There was a series of thuds from downstairs as Kit returned the knife to the sharps lockbox. Holden snagged him on his way back, and Kit welcomed the redirection into Holden’s lap.The fresh apple flavor of Holden’s kiss, the tentative devotion of fingertips under Kit’s shirt—
James walked through the kitchen with barely a glance at them. His face was calm, but his stride was quicker than usual. Raw energy lurked beneath his tense shoulders. He grabbed a duffel bag and returned to the basement.
With a sigh, Kit sat back on Holden’s thighs. “This isn’t going to work.”
“He’s fucked up.” Holden squeezed Kit’s ass in a tempting, teasing massage. “I’ll miss you, darling. Stay safe.”
Kit wound his hands in Holden’s long hair for one more slow kiss. “Miss you too,” he murmured. Then he extricated himself and headed for the basement.
He crossed paths with Darius on the way up. Darius just said, “Good idea,” as they passed.
The basement was better lit than last time. All the junk and shelves had been pushed to one wall, leaving a vast open space. In the center of the room, a figure slumped on a chair. A black bag covered her head. James and Bishop stood near her, talking in low voices.
Both looked up at Kit’s approach.
“Not to sound creepy as fuck,” Kit said, jumping down the last step. “But I wanted to watch. Um, she’s just unconscious, right?”
Melissa was alarmingly still. Was the slight movement of her loose shirt from her breathing, or just the draft from upstairs?
“She’s just unconscious,” Bishop said. “I’ll wake her up when we’re ready.”
James glared at Bishop. “This was your idea, wasn’t it?” His voice was too light. Tension clearly bristled beneath the surface. “You think I’m going to lose my shit, so you called Kit down here to control me?”
“I thought he’d be bored upstairs,” Bishop said easily. “This is part of his training as my assistant.”
Nice of Bishop to take the blame. Nice, but not necessary. Ignoring the bound and hooded woman, Kit extended a hand, palm up. “It was my idea. Tell me I’m wrong, and I’ll go back upstairs.” He waved his fingers. “I’d rather stay, because I love you. If my boyfriend is upset, why shouldn’t I be here for moral support?”
James exhaled harshly, head rolling up to face the ceiling. He relaxed on his next breath and took Kit’s hand. “You manipulative little brat,” James accused—but he’d lost that dangerous tension in his voice. The insult was purely fond.
Kit squeezed his hand. Vulnerable embarrassment crawled down the back of his neck. Saying ‘I love you still’ felt weird, especially in front of Bishop. Because it was too fucking true.
He loved James, and he wasn’t here to control him. Nor to keep him from hurting someone else. Kit wanted to help James’s own hurts.
He couldn’t do much about James’s past, but he could be here now.
Subtly relaxing, Bishop moved to a nearby table. The duffel bag was open, and Bishop drew out a small bottle and a packaged syringe. “Ground rules,” Bishop said as he popped the needle onto the syringe. “I’m asking all the questions, and I’m wearing a mask. The hostage won’t see or hear either of you. Stay against the wall behind her, and don’t talk. If you have a question, my phone is right on the table. Text it to me.”
“Why don’t we just wear masks too?” Kit asked.
“She might recognize James’s voice or build. As for you…” Bishop shrugged. “Better safe than sorry. The less she knows, the better.”
Kit’s curiosity flickered brighter. He was new to this high-level criminal organization abduction thing, but he was very familiar with ordinary murders. If Bishop was this concerned about Melissa recognizing them… “You’re not going to kill her?”
“Not if we don’t have to.” Bishop’s glare at James was pointed. “Our intel could be wrong. If she’s not involved, or if there’s a chance she could lead us to someone bigger…”
“She’s involved,” James bit out. “My intel is solid, B.”
“We’re about to find out.” Bishop stuck the syringe into the bottle top, drawing out a clear liquid. Then he set the syringe down and pulled out a gray mask. “Let’s get started.”
The mask was stiff, made of matte gray material. It strapped over Bishop’s face like a children’s party mask, if party masks were blank and featureless. Only two narrow eye holes, and a slit above his mouth.
Bishop’s blue eyes were brighter and more eerie than ever.
Kit hadn’t realized how much Bishop’s familiar face softened his demeanor. With his expression hidden, Bishop looked just like the predator Kit first met, in the middle of a massacre.
“Can I see her face?” Kit asked, suddenly.
“It’ll be easier if you don’t,” Bishop said.
