Chapter Ten #2
He dished up two plates, hands shaking just enough to notice, and set one at my place. “You wanna eat first, or—?”
I stepped in close, until he had to look up. He was breathing faster now, the pulse in his neck gone wild. I reached out and ran my hand through his hair, slow, curling my fingers at the scalp. He shivered.
“On your knees,” I said.
He didn’t even hesitate. He knelt, fast and smooth, thighs spread wide on the cold tile. He put his hands behind his back, just the way I liked, the way I’d taught him, and waited.
I took a step closer, let my boots crowd the space between his legs. He looked up at me, mouth open, eyes huge. I could see the hunger there—the need, not just for the act, but for the command, the permission to be exactly what he was.
I unzipped, slow, and took myself out. His gaze flicked to my cock, then to my face. There was no fear in it now, only relief.
“Hands stay back,” I told him.
He nodded, then leaned in, lips parting. I slid my hand to the back of his head, fingers tightening in his hair, and guided him forward. He took me in, greedy, like he’d been waiting all day.
The first stroke was gentle, a test. He sucked the head, tongue swirling, and I felt the shock of it down my spine.
I let him work for a minute, enjoying the way he tried to impress me—deep-throating, then pulling back to tease with his mouth.
But I could see him glancing up, waiting for me to take control.
So I did.
I gripped his hair tighter and fucked into his mouth, slow at first, then harder. He made a muffled sound, but didn’t pull back. His shoulders went slack, whole body going loose with surrender.
“Good boy,” I said, voice low.
He moaned, the sound vibrating along my cock. I lost myself in the rhythm—each thrust in, the warm suction, the slide out, his jaw working to keep up. When he gagged, I eased off, then went in again, a little deeper each time.
His eyes started to water, but he never lost the thread. He held on, breathing through his nose, letting me use him as long as I wanted.
I went until my legs shook, then pulled him off, strings of spit connecting us. He panted, chest heaving, tongue out. I wiped the drool from his chin with my thumb and made him suck it clean.
“You want to finish me?” I asked.
He nodded, desperate.
“Use your mouth.”
He dove back in, sloppy now, all instinct. I let him work, barely holding on, and when I was ready, I gripped his skull in both hands and fucked hard, coming with a grunt.
He took it all, swallowing every drop, licking me clean after. He looked up, tears in his eyes, but the smile was pure joy.
I zipped up, then crouched and helped him to his feet. He was shaking. “You okay?” I asked.
He nodded, then tried to speak, but his voice cracked. He laughed, wiped his face on his sleeve. “That’s a yes,” he managed.
I pulled him in, kissed him rough, letting him taste himself on my tongue. He melted against me, hands grabbing at my waist, the tension gone from his body.
I let the kiss go soft, then whispered in his ear, “Proud of you.”
He trembled, whole body lighting up at the words.
I led him to the table, sat him down, then took the plate he’d made for me and set it in front of him. “You cooked, you eat first,” I said.
He looked at the food, then at me, like he couldn’t believe the world was real. He took a bite, and his whole face lit up.
I watched him eat, watched the way he looked at me after every forkful, seeking approval. I gave it to him, every time. With a smile, with a hand on his knee, with another quiet “good boy” when he finished his plate and reached for seconds.
After, we sat side by side, plates pushed away, coffee mugs cradled in both hands. The world outside was dark and quiet, the only sound the clink of forks and the low hum of the fridge.
He looked at me, eyes soft. “You gonna let me do this again?”
I nodded. “Anytime you want.”
He grinned, brighter than I’d ever seen.
He was still mine. And now he knew it.
The next day, I sat on the end of the couch, phone in one hand, thumb braced against the lock screen like I was trying to will the last call out of existence. The room was half-lit, shadow thick in the corners, everything quiet except for the low tick of the clock over the kitchen door.
I could see Bo in the reflection of the TV—sprawled on the floor in his old sweatpants, sketchbook balanced on his bent knee, every line of his body loose and safe.
If it weren't for the phone call, I might have thought the universe had finally given me a break. Instead, I stared at the number in my call log and felt my jaw set, teeth grinding down on something that tasted a lot like old blood.
Knox never called just to chat.
He’d called twice in the last hour. The first time, he’d started with pleasantries. The second, he went straight for the throat. “Family dinner. Sunday. You bring him or I come and get him myself.”
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.
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.
He worked 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?”
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.