Holden’s hands tightened into fists, knuckles white against his knees. “Damn. I thought I was fucked up.”
A weak laugh bubbled out of Kit. He wiped his eyes and laughed harder, not quite crying, but notnotcrying either.
Until Holden lifted his chin with gentle fingers. “Hey, Kit. Where is your dad now?”
“Prison.” Kit wiped his eyes again and couldn’t manage a smile. “I took the laptop to the cops. The evidence was overwhelming. Dad didn’t fight the charges, and that was that.”
“That was that?” Holden gently stroked Kit’s cheek. “Somehow I doubt it.”
Interviews. Therapy. Testifying. More therapy. Kit finally escaped to a pair of temporary guardians in Arizona and tried to be normal until he turned eighteen.
Then he got the fake ID from Smith and vanished. He thought he was escaping—but escaping looked a lot like giving up, when he ended up living with Uncle Ed anyway.
Kit couldn’t bring himself to explain any more now, though. This was difficult enough already.
Holden just kept petting Kit’s hair. “I want to kill your dad. If that’s okay with you.”
The words were so soft, so sweet. Closing his eyes, Kit leaned into the touch. “I don’t know if it’s okay. I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”
“I really want to kill him.” Holden kissed the top of Kit’s head and pulled him closer. “But I’d rather be here with you.”
The tenderness shot right through Kit’s bloodstream. Because Holden sounded exactly the same now as he had before Kit’s awful story. Kit never had that before. Whenever he told someone, they treated him differently. With pity. Horror. Lurid curiosity.
There was always a difference before and after someone learned about the dead substitutes. Before and after someone learned Kit’s dad was obsessed with fucking him.
Except with Holden. Because Holden didn’t care about anyone or anything except Kit.
All Kit’s fucked-up, exhausted emotions twisted into all-consuming neediness. Holden wanted him. Just him. With a devotion so strong it became murderous—and then surpassed the killing urge.
Holden wanted him bad enough to kill him, but more. Kit needed that, with the most selfish pieces of his shattered soul.
“He should have just killed me,” Kit whispered.
Holden squeezed Kit’s shoulders. “It’s okay if you think that, but I can’t agree. If he killed you, I wouldn’t have you here.” Holden gave a lopsided grin. “I’d kill anyone for another minute with you, if I thought you’d be cool with it.”
Then Holden’s grin fell away.
“What’s wrong?” Kit asked.
Holden patted Kit’s arm. “I’m feeling a little obsessive right now. My phone is in the kitchen. Go up and call your guys.”
The air chilled as Holden extricated himself from Kit’s grasp.
“What?” Kit demanded. He scrambled off the mattress after Holden, nearly falling over—except Holden was right there, holding him up by the elbow. “You can’t just let me go like this.”
Holden laughed. “Darling, you say the sweetest things. Don’t make it harder on me.”
“Fuck you.” Kit scowled. “You fucking kidnapped me! I can make this as hard as I want.”
Holden raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, fine, make me suffer. But you probably want to call your boyfriends. I don’t care if they’re upset, but I know you do.”
Kit felt empty on his next breath. Holden was right. Kit needed and wanted and cared for James, Darius, and even the infuriating Bishop.
The thought of them worrying about him made Kit sick—even as Kit craved that worry, that protectiveness.
“All right,” Kit said. “But I’m taking the gun with me.”
“That’s fine,” Holden said cheerfully.
