Then Kit was surrounded. James got there first, because Darius stopped to check the body, and Bishop stopped to checkthe hallway. James’s face filled Kit’s vision, twisted in concern, relief, panic, all the things Kit was too distant to feel properly.
“Are you okay?” James asked, as Darius and Bishop filled in the space around him. “Are you hurt?”
Somehow, Kit had expected to get a scolding first. Old reflexes. “I’m okay. Maybe a little concussed.”
“Are you sure?” James demanded, touching Kit’s face. Numbness bloomed into sensation beneath his fingers.
“Am I sure I’m concussed?” Kit asked, even though he knew what James meant. He just thought it was funny. From the concerned glances traded over him, his boyfriends didn’t agree.
Fair enough. But their dead dads weren’t in the room. Kit got to find stupid shit funny if he wanted.
Bishop nudged James aside. “Did you hit your head?”
“He hit my face.” Kit touched his cheek, finding tenderness. Shit. They could probably see the bruise. “Is he dead?”
“Extremely,” Darius said.
Fucking Christ.
Kit had imagined this moment. Not like this—he couldn’t have imagined this specifically. Just killing Laird Renaker, by his own hands or someone else’s. He’d always wondered if he would feel conflicted. Laird was a monster. He still raised Kit. This eerie replica of a bedroom was testament to that.
Beyond Bishop’s shoulder, Holden crouched over Laird’s body. He nudged the motionless shoulder, then started kicking rubble out of the way.
Kit’s childhood died years ago. He already mourned the father he thought he had. Now, he couldn’t feel anything beyond relief that the monster was dead. That his men were here.
Relief, and fine. A bit of guilt. He wouldn’t be himself otherwise.
“I’m sorry,” Kit said, his voice stronger. “I shouldn’t have run off. He made Shiloh text me, and I just…”
Dragging noises punctuated the silence. Kit couldn’t see what Holden was doing behind the others.
“We can talk after you get some sleep,” Bishop said, gently ruffling his hair. “And medical attention. Can you stand up?”
At Kit’s nod, Bishop and Darius took him by the elbows to ease him to his feet. “What matters is that you’re okay,” Darius said, as Kit leaned into his comforting, stable grasp. “We all did what we had to do.”
James tapped his lips, playfully thoughtful. “We might have to lock you up for a few days. For disciplinary reasons.”
A smile cracked Kit’s bruised face. “How about a few weeks?”
“Don’t tempt him,” warned Darius.
Kit fully intended to tempt James. And all of them. But he had more urgent concerns first. “Is Shiloh okay? I told him to go to the house, but Archie showed up too fast.”
“Shiloh’s okay,” Bishop said, with reassuring confidence.
“Bishop killed Archie,” James added.
Bishop shrugged. “Better late than never.”
“Oh,” Kit said. “That’s cool.”
A screeching roar cut them off. James and Bishop aimed their guns, but Darius had evidently been paying attention. He just gave an exasperated sigh as Holden drove the broken car forward.
Just a few feet. Over Laird’s limp body.
Barely visible behind the dusty windshield, Holden reversed. Then drove forward. Then reversed again, revealing a tangle of bone and flesh. An unrecognizable ruin of a man.
Satisfied, Holden killed the engine and emerged into the rubble. Haphazard lights made a halo of his golden hair.
