He turned in my arms, face up. His eyes were slick and wet, but the rest of him was hard, tense, already braced for the blow. He wore the collar outside his shirt tonight. The leather was smooth, deep brown, the brass D-ring catching the moonlight. I’d buckled it there myself before the party, kissed the edge of it, promised him he’d never have to hide again.
He touched it now, fingers light, like he wanted to prove it was still there.
“You think I’m going to disappear?” I asked, quiet.
He looked away, jaw tight. “Sometimes I worry I’ll wake up and it’ll be like it never happened. Like I’m back in thatnightmare with Harley, and you’re just—” His voice snagged, trailed off.
I grabbed his chin, forced him to meet my eyes. “He can’t touch you again,” I said. “Not from where he’s sitting.”
He managed a ghost of a smile. “Yeah. ‘Twenty to life,’ right?”
“Twenty to life,” I agreed. Then I softened, brushed my thumb over his cheek, slow. “You know the best part?”
He waited, silent.
“He’s getting exactly what he gave you. Every day.”
That got his attention. “What do you mean?”
I let the silence stretch, savoring the moment. “Let’s just say I have friends who believe in poetic justice.”
His eyes widened, and then—slowly, warily—he grinned. “You didn’t.”
“I did.”
He let the words sink in, and I saw the conflict play across his face: the relief, the hint of guilt, the satisfaction he didn’t want to name.
“Does that bother you?” I asked, running my hand up the back of his neck, fingers threading through the hair at his nape.
He hesitated, then shook his head. “No. It should, but it doesn’t.”
I pulled him in, kissed him deep and slow. I didn’t care that it was freezing, or that the air inside was still thick with people who’d probably notice if we vanished for too long.
I wanted him to feel it.
All of it.
He melted, finally, all the resistance gone. When I broke the kiss, his breathing was easier, the tension bled out of his jaw. We sat like that, just holding each other, until the sound of the party got sharper, closer.
Knox’s voice, from the kitchen: “Hey! Bo! You got a minute? They want you in the living room!”
Bo groaned, but I helped him up, brushed the ice from his sleeves, and led him back inside.
Before we crossed the threshold, I leaned in close, lips at his ear. “You’re safe,” I whispered. “I swear it.”
He nodded, the smile more real this time.
I opened the door, the warmth and light swallowing us whole, and we walked in together—his hand in mine, the collar bright as a brand.
It wasn’t luck.
It was a choice, every day. And neither of us was about to let go.
Inside, the party had coagulated into a single organism—everyone herded into the living room by the promise of a big reveal and maybe a second dessert.
The lights were dimmed, the couches dragged into a rough semicircle around the canvas that stood at the room’s far end, covered by a drop cloth and haloed by the standing lamp I’d built for Bo’s studio.
Ransom had killed the music, and Harlow, who’d been working his way through the last of the peach cobbler, was now sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes huge and expectant.
