I’d forgotten what it felt like to wake up and not have the first thought be: Can I make it to the door before someone notices?
Jo’s breath tickled the back of my neck. He shifted, rolling his hips forward, his morning wood insistent against my ass. He mumbled something—words blurred by sleep, but I caught the “baby boy” buried in the rumble. It landed like a thrown knife, sharp and certain, and I had to clamp my lips shut to keep from grinning like a fucking idiot.
He pressed a slow kiss to my shoulder, then nuzzled in, voice lower now and almost shy. “You awake?”
“Have been,” I whispered, not wanting to wake the world if I didn’t have to.
His hand slid up, palm flat on my chest, fingers finding my heartbeat. I shivered, not from cold, but from the way the touch said: I know what you’re hiding, and it’s mine now.
He must’ve felt it, the way the collar sat tight against my throat. I’d worn it all night, never taking it off even when I showered, the leather already molding to the shape of me. He ran a fingertip along the inside, gentle as tracing a bruise, and then turned me to face him.
We were so close our noses almost touched.
Jo looked at me, really looked, his eyes warm and unguarded. He smiled slow, like the sunrise outside, and brushed my hair back from my face.
“How you feeling?” he asked, voice rough from disuse.
I swallowed, throat thick. “Like somebody ran me over, then left the truck parked on top.”
He snorted, the sound vibrating through my chest. “That’s about right.” He touched my jaw, thumb grazing the edge of the collar. “And after last night?”
I didn’t answer at first. Instead, I watched the way his eyes tracked over every inch of my face, searching for something that maybe only he could see.
“Exposed,” I admitted, after a long minute. “But lighter. Like I finally set down something I’d been hauling since forever.”
Jo nodded, not asking for more. He didn’t need the play-by-play of how I’d spilled everything at the fire—the closet, the friends, the broken parts of myself that I’d always hidden even from the people who swore they’d love me no matter what.
I’d watched their faces go from shock to something darker, then finally to that cold, McKenzie-family resolve. We’ll end this, Knox had said, and nobody had argued.
I rolled onto my back, arm over my eyes, but Jo pulled it away. He wanted to see me, all of me, even the pieces that hurt to look at.
He pressed his forehead to mine. “Proud of you.”
The words made something ugly and small inside me start to dissolve. I didn’t know what to do with them, so I just let them hover between us, a thing I might reach for if I got desperate enough.
Jo’s expression shifted. The softness stayed, but there was a new edge to it, the kind of tension that meant he was already building the next five moves in his head.
“You know Knox and the others are up already, right?” he said. “They’re planning something. Probably half the town’s awake by now.”
I stiffened. “It’s not going to be enough. You know that, right? Harley’s not like the assholes they’re used to dealing with. He’s—” I stopped, because the words felt stupid, but Jo waited, so I finished. “He’s connected. He has people. Real people.”
Jo ran his thumb along my jaw, then down the line of my throat, pressing just hard enough to remind me that the collar was there for a reason. “So do the McKenzies,” he said, not a hint of doubt in the words. “But we’re not walking into it blind. Knox wants a plan that keeps everyone safe.”
I flinched, thinking of what “safe” had meant in my life. “That’s not possible.”
He snorted, then rolled onto his back, arm behind his head. The muscles in his forearm bunched, the veins standing up like rivers under the skin. “No plan survives contact with the enemy, Bo, but I trust them to have my back.”
He didn’t say: I trust you, too. But it was there, unspoken, a promise that made my chest hurt in a different way.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, watching the faint water stain that looked like a map of the world.
Jo got up, moving with an efficiency that would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so hot. He pulled on his jeans, the fabrichugging his thighs, then bent to gather our clothes from the heap on the floor.
“Come on,” he said, tossing me my shirt. “Ma’s probably got coffee on, and Knox will blow a gasket if we’re late to the war council.”
I pulled my shirt on, then sat at the edge of the bed, watching Jo move around the room. Every motion was deliberate, no wasted effort. He folded the blankets, fluffed the pillow, picked up the glass of water on the nightstand and drank it down.
He didn’t ask what I needed; he just did what had to be done, trusting I’d fall in line behind him.
