Grinning, Kit hid the screen from Darius.
An hour later, Kit curled up on the couch. He’d already ditched his button-down for a sweatshirt. His comfy shorts were short enough that Darius banished him from the kitchen after ten minutes of making out. Too distracting for cleanup—Kit’s diabolical plan had worked.
Partly. Kit intended to continue the makeouts with James, but James looked too distant at the sink. They visited his parents’ resting place today. Kit would permit emotions to happen.
Including positive emotions. Meeting Miranda was nice. Not just because Miranda was nice, but because seeing new aspects of Darius was enthralling.
Speaking of…
Kit’s phone buzzed thrillingly. Unknown number. Miranda must be home already and wasting no time. Kit perched on the edge of the couch, ready for the forbidden cosplay photos.
Except Kit had already added Miranda Fontaine to his contact album. Her number shouldn’t be unknown. Instead of photos, the screen showed a simple line of text.
Unknown Number:You should be more careful. Someone ran your DNA.
34
strange little projects
Shock seized the darkest part of Kit’s heart. His hand clenched painfully around his phone. He couldn’t look away as the next message followed.
Unknown Number:Don’t worry, he didn’t find anything. I took care of it.
Each word clawed between Kit’s ribs. He jolted into motion even as his thoughts remained sluggish. A few quick swipes blocked the number. Deleted the message thread. As if by erasing it, he could pretend it never arrived.
It was him. It had to be him.
He knew Kit’s new number. He probably knew Kit’s new address, and Kit’s cozy new mansion closed in like a cage. Each clink and laugh from the kitchen echoed like omens of disaster.
No. Darius and James were right in the kitchen. Kit had only to breathe too loud, and they would run to him. Holden was just a quick message away, too.
So was Bishop.
Dad was the one locked away in a cage, and Kit didn’t have to fear him.
Except Dad shouldn’t have Kit’s number. Dad shouldn’t be able to ‘take care of it’ from prison. He always had friends—connections—people Kit was once happy to use. Ed gave Kit a place to stay, before Bishop shot him. Smith gave Kit the fake ID, before James and Darius shot him, too.
This was a mistake. Tying himself to one city. One house. Tying his heart to anyone, much less so many of them.
It was a mistake to let himself feel so stupidly safe.
To let himself feel.
And Kit was right to distrust Bishop. Certainty sliced deep, and the wound welled with betrayal. Bishop had the means and motive to run Kit’s DNA. Because he distrusted Kit, as much as Kit distrusted Bishop.
Kit unfolded from the couch, hyperconscious of his wobbly legs. He needed a moment alone. To think or forget or rewire his memory into something better.
He needed to get his gun from his bedroom. Just to have it on him. Fuck. He shouldn’t have a bedroom. He should have kept running.
“Where are you running off to?” Darius’s voice wrapped warm around Kit’s throat. His arm slid around Kit’s waist moments later. “You were no help with the dishes, so James and I decided you should help us out another way.”
For one instant, Kit couldn’t answer.
Then the wall of stone closed around his heart. Warm on the outside, cold on the inside. He locked away his terror and turned with a smirk.
“I was running off to bed,” Kit purred, sliding devious hands up Darius’s chest. He seized Darius’s collar as James pressed behind him. “Care to join me?”
They did.
