James snarled. “We are not having a moment right now.”
“Not right now,” Darius said, getting into James’s space. Staring deep into his dark, angry eyes. James was two inches taller, but he looked more than four years younger right now. Vulnerable and lashing out. “I have two things to do first.”
“Skip the lecture,” James said, bristling.
Darius punched him in the face.
The rapid movement melted seamlessly into a defensive posture. Darius still felt the warmth of James’s cheek on his knuckles as he prepared to counter James’s retaliation.
But James snarled and jerked back, controlling himself. The pain punctured his anger, and as his emotions bled out, he looked a little saner. A little sadder.
Empty.
“First, I have to punch you,” Darius said firmly. “Second, I have to pour us both a drink.”
James exhaled. “You’re a bastard.”
The insult rang with gratitude.
James slumped at the kitchen table. Darius poured a shot of vodka for each of them, the amount looking absurdly small in the plastic cups. They both pretended not to notice Holden slipping through the basement door. Bishop could handle Holden. Kit probably could too.
“What did she say?” Darius asked, setting the cup in front of James.
“It was a fucking lie,” James said, but with none of that furious denial. This was more desperate. “She said Mom was one of the Rat Kings. That my entire family died because of an internal affair.”
Oh. Shit.
Kit held still, as if Bishop’s breath in his hair was an iron chain. The most tender binding. Bishop kissed the top of his head, and with every heartbeat, Kit expected Bishop to yank away.
But when Bishop finally moved, the separation didn’t hurt. Eyes shining in the shadows, Bishop laid a hand on Kit’s cheek.
“Every day, you get to make a choice too,” Bishop said, quiet and certain. “You aren’t stuck with us, and if you ever want out, you let me know.”
Kit didn’t want to leave. The thought repelled him. Even if these men were murderers, they were his.
But he appreciated what Bishop was offering. Nice to have an escape route, now that he didn’t want to escape anymore.
“Thank you,” Kit whispered.
Bishop’s gaze dropped to Kit’s lips—then darted up, wary, as the basement door creaked open.
At the sound of footsteps, Bishop relaxed. Kit recognized the footsteps a moment later and turned in Bishop’s lap.
Holden paused halfway down the stairs. Eyebrows lifted, he took in the scene: the bound body, the spray of blood and brain matter, and Kit, embraced in Bishop’s lap.
“Well,” Holden remarked. “This looks fun.”
14
“Newsflash. Your boyfriends are weird.”
Kit scrambled to his feet, as if he’d been caught doing something wrong. But he hadn’t been. No, it was anger, not guilt, that spurred him from Bishop’s grasp.
Everything was a mess. James shot Melissa, and her dead body sat stiffening in the middle of the room. Shreds of information swirled like a tornado. The Viper was back. The Viperwasn’tback. The Rat King was two people. The Rat King used to be three people, and one of them was James’s mom.
Which was why James shot the hostage. Which was why the top of Kit’s head still burned from the light touch of Bishop’s lips.
The latter was all Kit could think about. As if he needed more evidence that something was fundamentally wrong with him.
