Near midnight, the quiet became too much. Kit had pilfered leftover takeout from the kitchen around eight, and explored a few more rooms before retreating to his bedroom. He was fucking exhausted after the day he’d had—after the weeks he’d had—but he wasn’t going to fall asleep. Not on his own.
His thoughts were too loud, magnifying every memory into a footfall. A creaking doorway. A chill across his neck. Or worse: the silence.
Normally Kit would turn to chemical help. Or just pace around the room until he couldn’t stay upright. But tonight, his feet led him down the hall, to the sliver of light spilling from an open door.
James’s bedroom was the most alive room Kit had seen in the house so far. Enormous, still showing traces of professional decorating, but crowded with a desk, a dining table strewn with papers and notebooks in the bay window, a sofa strewn with discarded clothes. Messy. Dark. A single lamp glowed beside the massive bed, where James sat up, still working.
He had on red flannel sleep pants and nothing else. A tablet glowed, propped up on his bent knee, and the light illuminated every ripple of his abdomen. Black and red tattoo edges curved along his upper arms.
James glanced up and met Kit’s eyes.
Kit’s thoughts were too loud, but they caught in his throat. He couldn’t say anything as James’s eyes raked over his body. Kit was wearing a t-shirt and boxers, and his bare legs heated as if strong, confident hands were tracing every inch of him.
“Get in bed,” James said eventually, turning back to whatever was on the screen. “I’ll turn the light off soon.”
Gratitude shivered through Kit’s body. The order made it easy. He didn’t have to ask. James didn’t even look at him, though the man’s awareness was even warmer than the sheets Kit slid between.
“What’s the tattoo?” Kit asked.
James’s lips curled. In answer, he leaned forward. His back was a sunset of red and orange, swirling flames and feathers.Kit had to scoot closer to see the entire phoenix soaring across James’s back. Wings flung out to embrace James’s arms and shoulders. The tail swept down, the longest feathers disappearing beneath James’s waistband.
“How far down does it go?” Kit asked.
James sank back on the pillow. Touched Kit’s chin. “If you want to find out, we’re not sleeping any time soon.”
“Never mind.” Kit wrinkled his nose and flopped down on the pillow, as James laughed.
Kit curled up on his side, hands tucked under the pillow and watched James until his eyelids were too heavy to stay open.
He wasn’t quite asleep when the light clicked off, and the sheets rustled. But he wasn’t awake enough to move when James’s warm body shifted closer to his. Kit decided sleepily he didn’t care what James did, as long as James didn’t expect him to put in effort.
Breath ghosted over his cheekbone. But that was it. They fell asleep without touching.
Darius accepted the beer from Bishop, hoping his unease wasn’t showing. Bishop was better at reading people than most men Darius knew—but Darius was harder to read than most people. Useful in his profession.
“I’m guessing that kid isn’t here anymore, since you let me through the door.” Darius hadn’t been sure what he’d find when he stopped by, which was why he’d stopped by with only fifteen minutes’ notice via text. He had a good enough excuse, hopefully.
Bishop dropped into the armchair across from Darius. A college football game was muted on the TV, Devil Whales vs. Margays. Bishop looked more tired than usual. Stubble shadowed his jaw. “I let you in last time, didn’t I? But yes, he’s out.”
“Not chained up in your basement?” Darius asked, and chuckled when Bishop glared. “Come on, it’s a fair question.”
Especially considering that Darius’s only in-person memory of Kit Byron is that bird-boned wrist enclosed in cold steel. Scared, furious green eyes.
Bishop avoided Darius’s gaze. “He isn’t your business.”
Fuck, Bishop was rattled about this kid. Darius had seen Bishop in all sorts of situations, from bad to worse, and he had never been this avoidant before.
“He saw me bleeding on your floor,” Darius said. “That’s my business.”
Bishop inhaled, then exhaled, releasing tension. “He’s not going to talk. If he does, I’m first on the chopping block. How’s your arm?”
The deflection wasn’t subtle, but Darius let Bishop have it. Asking too many questions about Kit would set off Bishop’s alarm bells. “The arm’s good. I’ll have another dashing scar when it heals. Remind me to give you a cut of my bonus, as thanks for patching me up.”
Bishop took a swig from his beer. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ll owe you a drink, then. Don’t argue,” Darius said. “Business, now. Have you heard anything about the Viper recently?”
He would be shocked if Bishop had. The Viper used to be the most powerful criminal leader in the region—but his influence had waned over the past fifteen years, and dwindled to almostnothing in the past five. Some rumors even speculated he was dead.
