Bishop’s chuckle vibrated through both of them. Fondness bled into his voice. “It’s very unwise, but it isn’t wrong.”
Then warmth bloomed as Bishop pressed a soft kiss to Kit’s head.
Darius didn’t flinch when the basement door slammed open. Holden did, which was funny. The captive psycho might have the instincts, but he didn’t have Darius’s training.
Said training drove Darius to his feet, clear of the table and chairs, at the sight of James’s face.
“Give me the gun,” Darius ordered, his voice icy, before he even saw the gun in James’s white-knuckled hand. Lessons in threat assessment hammered so deep into Darius that they felt like instinct.
The safety was off. Darius wasn’t close enough to see any residue on James’s arm. The basement was soundproof. James had fired the gun, and his eyes were hollow.
Realization hit with brutal inevitability. Darius should have expected this, working a job for James’s vendetta.
The hostage was dead.
James glared. Instead of handing the gun over, he stripped it in ruthless, precise movements. Inert parts skidded across the granite counter. Then James yanked open the freezer.
“Stay put,” Darius ordered—to Holden, whose quiet beeline to the basement wasn’t quiet enough.
“I need to see Kit,” Holden snapped, anger painted thin over his concern.
Darius flinched at that.
He should have asked. He should havethoughtabout Kit, instead of just trusting his instincts, his knowledge of James and Bishop and the whole situation. He shouldn’t have been solely absorbed with the immediate threat of James, hurt and furious with a gun in his hand.
Reason number one thousand Darius shouldn’t be in a relationship. He was only good at being alone.
James slammed the freezer door shut, bottle of vodka in hand. “Kit’s safe. Bishop’s with him.” He fished a plastic cup from the cupboard, movements still viciously precise. “I shot the hostage.”
“In front of Kit,” Darius said, and now that he was thinking about Kit, he couldn’t stop. He wanted to leave James in this unstable state to check on Kit. Which was yet another reason Darius shouldn’t be in a relationship. “Why the fuck would you do that?”
Holden leaned against the granite island, though his attention was still clearly fixed on the basement door. “Because he wanted to. Best reason to kill someone.”
James downed his shot, cup crinkling in his hand. He was so tightly strung, it probably took all his willpower not to crush it. Grabbing the bottle again, he paused. Inhaled. Exhaled.
“She lied about my mom,” James said.
It wasn’t a lie. Whatever it was. Nothing but the truth could cut that deep.
“That wasn’t the fucking plan,” Darius said, still cold. Losing his temper would light James’s fuse. James may have given up his weapon, but he was still itching for a fight. “Did you at least get any information out of her?”
“You should do some pushups,” Holden suggested. “Or go for a run. That sometimes helps when I feel the murderous rampage coming on.”
James’s gaze cut towards Holden.
Maybe Darius should send Holden to the basement after all. ‘Have you tried yoga to cure your murderous rampage’ was not what James needed right now.
“Why do you give a shit?” James demanded, rounding on Darius again. “This is my job. You don’t have to be here.”
This was why Darius worked solo. Having partners meant he couldn’t control everything. He wasn’t in the basement. Someone else was comforting his boyfriend right now, while Darius was stuck defusing a loose cannon. James was right. This wasn’t Darius’s mission, and he didn’t have to be here.
So why was Darius so fucking pissed that James was fucking it up?
“You’re right,” Darius said, letting his anger bleed into his voice. Because he did care, damn it. “I don’t have to be here. None of us have to be here.”
“Except me,” Holden pointed out.
“Except the psycho undergrad,” Darius conceded. “The rest of us? We’re here anyway. Because we want to be here, you fucking asshole.”
