It wasn’t a sex-shop special or some cheap piece of garbage. It was real leather, the color of old whiskey, lined with suede and finished with a tiny, brass D-ring at the front. No studs, no spikes, nothing showy—just the quiet promise that if he wore it, the whole world would know who he belonged to.
I’d planned to save it for a special night. Instead, I found myself thinking about the McKenzie table, the way his brothers would look at him, the silent war that would play out in every word.
I wanted him armored, even if it was just in my claim.
I tucked the collar into the top drawer of my nightstand, then went to bed.
* * * *
The week slid by faster than I expected. Bo spent every spare hour in the art room, knocking out canvases until the floor was buried in tarps and the walls looked like a crime scene. Heworked with a fever I’d never seen before—sometimes painting all night, sometimes just standing at the window, watching the river in the distance.
We didn’t talk about Sunday. But every night, I made sure he slept in my arms, every morning I made him eat before he hit the brushes.
Friday night, I came home late to find him at the sink, arms up to the elbows in paint and soapy water. He didn’t hear me come in.
I watched him from the hall, watched the way his body went loose as soon as he thought nobody was watching. For a second, I let myself imagine what it would be like if this was forever—if I could keep him like this, safe and wild, for the rest of his life.
He glanced up, caught me staring. “You hungry?” he asked.
“Starved,” I said.
He smiled, the real one, and wiped his hands. “Sit. I’ll make something.”
I did as told, sitting at the table, arms crossed, watching him move around the kitchen. He still walked with a limp some days, and I could see the new bruises under his shirt, but there was a confidence in the way he handled the space.
Like he’d finally figured out how to fit.
He set a plate in front of me—steak, rare, with a pile of greens and a baked potato that must’ve weighed two pounds. “Eat,” he said.
I dug in, and for a while, the world narrowed to salt, fat, the warmth of his hand when he set it on my shoulder.
After, when the plates were cleared, I pulled him onto my lap. He straddled me, arms around my neck, head tucked under my chin.
We stayed like that until the clock hit midnight. Then I carried him to bed.
* * * *
Sunday morning, Bo tried to hide in the art room. I let him, for a while. Then, an hour before we were supposed to leave, I knocked on the door. He didn’t answer, so I let myself in.
He was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up, arms banded around them. The canvas in front of him was a mess of color—red, black, blue, all fighting for dominance.
He looked up, eyes ringed with fatigue. “What time is it?”
I held up the collar.
He stared at it, then at me.
“I want you to wear this,” I said.
He didn’t say anything for a second. Then, quietly, “To dinner?”
I nodded.
He looked down at his hands, picked at the paint on his thumb, then looked up again. “You think they’ll notice?”
I smiled. “I hope so.”
He bit his lip, then grinned, slow and wicked. “You want to mark your territory that bad?”
