“He’s ahead of us.” Bishop snapped a photo of the sedan’s license plate. His thoughts raced and floundered at once, crashing against each other. “Kit isn’t here. Someone else is wearing the tracking bracelet.”
Silence rang across the line.
“I’m going to question the girls. You two, meet me at my place.” Dread and determination warred in Bishop’s heart. “Holden’s smarter than I thought. We need a plan. Either we still have time, or…”
Darius finished what Bishop couldn’t say: “Or it’s already too late.”
Sixteen minutes now. Who knew how much of a lead Holden had before Bishop realized there was a problem. Either Kit was still alive, or he was already dead.
“We have time,” James bit out, and Bishop wanted to believe him.
Because all he could think about was sitting on his kitchen floor. Kit leaning against him. Shattered pieces of their pasts spread out around them. Vulnerability offered like a gift.
Bishop had almost kissed Kit then. Right now, alone under the flickering street lamp, Bishop wished he had given in.
37
“I can’t think right about you.”
Darkness rippled. Kit floated within himself, caught between nothingness and fear. He couldn’t open his eyes yet. If he opened his eyes, something bad would happen.
If he stayed asleep, he didn’t have to be afraid.
But darkness couldn’t protect Kit from everything else. Awareness crept through the strain in his shoulders. Bindings pulled Kit’s wrists behind his back. More bindings tightened around his ankles.
Bunched-up fabric irritated his skin, where his mesh tank top rode up beneath his ribs.
Kit lay on his side, on what felt like a bare mattress. Except his cheek pressed against a pillow, gone damp beneath his mouth. There was something strangely familiar about his surroundings.
Faint bruises ached around his shoulders and knees. Not as many as Kit expected. Nothing hurt on the inside, and Kit’s clothes were intact, but nausea rocked his stomach at the thought. Should he be relieved his kidnapper hadn’t raped him while he was asleep?
The man could have done anything.
Footsteps tapped across the room, traveling back and forth. Back and forth. Kit’s kidnapper was in the room with him.
Holden.
Holden drugged and kidnapped him. That fact rattled through Kit’s entire body, sharp edges drawing blood wherever they struck. Closing his eyes didn’t keep the hurt away after all.
Kit opened his eyes and flinched at the light.
Then his eyes adjusted, and he flinched again. Holden paced across the room, head bowed, a stalking lion in a baggy SCU hoodie.
The room was an ordinary basement den. A couch against one wall. A fridge against another, unplugged. A shaggy rug kicked into a rumpled heap out of the way. Metal shelves, their contents rummaged through and scattered.
Ordinary. Except Kit knew this room. This was Uncle Ed’s basement. But this bed wasn’t supposed to be here. This bed was supposed to be upstairs, in the guest room Kit slept in.
Dreamlike unreality wrapped around Kit like a net. Bound him tighter than the cuffs on his wrists, or the chain tying his ankles to the foot of the bed.
Kit was right back where he started.
Why did Holden bring him here?
Across the room, Holden met Kit’s eyes. He stopped short, and a smile broke the blank mask of his face. “Darling. You’re awake.”
Kit swallowed, his throat too dry to answer even if he knew what to say.
Holden picked something off the metal shelves. A sleek, dark handgun. He set it down again, shuddered, and approached the bed with empty hands. “I’m sorry, Kit. I didn’t want it to be like this.”
