I sat.
We were absolutely going to need a bigger whiteboard.
TWENTY-SIX
Kit
When Zia did precisely as I instructed without a single word of protest, my brain didn't just stutter. It blue-screened. It was a physical sensation, an abrupt, jarring trip in the groove of a scratched vinyl record, a violentk-k-k-kickthat slammed the needle right back to the start of the measure. The world skipped, and I was left standing in the silence of my own shock.
I died. Right there in the low-lit back lounge of a tour bus doing a steady sixty down the M1, Kit Wilde ceased to exist as a functioning biological entity. It felt like my heart seized, a tight fist in my chest. My lungs, suddenly empty, collapsed like paper bags. I’m pretty sure my soul departed my body, took one look at the tableau, Zia on the bunk, Alfie coiled in the corner, Euan a statue by the door, and simply screamed into the void before abandoning ship entirely.
Then, just as quickly, I rebooted. A system restart, cold and clean.
But I didn't come back as a man. A man would have crossed the three feet of worn carpeting that separated us, dropped to his knees, and begged for a taste of the scent that was suddenly flooding the enclosed space. The sharp, electric tang of neoncitrus and ozone, frosted grapefruit zest under high voltage, was a physical siren's call. A man would have drowned in it. A man would have let his own instincts, the ones that screamed to protect, to soothe, totouch, take the wheel.
I came back online as a utility. A service animal. A finely calibrated tool to be used until the specific, agreed-upon job was complete.
"Copy," I said, and the voice that emerged from my throat was a stranger's. It was lower than the sub-bass on our heaviest track, a baritone scraped from the very bottom of a well. Absolute zero. "I'm narrating all actions. You tell me if you want pace changes, faster or slower."
I didn't dare look at Alfie. I didn't need to. I could hear him, a sharp, choked-off intake of breath that sounded like he’d been sucker-punched in the gut. I could feel the sheer heat radiating off Euan where he stood ramrod-straight by the door, his stillness so profound it seemed to vibrate, like a bass string plucked and then immediately muted.
My entire world contracted, my focus narrowing until it was only the few feet of space between me and her. I locked my eyes on Zia’s face, tracing the way the dim indigo bus lights carved shadows beneath her cheekbones. To keep myself honest, I clasped my hands tightly behind my back, linking my fingers until the knuckles burned. Parade rest. A cage for my own hands. If I didn't lock them away, they were going to do something that would breach the very contract we were here to test.
"We're starting," I rumbled, pitching the words to carry over the low hum of the tyres on the motorway. "Right hand. Lift it."
Zia blinked, her focus so absolute it was like witnessing a camera lens pulling a subject into sharp relief. Her breath hitched, just a tiny, audible fraction. She lifted her hand. It was steady.
"Good," I murmured, the word tasting like dark-roast espresso and scorched sugar on my tongue. "Bring it down to the waistband of your jeans. Don't unbutton. Just rest it there. Fingers flat. Feel the metal of the button under your palm."
She obeyed, her hand lowering to press against the cool denim. Her fingers brushed the worn fabric. Her eyes, wide and dark and utterly transfixed, never left mine. She looked trapped, but not by me. She was trapped by the sound, by the frequency of my voice pinning her in place.
"Protocol check," I said, keeping the rhythm of my speech steady, slow, intentionally heavy like a four-four beat on the kick drum. "Are we still on a green light?"
"Green," she whispered, the word barely a ghost in the quiet.
"Sorted. Pop the button. One clean movement. Thumb and forefinger."
Pop.
The sound was a gunshot. It detonated in the small space, louder than the engine, louder than the hurricane of blood rushing in my ears. It was the sound of a seal breaking.
"Now the zipper," I commanded, my voice dropping even lower. "Pull it down. Slow. I want to hear the teeth separate."
Her fingers found the small metal tab. She pulled.Zzzzzzip.A clean, metallic rip through the fabric of the night.
From the corner, Alfie made a noise that sounded like a whimper being throttled at birth. I clamped down on the instinct to check on him, to offer a grounding word. He wasn't the mission. My world was the three feet of space between me and the engineer on the bunk.
"Hand inside," I said, deliberately putting all the gravel of a rain-soaked Manchester alley into the vowels. "Find the skin. Past the elastic of your waistband. Tell me the contrast. Cold hand, warm skin. Tell me the temperature you find."
"Hot," she gasped out. Her head fell back against the padded grey wall of the bunk with a soft thud. The little red light on her phone’s audio recorder, placed carefully on the mattress beside her, blinked like a tiny, malevolent eye in the dimness.
"Hot," I repeated, my tone pure confirmation, a databank logging an entry. "Copy that. Now slide down. Find the center of all that heat. Don't touch the nerve bundle yet. Just cup yourself. Let me see you hold the heat."
She did as I said. Her hand disappeared into the dark denim of her jeans. She bit down on her bottom lip, hard, a flash of white teeth in the gloom.
"Pressure now," I instructed, my eyes tracking the involuntary jerk of her hips. "Flat palm. Heavy. Like you're grinding it into the bone. A slow, clockwise circle. Start the motion."
She moved. A wrecked, wet groan tore from her throat, a sound that bypassed my ears and went straight through my chest, vibrating along my ribs.
