“Look at us, getting all philosophical,” Quin said, laughing.
Kit didn’t hide his smile that time. “It’s nice to have someone who gets it.”
“You can tell me anything.”
Kit continued looking into the fire, staying quiet. Quin would have to bide his time. He’d wait as long as Kit needed, but he just hoped that Kit would tell him before he got hurt again.
Quin could take a lot, but when it came to Kit’s well-being, he was coming to realise that he had a short fuse.
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 getsome 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 looknice. 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 himDaddyhad 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 wassomethingin 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 upeverything 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.
