I’d told him to go to hell. He’d laughed, like he always did, and doubled down.
I could see the setup already: the McKenzie house full of people, the smell of roast and onions, Grandma Minnie in the kitchen, Hetty at the end of the table doing her best not to side-eye every move I made. And in the center, Bo—trapped, twitching, the animal urge to flee written all over him.
I didn’t want to subject him to that. Not after the month we’d had. Not after how well he’d settled.
Still, when it came to family, you didn’t say no. Not in this valley.
Bo must’ve sensed the mood shift, because he stopped drawing and looked up. “Everything okay?”
“Your brother wants us over for Sunday dinner,” I said.
He made a face. “That’s a suicide mission.”
I snorted. “Told him as much. He says Ma is making pot roast.”
Bo rolled his eyes, but I could see the worry in the way his shoulders hunched up, just a little. “He’s not going to let me leave if he gets me in that house.”
“He’ll have to go through me.”
That made Bo laugh, but it was more bark than joy. He set the sketchbook aside, coming to rest on the balls of his feet like he expected a fight. “Do I have to?”
I thought about it. The first instinct was to say no—fuck ‘em, stay here, order pizza, spend Sunday in bed and let the rest of the world spin. But I could hear the old voices in my head, every hard lesson about loyalty and family and never leaving a man behind.
“Yeah,” I said, softer than I meant. “I think you do.”
Bo nodded, mouth going flat. For a second, he looked younger than ever—like the teenager I used to see tagging along after Knox, all sharp edges and wild eyes, the hint of a shiner always just healed or about to happen.
He glanced at me, then away. “Fine,” he said, voice low.
I watched him go quiet, saw how the nerves started to build, and felt the need to cut them off before they turned into something worse.
I got up, crossed the room, and knelt beside him. He stared at the carpet, jaw tight, every muscle locked. I put a hand on his neck, thumb under the ear, fingers tight. “You hear me?”
He nodded, but I squeezed a little harder.
“Say it,” I said.
He swallowed. “I hear you.”
“Who do you belong to?”
The words came out automatic, but the shiver that ran down his spine told me he needed them as much as I did. “You,” he said, voice small but certain. “Always you.”
I let go, just a little, and he breathed again.
“That’s right,” I told him. “No matter where we go, that doesn’t change.”
He looked at me then, really looked, and the panic faded from his eyes. “You gonna make me wear a leash?” he said, half a joke.
I smiled. “If it’ll help.”
He grinned back, just a little. “You’re such a dick.”
I ruffled his hair, then pulled him in for a kiss—quick, rough, a marker in case he forgot the taste of it by Sunday.
* * * *
After Bo went to bed, I sat in the dark and turned the collar over in my hands. I’d ordered it a week ago, on impulse, the first time I realized he’d stopped hiding his need and just let himself want.
