“Starting to think this is just a fetish for you guys,” Holden said, retying his bun. “Thanks, but no thanks—I’m only into Kit.”
Shit, this must be serious. James didn’t even rise to the barb.
“Things are different, now,” James said. “Or maybe the world is the same, I’m just seeing more of it. The closer I get to the Rat Kings? I’m scared of getting everyone hurt. Especially you.”
James promised him a place to live. No strings attached. Except neither of them could help the strings knotted around their hearts.
Kit’s stomach twisted. “Are you saying I should move in with Darius and Holden? Without you?”
“I’m saying I’m scared,” James said, rigid.
Darius squeezed Kit’s hand, then glared at James. “We don’t keep people safe by shoving them away, James. We keep them safe by keeping them close.”
Untrue.
Maybe.
There could be a grain of truth, in this specific circumstance. If they were talking about actual distance. There was a difference between physical hurt and deeper wounds.
There was a difference between safety and comfort.
“I’m glad you’re scared,” Kit said, fists tightening. “It’ll keep you from being fucking reckless. These Rat Kings sound way more intense than anything you guys have dealt with in the past. This is next-level organized crime shit. They make Ed Addersen’s gang look like playground bullies.”
The shit Dad always protected him from.
Kit ruthlessly ignored his own nausea. “Maybe the Rat Kings don’t know what happened to Melissa yet, but we have to be prepared if they find out. We need a base of operations, so we can protect each other.”
All three men stared. Holden looked enraptured. Darius looked impressed. James still looked worried.
All three reactions deepened Kit’s own worry. But at least they were listening to him.
“Also, I want to spend less time in traffic, more time in bed,” Kit added hastily.
James slumped in defeat. “You’re right, pretty boy. About everything.” A familiar, cocky grin spread across his face. “Which is why that house Holden liked, with the great murder basement? I’m the one who bought it.”
17
far too fragile to hold
Bishop left the Wellingtons’ rented house for the last time.
The Wellingtons were leaving San Corvo, desperate to reach the healing stage of grief as winter loosened its grip on the city. They weren’t giving up, Mrs. Wellington had said forcefully, refuting an accusation Bishop hadn’t made. They were taking a different direction and were just getting in everyone’s way by staying in San Corvo.
The meeting lasted ten minutes. Surrounded by piled-up cardboard boxes, Bishop expressed regret that his leads had gone nowhere. Mr. and Mrs. Wellington teared up and assured him that his services had been invaluable. They shook hands firmly—Bishop was relieved they weren’t the hugging types—and without anyone saying those precise words, Bishop was fired from the case.
This should feel good. No more lying to the murder victim’s parents. No more faked reports and concealing Bishop’s precise knowledge of Timothy Wellington’s fate. But as he drove home, Bishop felt strangely empty.
He needed a new project. Something crowd out the guilt, the ruminating over Melissa Vespers, and the all-consuming knowledge that at this very moment, Kit was helping Darius pack.
The six weeks of renovations at the new house were almost over. The four of them were moving in soon. Bishop felt it like a seismic shift in his own life.
Even though he wasn’t going anywhere. Because nothing had changed with him.
Bishop had no claim over Kit. All he ever did was kiss him, then turn him away. Bishop had no right to be jealous that Darius and Holden were going to join James in living with Kit. He had no right to miss those first few days. Kit lounging on his couch. Flipping through boring magazines. Drinking all of Bishop’s coffee.
Because Bishop had boarded up the windows, keeping Kit prisoner.
He’d had Kit in his clutches, but Kit had been far too fragile to hold back then. Far more fragile than Bishop had realized at the time.
