“Agreed.” Bishop set a hand on the counter, next to Kit’s. Not touching, just close enough for his aftershave to burn other thoughts from Kit’s head. “I need to talk to some people. Let’s touch base in twenty.”
“You got it,” Darius said.
Then Bishop was gone, and Darius filled Kit’s vision. No bathroom walls, no dead body, no dread reflections. Callused palms pressed Kit’s hands to the granite.
“I should probably give you space right now,” Darius murmured, leaning closer.
“Please don’t.” Breath broke in Kit’s throat. “I didn’t lie to you.”
Darius caressed Kit’s wrists. “When?”
“I said my past wouldn’t come back to bite us.” Kit laughed unhappily. “It was stupid, but it wasn’t a lie. I just couldn’t survive if I didn’t believe that.”
“You make me want to break all my rules, boy.” Darius’s voice was low and soothing. “Part of me thinks I should be able to brush all this off. Business as usual. People have secrets. Bad shit happens.”
The hint of anger was soothing. Kit closed his eyes, soaking in Darius’s body heat.
“But you make me care too much.” Darius sighed, moving his hands next to Kit’s instead of on top of them. “I need to say something, too.”
Ugh. This didn’t sound pleasant. Kit took advantage of his slight freedom to hug himself. “What?”
Darius scanned him, as if weighing Kit’s fragility before shoving. “Bishop told me the half-truths you’d told him about your dad. He also told me about the DNA search. We were going to confront you about it tonight.”
A few hours ago, that confession would have ignited Kit’s explosive panic. Now the embers were too cold to catch fire.
“Scheming bastards.” Kit rubbed Darius’s ankle with the toe of his shoe. Then he remembered he’d nudged Mr. Tweed with that foot. Then he decided not to care. “I’ll forgive you on one condition.”
“What’s that?” Darius asked, though by the exasperated smile, he probably had a guess.
“Kiss me,” Kit demanded.
“Thought so,” Darius said, and leaned in. His voice lowered. “Hold still.”
Darius didn’t hold Kit down. Kit grasped the counter edge, like his own desires were manacles. As Darius stole possessively into his mouth, Kit’s eyes stung close to tears.
He forced them back. He couldn’t cry yet.
40
safety wasn’t enough anymore
Hours later, Kit curled up in Darius’s bed, with James pressed behind him because Darius was still brushing his teeth. The room was dim, only the bathroom light on. Mundane actions felt absurd after the days’ events. Darius shouldn’t be brushing his teeth when Dad was out of prison. Kit shouldn’t be wearing pajamas—boxers and one of James’s shirts—when Bishop’s ex-partner was out of prison either.
James shouldn’t slide one bare foot between Kit’s when a dead body chilled in the spare freezer.
They all had to sleep at some point. Holden was either in his room or pacing the halls, and Bishop had a guest room. Out in the night, contacts were contacting and networks were networking. Despite the sudden shock, this situation wouldn’t resolve urgently. Kit had to harness his panic into something he could endure for days. Maybe even weeks.
The crash of exhaustion would help. Hopefully soon.
Darius padded into the room, the bathroom light still on. James kissed the top of Kit’s right shoulder, lingering until the skin warmed. The tenderness of his words seemed to arrive before the words themselves, wrapping around Kit’s tired limbs.
“I’m not going to apologize, because you’ll feel weird about it,” James murmured. “But if I did, I’d be sorry for not being someone you could share everything with.”
Kit rolled over to face James. Tracing the fiery feathers peeking over James’s shoulder, he gathered his thoughts. “You were better than that. Both of you,” Kit added, as the bed dipped. Darius slid perfectly in place behind him. Fuck. Kit liked this. “I didn’t have to tell you. I needed that.”
Darius kissed Kit’s neck, right where James’s lips had been moments ago.
“I probably should have mentioned some things,” Kit admitted. “Logistically speaking.”
