Oh. Darius was concerned. That hurt way worse than distrust.
“I’m fine,” Kit said, unconvincing even to himself.
“I know.” Darius squeezed Kit once more. “Thanks.”
That was to Holden, who clicked the safety and slid the gun into his back pocket. Fingers slid across Kit’s jaw, acrid with gunpowder. Just like Kit’s hands.
The plaster garage wall held Kit upright, and Holden leaned in. Two breaths—one shallow, frantic, the other steady, certain—entwined in a kiss. Holden’s desire hooked into Kit’s mind and body, drawing them back together.
“That was so hot,” Holden murmured. “You’re so gorgeous.”
“I shot someone.” Kit twisted Holden’s shirt. He was past trembling. “I didn’t think, I was just freaking out, and I just…”
Holden nuzzled Kit’s hair. “You were incredible, darling. Can’t believe you hit him in the dark like that. Your aim is way better than mine.”
“I shot him,” Kit says, voice thin.
“And I killed him.” Holden’s touch traveled from Kit’s throat to his arms. To his hips. “It’s okay to freak out. I want you to be happy, but your panic attacks are sexy, too.”
That, of all things, jolts Kit back into reality. “What the fuck.”
Holden kissed beneath Kit’s jaw.
Kit squirmed, body reacting despite all reason. “Why does that make me feel better?”
“Because you love me, too,” Holden said without missing a beat.
Sometimes his aim was better than Kit’s.
“I’m still mad at you,” Kit said. That was important. “Kiss me again.”
Holden chuckled, low and ravenous, and obliged. For a moment, Kit was glad his men had caught him. Dad was out, with Bishop’s ex-partner. A random pervert realtor was stalking them—and no way was that actually random.
Running away wasn’t the solution. Kit was stronger and safer surrounded by his morally dubious lovers.
Bishop included. Even though the lovers thing was still a work in progress with him.
A loud throat-clear interrupted Kit and Holden. It was a sign of how kiss-dazed Kit was that the sound didn’t startle him.
“House is clear,” Darius said from the door. Across the yard, James and Bishop were rolling the body into a tarp.
“I want to look at him,” Kit said. He couldn’t ignore the consequences of his action. He owed it to the dead man.
“Later,” Darius said. “First, it’s time for a real talk.”
Kit took a deep breath. “Yeah. Okay.”
It didn’t feel okay. But that was the thing. Maybe being not okay could be safe after all.
Shoulder itching, Kit paced the basement game room as everyone else secured the property. No windows down here,which was nice. Just a bunch of furniture dragged over from James’s old mansion. An armchair. A felted game table. A liquor cabinet. A couch Kit hadn’t fucked anyone on yet. No windows. Didn’t stop Kit’s skin from crawling, imagining unwelcome eyes peering from the shadows.
He had to keep moving, use the anxiety, before it broke him. He wished he hadn’t washed his hands, so he could still feel the grit of gunpowder.
He shot someone.
He didn’t feel as different as he should.
James called backup anyway to watch the neighborhood. Bishop and Darius had contacts looking for more information on the escaped prisoners.
