finished taping down the box. “If you want to get fucked, pretty boy, you can just say so.”
Kit froze for a second, foot outstretched. Then he grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”
He could ask, sure. But sometimes it was more satisfying to provoke the first move from someone else. Especially right now, when things were all moving around. The situation was changing. Transitions, evolutions, tidal waves, the slow erosion of changing winds.
Everyone was doing exactly what Kit wanted. Moving in together. And that meant his own fears were bubbling up in the back of his mind. The more external problems he fixed, the less he had to blame for the internal problems.
Thankfully, some of Kit’s problems were easy to solve. Like feeling super needy and craving a hard fuck.
Kit stretched just enough to barely tap the box with his toe.
“You’re terrible,” Darius said, but he didn’t sound mad at all.
Darius set the tape next to Kit, then knelt so close, his body forced Kit’s knees apart. Kit leaned forward, his quickening pulse anticipating a kiss. Instead, Darius carefully, firmly held Kit by the throat.
Kit swallowed against Darius’s callused palm.
“Terrible,” Darius murmured again. He spoke mere inches from Kit, close enough that his breath caressed Kit’s lips. “Maybe I should box you up and tape it shut, to keep you out of mischief.”
Kit’s pulse raced even faster. That sounded kind of hot.
Kind of scary. Both reactions twisted together, and he couldn’t tell which was stronger.
He imagined folding into the uncomfortable space, arms bound behind him, darkness pressing around him.
The air filling with his own breath. The cardboard wouldn’t be air-tight, of course, but that could get hard to remember when he couldn’t move.
Secure. Owned. Trapped. Helpless. Treasured.
Maybe Darius would shove a vibrator up him first, and he’d squirm and squirm. That would be hot.
Or scary.
“Too much?” Darius asked, stroking Kit’s throat.
Kit leaned into the touch. Enough to threaten his own breath, until Darius held him in place. “I’m not sure.”
“‘Not sure’ means it’s too much,” Darius said.
Kit bit back a protest, because Darius was right, ugh. “For today, at least,” Kit said quickly. He didn’t want the idea taken completely off the table.
Darius grinned. “While we’re being honest, I prefer restraining you where I can see you.”
“That’s good,” Kit said, breathless with anticipation. “Really good. Um, are you going to do that now, or do I need to try touching the forbidden box again? Because I can turn the brat way up. You haven’t seen anything yet.”