I crossed the room, knelt down in front of him, and held out the collar.
He took it, ran his thumb along the leather, then handed it back. “Put it on me,” he said.
I did.
The buckle slid home, the brass ring resting just above his throat. I could see the pulse flutter there, fast but steady. I ran my thumb over the ring, then leaned in and kissed him, slow and sure.
He melted, just a little.
“You ready?” I asked.
He nodded.
We left together, my hand on the back of his neck, and I knew, wherever we went, they’d see the truth. He was mine. And the whole fucking world was welcome to try and take him.
Chapter Eleven
~ Bodean ~
The cab of Jo’s truck always smelled like machine oil, rawhide, and the faint, not-unpleasant funk of old sweat that clung to the bench seat no matter how many times he Windexed the vinyl.
I was pressed up against the passenger door, window half down, letting the frigid valley air whip through the space between us as we shot past the last of the town limits and onto the winding county road that would take us to the McKenzie farm.
Neither of us spoke for the first few miles. The engine drowned out the need for small talk, and besides, Jo’s hands on the wheel told me everything I needed to know about his mood—loose at first, almost lazy, then tightening on the turns, the tendons in his knuckles standing out with every downshift.
He’d dressed up for the occasion, meaning he’d put on a clean black tee and jeans that didn’t have fresh grease on them, but he still wore his work boots and a pair of mirrored aviators that made him look more like a state trooper than the man I’d sucked off in the kitchen that morning.
I tried not to stare at his hands, but it was useless. The left one had a fresh cut across the knuckle, maybe from a wrench, maybe from something meaner. I wanted to kiss it, or at least ask, but every time I opened my mouth, he’d hit the gas and let the V8 do the talking for both of us.
The drive was supposed to be easy. Thirty minutes, tops. I could already taste the awkward tension of the dinner waiting at the end—Knox glowering across the table, Grandma Minnie pretending everything was fine, Harlow somewhere in the background trying not to look like he was listening to every word.
If I closed my eyes, I could picture the whole disaster unfolding, right down to the chipped Corelle plates and the inevitable “so, what are your intentions with our Bodean?” from my grandmother.
But when I opened them, all I saw was the ghosting shape of Jo’s reflection in the windshield, and the empty, sunlit road ahead.
That lasted maybe five more miles.
The first bike showed up in the side mirror—a black-on-black Harley, low to the ground, engine note so deep it was more felt than heard. Then another. Then three more, fanning out in a loose arrowhead behind us, headlights glaring in the early dusk.
“Company,” I said, my voice thinner than I’d meant.
Jo didn’t react, not even a glance. “You recognize them?”
I craned around, heart already thumping like it wanted out. The leader was easy: matte-black helmet with a chrome skull faceplate, battered leather vest over a thermal, hands bare even though the air was cold enough to bite.
Harley Westbrook, a man so allergic to subtlety he’d once lit a cop car on fire for blocking a handicapped parking space.
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s him.”
Jo nodded, then checked the rearview, just a flick of his eyes. “Hold on.”
He didn’t swerve, not yet, just eased the truck a little to the right, tires flirting with the rumble strip. The bikes mirrored us, keeping a perfect distance, the leader pulling close enough that I could see the patch on his shoulder: DEADWOOD CHAPTER, stenciled in white over crossed engine pistons.
Jo thumbed a switch on the dash, and I realized he’d rigged the truck with something extra—a toggle labeled “FLOOD.” He waited, hands steady on the wheel.
“Call your brothers,” he said, voice flat as a concrete slab. “Tell them to be ready.”
I fumbled for my phone, nearly dropping it as my hand shook. The number was already pinned at the top of my contacts—Knox, because even when I’d left home, I’d never actually cut the cord. The phone rang once before he picked up, voice gruff and annoyed.
