Chapter 39
Supportive home life.
Kit broke off, empty of words and expectations. He couldn’t make eye contact with anyone, but the tension was clear anyway. Clenched fists and jaws. James sat stiff at the very edge of the couch, poised to lunge forward.
All of Kit’s bravery fled. If he could take all the words back, he would, but his braver and stupider self of five minutes ago had already done the damage. Throat dry, Kit retreated to the mini fridge. His fingers danced through the cold, considering a beer. Or seven.
Best not. He didn’t trust himself to stop at one tonight, and he needed what was left of his wits.
Instead, he grabbed a diet soda. Except he probably didn’t need the caffeine either.
Except he’d already grabbed it, and his hand wouldn’t unclench.
So, he just held it and kicked the fridge closed and turned around, where everyone still waited. Tense and staring.
Kit twisted the cold can around. “I’m done. You can talk again.”
Bishop leaned forward in the armchair, with a carefully approachable air. “Do you have any information on Laird’s hideouts?”
“Seriously?” James snapped, bursting to his feet. “That’s your first question? Typical fucking practical—”
“James,” Darius growled in warning, but James had already cut himself off.
They all looked over as something bumped Kit’s legs from behind. Kit’s pulse skyrocketed, but it was just the mini fridge. He’d been walking backwards without realizing, reacting to James’s anger.
Not at him. Not at him. James wasn’t mad at Kit. That lash of burning gaze wasn’t for Kit.
James swallowed, breaking eye contact. “I need a minute,” he said tightly, and strode upstairs.
Kit wasn’t sure whether to feel hurt or relieved. Probably relieved, if he ever got his emotions back on track. Except just because Kit needed space didn’t mean James should be alone. “Maybe someone should follow him,” Kit said, tracing condensation.
Bishop and Darius traded glances.
“He’ll be okay,” Darius said, unconvincingly.
“I’ll go.” Holden jumped from the game table. His expressionless face melted into a smile just for Kit. “If that would make you happy.”
Yeah, no. Happy wasn’t an option tonight. But Kit appreciated the thought. “Either of you getting hurt wouldn’t make me happy.”
“Don’t worry, darling.” Holden approached but didn’t touch Kit. Just held out a hand. “James and I are friends now. More or less.”
“That’s not reassuring.” Kit’s first impulse was to flinch away from Holden. Not because he didn’t want touch. But because he wanted it more than was safe, more than Kit could control himself through.
Just this much should be safe.
Kit tentatively placed his cold, damp hand in Holden’s, which burned in comparison. Holden didn’t even squeeze back. He just smiled, warm brown eyes curving, at the faint pressure of Kit’s hand, and stood there until Kit pulled away.
“If you get tired of these practical bastards,” Holden said, heading for the stairs, “just shout.”
He waved, then vanished from view. The door closed.
Darius sighed and ordered, “Come here.”
Except Kit didn’t even have to obey. He just stood still, and Darius was already in front of him. Strong arms wrapping around him. Pulling him in for a hug.
Kit tensed, awkward. He still clutched the cold soda can between them, which must be uncomfortable against Darius’s stomach. But all that mattered was Darius’s warm breath in his hair.
Trembling eased. Kit could breathe better than before. This was what he needed from Darius—to give up a few decisions. The ones he could afford.
Part of Kit wanted to linger in the warmth. Until he felt better, or until he cried. Those, however, were luxuries he couldn’t afford tonight. Kit had hollowed out his secrets and spread them bloody on the floor—but there was still a dead body upstairs.
Dad and Archie were still on the loose.
Bishop was right. The practical questions were most important.
“Okay,” Kit whispered. “I’m okay.”
They both knew it wasn’t true, but Darius still took the signal and let go.
“What’s your name?” Darius asked.
“That part was true,” Kit said, laughing weakly.
“Kit’s just a nickname for Christopher.” Saying the last name was too hard.
He met Bishop’s eyes. “I don’t know of any hideouts in San Corvo, besides Uncle Ed’s place.
I know a few near Vilton.” Kit twisted the can around.
It felt warmer, or his hands were going numb.
“I blocked his number and deleted the text, but I assume James can still find it. Not that I think that will help.”
“Any information will help.” Bishop stood, with that damned approachable expression. Like Kit was a case client he needed to woo without scaring off. “Do you want to look at the body now?”
“That’s a little soon,” Darius muttered.
“Yes,” Kit said, with unbecoming eagerness. “I mean, yes that’s soon, but also yes, let’s look. I need to do something.”
With a surprised laugh, Darius tugged the soda can from Kit’s hands. “Maybe I should have gone after James. Holden will be sad he missed this part.”
The next line of banter almost reached Kit’s lips. Something about making it up to Holden or having fun without him.
Kit just couldn’t think clearly without somewhere to put his hands. Like the stupid diet soda had been the only thing tethering him.
Darius’s hand slid into his, a firm squeeze, without letting go. Breath eased into Kit’s lungs, and his thoughts moved again.
Kit could do this. He’d carved out his heart, and Darius was still soothingly bossy and James was still working hard to control himself and Holden was still surprising everyone.
Bishop was still watching with those piercing blue eyes, focused, as if he wanted even more from Kit.
Punching things wouldn’t help. Stabbing things might, but all the target dummies were in the basement James had just fled. Inspecting all the doors, windows, and security equipment would have to suffice, until James could become what Kit needed again.
The inspection was redundant. The system should alert him of any hardware malfunctions. But redundancy was part of the system.
He’d already figured out how the intruder got in: exploiting a loophole for delivery workers, flagging a false scheduled delivery. Which was good because the intruder couldn’t have gotten into the house itself that way, or even much closer than he’d gotten.
It was bad because it meant the intruder was prepared—and familiar with James’s systems.
Loopholes. That was why James’s veins buzzed with triggered alerts. Alarms blinked red behind his eyes.
Kit had slipped past all James’s defenses, using the most effective trick in the book.
Luring James himself into inviting him in.
That wasn’t Kit’s fault. However singularly enthralling Kit was, James didn’t have to move him in.
Didn’t have to sweep him away in a limousine for a lunch date with murder for dessert.
Didn’t have to touch his exquisite face in the aftermath of a massacre.
But James had, and now they were here, deep inside each other, sharing so much breath and skin.
Need for vengeance burned sharp, indistinguishable from the bloodthirst that drove James for the past fourteen years.
He had finally satisfied that fire. Now it lived again, with a new victim. A new target.
Nausea blended with James’s anger. He didn’t touch me, Kit emphasized repeatedly. Because he had to emphasize it. Because it was possible.
Inevitable, had Kit not disrupted the hunt’s trajectory by turning his father in.
Downstairs was safe. James paused in the foyer, contacting the backup team. They needed clearance to get through the front gate without being electrocuted. Once they were settled in the yard, James headed upstairs.
A certain shadow followed. James ignored the shadow until he was done checking the second floor. Like he was inspecting his anger, too. All the cameras and circuits in order.
James stopped at the stairway to Kit’s attic bedroom. “Are you trying to piss me off?”
Halfway down the hall, Holden shrugged. His thumbs hooked in his pockets, irritatingly casual. Probably on purpose. “Would that help?”
“You want to help me,” James said, deadpan.
“Only for Kit’s sake.” Holden shrugged again. “I guess you’re useful to me, too.”
True. Holden was lucky to have fallen in with their morally flexible crew. Good job opportunities. Supportive home life. Less judgmental than most people about the murderous impulse thing.
James was lucky too, and he’d never been so grateful that Kit had people besides him. Darius and Bishop could stay with Kit while James got his shit together.
And Holden… he was here to check on James, sure. But maybe he needed something, too.
Only one person could leave Holden conflicted. Time for James to pick at both their scabs.
“How much did you already know?” James asked.
Holden grimaced, an unfamiliar expression. “I promised not to tell anyone. He didn’t want me to dig. I knew about the other kids, and I found his dad’s name. But I didn’t know Laird was the Viper. I just knew the charges didn’t make sense.”
Guilt. That was guilt on Holden’s face. How novel.
“You told us anyway,” James said, teasing out the conflict. “Do you regret telling us, or do you regret waiting until a crisis?”
“Both.”
“So, you do have feelings.”
“Always have.” Holden looked away. “They just aren’t nice feelings.” Amusement bled back into his voice. “I like knowing things about Kit that you don’t.”
The deliberate goad didn’t hit.
James expected a resurgence of his own anger, but it didn’t come. Of course he hadn’t known about Kit’s past—he never asked. He never pushed. He treasured each moment he could steal of Kit’s present, each bruise he could kiss into Kit’s future.
“You didn’t do the right thing,” James said. “But you didn’t do the wrong thing, either. Sometimes with other people, there isn’t a right move.”
Heading up the attic stairs, James grinned at Holden’s outrage.