Chapter 9 Kit
NINE
Kit
Kit shifted on the rock, unable to find a comfortable spot. Next time he came down to the shore, he’d bring a cushion.
He sat cross-legged, elbows digging into his knees, propping his head up on his fists. The sky was the richest of dark blues, swallowing the light of the moon and stars. White-tipped waves from the choppy sea crashed into the rocks further out, throwing a satisfying spray up into the air.
In the past, Kit had contemplated the idea of walking into the water and letting the blackness swallow him whole. But then he would remember the times that Lawrence had drowned him in the bathtub, and the notion of going anywhere near the sea made him shiver despite not feeling the cold.
Temperature only affected him when he’d recently fed, and he hadn’t done so since he'd taken Quin up on his offer a few nights ago.
Quin’s blood had tasted like no blood ever had before.
It reminded Kit of the expensive wine he’d lifted from some rich kid’s house during a party he and Nicola had crashed.
The sheer number of people who’d turned up had overwhelmed Kit, so he slunk off to a remote part of the humongous house to get some respite.
Before finding a refuge, he’d come across a fancy pantry, complete with wine storage.
He hadn’t thought twice about swiping a bottle and smuggling it out in his rucksack.
Kit didn’t have a refined palate, but the rich, spiced decadence of the wine tasted far better than the cheap bottles he took from his mum’s stash.
There was something of it in Quin’s blood.
Whether because of how illicit it felt to imbibe the blood of a werewolf, or the memory of the expensive liquid, or how smooth it went down, Kit wasn’t sure.
But it had been his first thought upon tasting Quin.
He’d been unable to feed from anyone else since then, wanting only more of Quin. Everyone else paled in comparison.
Kit wrapped his arms around himself as he stared out at the inky blackness that had replaced the blue. He wished he’d put on a larger jumper, something he could bury himself in. Instead, he’d tried to look nice. Fuck knows why he’d done that.
It definitely wasn’t because he might run into a certain werewolf whilst out and about.
No, Kit had given no thought to how flattering the Breton sailor sweatshirt looked on him, or how his dark jeans made his arse look rounder, or how he’d run a comb through his curls and tamed them with the barest amount of product.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
And he also wasn’t sniffing the air, hoping to catch the bergamot scent Quin favoured. Kit always imagined that werewolves might smell of wet dog. The reality was so much worse.
Desperate to focus on anything other than Quin, Kit’s mind strayed to his sister.
He didn’t think of her often. It was too strange considering the person she was now; a woman approaching her sixties, with children and young grandchildren of her own, whilst Kit was stuck frozen in time as a teenager.
Born on the same day, yet appearing decades apart.
He’d looked her up on social media, which was how he’d found out about the kids, and how one of them was also called Christopher.
Kit had shed his father’s name as soon as possible. All that remained of the man were Kit’s memories of a puce-coloured face, harsh words, and even harsher fists.
Thinking of fathers, however, led him right back to Quin, and how he’d reacted to Kit’s comment about his dad. Quin was a carbon copy of the wide-shouldered, bearded man in the photograph, so calling him Daddy had been a not-so-innocent method of testing Quin’s reaction to the title.
It had been interesting to witness. Quin’s heartbeat had sped up, like it tended to do when Kit stood near him, and Kit had been briefly concerned that Quin had swallowed his tongue.
The problem with that response, however, was that it was inconclusive as to the question of whether Quin wanted to have the title directed at himself.
And it wasn’t like Kit was entirely sure what he wanted from a partner, anyway.
He knew he wasn’t like Shaun—harsh pain didn’t appeal, and the idea of rigid rules grated, but there was something in the Daddy dynamic that endeared Kit, even in the abstract.
It was the caretaking, perhaps. Or the protectiveness.
Or maybe it was just that he would get to be the centre of someone’s world—someone who would tend to his needs and desires. Someone who could handle knowing all the things that had happened to him, and be patient when memories overwhelmed him.
Quin had already proved himself to be protective of Kit.
He cared that Kit had been hurt, and the fire in Quin’s eyes from seeing the marks had made Kit desperate to confide the truth.
But explaining it might have scared Quin off, and Kit didn’t want to fuck up their tentative friendship the way he fucked up everything else.
Meeting Quin was the first nice thing to happen to Kit in a long time, so risking it wasn’t worth it.
Not yet. Not until Kit was certain.
When there was no sign of Quin after half an hour, Kit stood, stretching his limbs out.
He walked along the rocky beach, selecting a few of the flattest stones.
He wandered, filling his pockets with stones, until he got to a nice clear point to stop at.
Rooting his feet, he selected the roundest stone and skipped it into the sea.
He frowned when he only got it to bounce twice.
He took another out and tried a second time. Another failure. Then again. The last one just plopped once and sank right back down to the sea floor.
“It’s all in the wrist action.” At the sudden words, Kit whirled around, dropping the stone in his hand.
Quin looked sheepish, standing there in his usual getup of battered Barbour jacket and faded jeans. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
Kit snorted. “You didn’t.”
Quin pointedly eyed the fallen stone but didn’t refute Kit’s claim. “Shall I show you how to do it?”
Kit pressed his mouth into a thin line. “I know how to do it,” he said primly.
Quin, once again, didn’t argue. But he did move closer to Kit, bending over on the way and picking up a stone of his own. Quin weighed it in his palm before dropping it and choosing another—the one Kit had just dropped.
“That’s mine,” Kit said, holding his hand out for it.
“You don’t have a monopoly on the rocks, Kit.”
Kit scowled. “But I brought it from over there.” He pointed back to where he’d come along the beach.
Quin just gave him a little grin. “It’s mine now.”
Kit stared at the stone in Quin’s hand. He was faster than Quin. He could grab it and run before Quin even realised he’d taken it.
Instead, he magnanimously allowed Quin to keep the stone. “Go ahead then,” he said with a sigh. “I bet you can’t get over four skips, anyway.”
Quin looked out at the sea. “And what do I get when I win this bet?” His tone stayed casual, but his heart rate sped up.
Kit shoved both of his hands into his pockets, fingering the rest of the stones. “What would you want?”
Quin paused, then said, “A cup of tea.”
“A… What?”
Quin looked at Kit. “I know you can’t eat food, but surely you’ve not been a vampire for so long that you’ve forgotten what a cuppa is.”
“I know what a cup of tea is!” Kit spluttered. “I just don’t understand why you’d ask for that for winning a bet.”
“Oh, I forgot to specify that you’re going to brew it for me. In your house.”
Kit grimaced as his claws scraped against the stones in his pockets. “My house?”
“Your house,” Quin agreed. “You’ll invite me over like a good neighbour, and we’ll sit and have a drink.”
“If you get over four skips,” Kit clarified.
“If I get over four skips,” Quin agreed.
“Hmm. Fine.” Kit pulled one of his hands out and gnawed on his thumbnail. He’d tried to break himself of the habit for years, but it never seemed to stick. He caught Quin eyeing his movement, so he shoved his hand back into his pocket, sinking his claws into his palm instead.
Quin sniffed the air, frowning. “Are you bleeding?”
“No.”
“I can smell it.” Quin twisted his body to look Kit up and down. It made Kit realise just how close they were standing, as he had to tilt his head back to meet Quin’s eyes as he spoke. “Kit…”
“Throw the damn rock already, or the bet is off,” Kit said, taking a step back. He pulled his hands from his pockets, pressing them together to wipe at the blood.
Quin held his gaze for a moment, but seemed to understand that Kit wasn’t in any serious pain. When Quin chucked the stone up in the air and then caught it, Kit rolled his eyes. Quin wore a focused expression on his face, like he was lining up to pot the black in a championship snooker game.
Quin whipped the stone out into the sea, and they watched avidly as it skipped once, twice, thrice…
Six. It bounced six times. Quin turned to Kit, triumphant.
“Fine. You’ll get your cup of tea,” Kit said, not wanting to dwell on it. “No Mabel tonight?”
Quin took the change in conversation in stride. “I drove out to one of the dog parks today. Taught her a bit of rugby. She’ll make a decent winger one day, but she ran herself ragged. Thought I’d leave her to sleep.”
Kit rarely felt a pang of envy for those free to walk in the sun, but the idea of watching Mabel running around in the light of day held a certain appeal. If he was being honest with himself, so did the prospect of seeing Quin in the daylight.
Kit turned back to the sea, a bitter taste in his mouth.
“You all right?” Quin asked, his voice so low the waves almost drowned it out.
No was on the tip of Kit’s tongue.
“Yeah,” he said instead.
Quin didn’t question him. Kit wasn’t sure if he was glad of it or not. Peeking at Quin out of the corner of his eyes, Kit assessed him. He appeared relaxed, happy to be watching the sea in quiet company.
“Actually,” Kit said, surprising even himself when he broke the silence. “I was envious of your and Mabel’s trip to the dog park.”
“I could take you, if you fancied.”
“A midnight meeting at a dog park? Everyone would think we were up to no good.”
“Nah,” Quin said. “One glance at your face and they’d be convinced that you were innocent. Bet you got away with anything as a kid.”
Kit tensed. “The opposite was true.”
There was the faintest of hitches in Quin’s breath. “I’m sorry.”
“You shouldn’t start apologising for every little thing that’s gone wrong in my life. You’ll never stop.”
Quin turned his head fully towards Kit, eyes seeing far more than Kit liked. “You deserve at least a single apology.”
Kit shrugged. “Maybe.” In his pocket, he dug his nails further into his flesh. The stones would be bathed in his blood by now. He drew one out. The palm of his hand was stained red. He didn’t check to see if Quin noticed. Kit knew he had.
Heedless, Kit strode towards the sea. He crouched down and stuck his hand under, cleansing the blood even as the salt seeped into the wounds, stinging.
“Kit,” Quin said, then stopped, as if he’d run out of words to say.
“It’s—” Kit started, but Quin cut in.
“Kit.” Quin sounded wretched.
Kit withdrew his hand from the water. This time, he couldn’t bear to tell Quin the truth. “It’s nothing,” he said.
The lie tasted bitter on his tongue.