Once again, emotions were high. Kit needed comfort. And Bishop had drawn close enough to kiss.
But Kit knew how this worked. As soon as the crisis passed, Bishop would retreat. Maybe Bishop sensed the brokenness at Kit’s core, and he was smart enough to stay away. Or maybe something was wrong with Bishop too.
Kit refused to play that game today.
“Where’s James?” Kit asked, his voice only slightly shaky. He moved forward, closer to the body, as Bishop stood behind him.
Holden barely glanced at the corpse before closing in on Kit. “Darius has him on a leash. If by leash we mean vodka.”
Kit’s worry jumped again. “Vodka? Great, exactly what we need, getting him drunk and murderous instead of just—”
Holden caught his hand, and Kit’s heart lurched as Holden pulled him close. “Darius also punched him in the face,” Holden said, clearly amused. “Which calmed James down, because they’re both fucking freaks.”
“Oh, that makes…” Thinking was hard when Kit was this deep in Holden’s orbit. That intense gaze like gravity. Every inch of height looming over Kit. “That makes zero sense, but okay.”
Holden’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “Newsflash. Your boyfriends are weird.”
Bishop walked past—his steps deliberately loud to avoid startling Kit, because he was considerate, the fucking asshole. “You should head upstairs to your weird boyfriends. They’ll want to see if you’re okay.”
Kit leaned into Holden as he faced Bishop. Those bright blue eyes were closed off again. Distance stretched between them, far greater than the bounds of the bloodstained basement.
“I’m okay,” Kit said, with a breezy confidence he didn’t feel. Then added, with dark sarcasm he definitely felt, “What, like this is my first dead body?”
“Hey, Bishop,” Holden asked, even as he tugged Kit towards the stairs. Seemingly casually, but every movement kept him between Kit and the body. “What are you doing with Melissa next?”
Bishop stooped, picking up his bloodstained mask. “Too risky to take her to a proper lab, so Darius and I will look her over, take some samples.”
“After that?” Holden asked.
Bishop looked at Kit. As if assessing whether Kit could handle what he was about to say, which Kit would usually find sweet but currently found annoying. Kit kept his mouth shut, because he didn’t trust his own tangle of emotions right now.
“After that, we have chainsaws and acid solution in the closet,” Bishop said eventually.
Silence echoed for a heartbeat.
Holden squeezed Kit’s hand and asked, with strangely endearing hopefulness, “Can I help?” His eyes shone with enthusiasm. “I’ve never dismembered a body before.”
Bishop stared blankly at Holden. Then upwards. “Sure,” Bishop told the ceiling. “Why the fuck not?”
Holden’s grin was like sunlight. “Awesome, thanks B!”
“Don’t call me B,” Bishop growled.
“Vodka sounds great now,” Kit interrupted, because as used to fucked-up murder nonsense as he was, the thought of dissolving Melissa in acid still made him queasy. “Think Darius has finished soothingly punching James, or whatever?”
“Christ, I hope not,” Holden said, as he obligingly pulled Kit towards the stairs.
The kitchen was empty when they reached it. The bottle of vodka sat alone on the table, and low voices murmured from another room.
Holden steered Kit to the counter. He leaned in, palms flat on the linoleum, his arms a cage around Kit. “You okay, darling?”
“I’ve been worse.” Kit cracked a grin. “A lot worse.”
Holden grinned back. There was no tension in him. No anger or guilt or expectation. Only worry for Kit, but even that was tempered with delight.
Kit needed all his men in different ways. Right now, he was desperately glad that Holden was the one pinning him to the counter. Holden’s offbeat emotions were easier to carry than anyone else’s, when Kit felt so raw and vulnerable.
“You’re angry,” Holden said, like he was interested, not accusing. He trailed a finger up Kit’s arm. “Not at me. James, then? I’m angry that he upset you. Not murderously angry, don’t worry.”
