“So, talk,” Kit said, as calmly and unsarcastically as he could manage. He knew better than to taunt psychos with guns. “What’s so important you couldn’t just ask Bishop for my number?”
Oops. That came out a little snarky.
Darius didn’t react to Kit’s attitude, which was a bad sign. He just stood there like a dark bronze statue, all perfect angles and gorgeous intensity. The level-headed, unreadable types were the fucking worst.
Then, Darius’s posture changed subtly. The intense focus softened, and his shoulders relaxed. He hardly moved, but with a single breath he shed his predatory aura. “Sorry about the production,” he said, deep voice like gentle fingers stroking behind Kit’s ears. “I needed to get you alone.”
Kit’s fingers dug into his thighs. “Why?”
Darius’s reply was just as gentle: “Because someone hired me to kill you.”
From Darius’s perspective, the surprise in Kit’s eyes seemed genuine—as was the immediate, protective hunching over. The slight shift in posture, his toes pressing into the ground, ready to launch from his chair. Kit’s eyes stayed not on the gun, where most people would keep looking if they were afraid of being shot, but on Darius’s face and shoulders.
That was part of Darius’s reasoning behind this whole dramatic production. He needed a better read on Kit Byron. Information about this situation was thin on the ground, and his target was his strongest clue.
It hadn’t taken much research to figure out that the kid was staying with James now. It had taken a little more digging to realize Kit didn’t seem to be a prisoner anymore. He was staying with James of his own volition. Or at least, he wasn’t trying to escape. But he hadn’t left James’s house until today.
This operation was more rushed than Darius preferred, but he had a flight to catch this afternoon for another job. And he wasn’t sure when he’d get another chance to get Kit alone without James overhearing. He’d learned a lot just from this moment.
Kit’s surprise: he wasn’t expecting a hit on himself.
Kit’s posture: he was used to being threatened.
But Darius didn’t know what to make of Kit’s next question. Notwhoorwhyor pleading for mercy. In a brittle, frosted voice, Kit asked: “Do you want to kill me?”
Darius’s own desires had nothing to do with it. “That’s my job.”
“Not what I asked.” Kit took a deep breath and stood up, slowly, hands half-raised at his sides. The sleeves of his sweatshirt fell back around his thin wrists. “Forget the job. Forget the money. Do you want to kill me?”
Darius cocked his head, interest growing. “Does it matter?”
“It’s the only thing that matters,” Kit said, with such quiet intensity that Darius’s pulse quickened.
Darius should be snapping for Kit to sit back down. He knew better than to let a target control their own movements. But every fiber of him wanted to see how Kit’s wings would flutter in this cage. He leaned in the doorway, gun warm in his hand, and listened.
“If it’s just a job,” Kit said. “If it’s just money, then I can tell you that my murderous new boyfriend is extremely wealthy. He’s also extremely revenge-driven. Whatever your employer’s paying, James will pay double—or he’ll kill you if you go through with this. He’s also probably tracking my phone, because he’s a possessive psycho, so he knows where I am.”
Boyfriend? That was interesting.
“I could tell you some sob stories. Real humanizing shit. I’ve got plenty, and some might even be true.” Kit fingered the zip of his sweatshirt, lips twisting, then began slowly sliding the garment from his shoulders. “Or I could blow you, or whatever. My ass probably isn’t worth what they’re paying you, but maybe if we go a few rounds, it’ll add up.”
Darius was a professional. He’d killed dozens of people over the years, but he hadn’t gotten the whole bribe-threaten-plead song and dance since he hit the big leagues. Since he moved to covert, sophisticated kills, instead of the brute enforcement street shit he started in. When Darius took a job, the mark never had a chance to beg for their life.
There was something different about this, though. Kit stalked towards him, chin lifting as he got closer, so those pretty green eyes stayed fixed on Darius. The thin skin beneath the collar of his shirt begged for Darius’s touch, and his voice was more exhausted and resigned than terrified.
“If you truly want to kill me, though,” Kit said. “I know that no threat or bribe or blowjob will persuade a man who trulywantsto kill me.” His hand hovered in front of Darius’s chest, fingers poised as if he were about to touch—then fell away. “So, just tell me if I’m wasting my breath or not.”
And in that instant, Darius got it.
Why Bishop was obsessed with this kid. Why James was obsessed. If they felt anything like what Darius felt in this moment—if Kit ever looked at them with eyes like this, every angle of him a razor-sharp invitation—
Darius touched the edge of Kit’s jaw. Kit didn’t flinch. Not even when Darius’s fingers wandered down his neck, tracing soft lines and beautiful blue bruises. The shadows of James’s lips. Darius’s blood pooled lower in his body, cock plumping as heimagined the bruises when they were fresh, still gleaming from the press of James’s tongue.
“I don’t want to kill you.” Darius probably shouldn’t be thinking about the delicious contrast between their skin tones. Which of Darius’s tools and toys would look best on Kit. It was unprofessional. “I never intended to.”
“Great,” Kit said, deadpan. “So, which will it be? Bribe? Threat? Blowjob?”
Darius’s hand fell from Kit’s throat. “Do you offer to blow everyone who threatens to kill you?”
