Kit was different too. He felt things now. Sometimes that was bad, because sometimes life hurt. But that was worth it, when everything else could be so damn good.
The kitchen curtains were gone, and the room was bright. Morning shone outside.
Kit’s guys must be frantic.
Holden’s phone was easy to find, right on the kitchen table. But when Kit tried to unlock it, the screen stayed blank.
Kit pushed the power button. An empty battery icon flashed before the screen darkened again.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” Kit groaned.
So much for calling in his location. Not that Kit remembered anyone else’s phone number anyway; he’d planned on calling his own number and hoping James had grabbed his phone. Pretty good plan, Kit had thought.
There was probably a charger somewhere. Maybe. But Kit’s battery was drained as empty as the phone. Exhaustion softened his reflexes. Holden’s sweatshirt was so warm around him.
Kit quickly, easily unloaded the gun, then slumped in a chair with a clear view of every door.
His desperation ebbed, leaving Kit adrift in a strange, calm clarity. He was alone with his thoughts for the first time in a longtime. Perhaps since the last time he was here. But his thoughts weren’t so bad anymore.
Kit survived his own happy childhood. Dozens of other kids didn’t—all the doppelgangers Kit never met, with such dark hair and such frightened eyes. Substitutes who suffered and died in Kit’s place.
But Kit wasn’t at fault for surviving. Maybe Kit deserved to be happy. Maybe it was even okay for people to love him.
That thought held Kit in place until across the kitchen, the side door opened.
40
breakdowns
Kit had never seen Bishop so haggard before. Shadows sharpened his piercing blue eyes, like his gaze could kill even faster than the gun in his hand. That deadly skill was reassuring. Soothing.
Bishop stopped in the doorway.
“It’s okay,” Kit said.
“Where is he?” Bishop asked, still scanning the empty room. His gun pointed toward the ground. His gaze paused at the gun on the table.
“Holden’s restrained,” Kit said instead of answering, because he needed to control the next few minutes.
Suddenly the déjà vu hit. He and Bishop were back in the same kitchen they first met. The blood had been scrubbed away, but that just exposed the grime beneath. The broken foundations of their lives.
Kit rose from the table far more slowly than Bishop did when they met. He left the unloaded gun on the table, instead of aiming it. “It’s okay,” Kit repeated. “I’m okay.”
Bishop’s composure shattered. He crossed the room in three strides. And this felt like it had happened before, except it neverhad: Bishop slid one gloved hand gently across Kit’s cheek. The other still held his gun as they crashed into a kiss.
Once again, Kit stood motionless, and Bishop made him feel something. Not terror this time, but no less intense. Every scrape of stubble, every devouring movement, brought Kit to life. Leather, sweat, and bitter espresso filled Kit’s lungs. His nerves sang beneath every brush of Bishop’s glove.
Bishop jerked away. His eyes darted across Kit’s face, like Kit too was an unfamiliar room to scan for danger. Kit knew exactly what Bishop was going to say before he said it: “I’m sorry.”
“You fucking asshole,” Kit breathed.
Before Kit could shove that apology back down Bishop’s throat, a door creaked elsewhere in the house. Bishop stepped back, putting a healthy distance between them before James rushed in.
Even through his anger at Bishop, Kit’s heart skipped painfully. James hadn’t changed clothes since they parted, a holster strapped over his rumpled shirt. Cold fire burned in his dark eyes—then blazed when he saw Kit.
James didn’t waste time scanning the room like Bishop. He holstered his gun and shoved past Bishop. Tender, frantic touches flew across Kit’s shoulders. His face. His wrists. James’s hands were bare, no leather between them, and his every touch kissed like soft fire.
“Are you hurt?” James demanded. “Did he fucking touch you? Tell me where you’re hurt.”
