When it was over, Brett didn't move.

He lay pinned to the black silk sheets in the penthouse bedroom, his face turned into the pillow, his body shaking with aftershocks that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with ruin. The oversized black t-shirt was rucked up around his ribs. The white satin choker with slutty tramp in cursive was damp with sweat against his throat. His honey blonde hair was plastered to his temples, his makeup long gone, his spray tan washed away hours ago in the shower.

He was clean. He was bare. He was broken open.

And Richard was still holding him.

Richard hadn't pulled away. He hadn't rolled over and reached for his phone like Lance always did. He stayed, his big body curled around Brett's smaller one from behind, one heavy arm locked around Brett's waist, his chest pressed to Brett's back, his face buried in the curve of Brett's neck, breathing him in like he belonged there.

Brett could feel Richard's heart hammering against his spine, slowing now, steadying. He could feel the heat of Richard's skin, the weight of his arm, the absolute possession in the way his hand splayed wide over Brett's stomach, holding him in place.

He should have felt disgusted. He should have felt violated. He should have been screaming for Lance, for home, for the five million dollars to be worth it.

Instead, Brett felt... safe.

The realization hit him like ice water, and he flinched so hard Richard tightened his grip.

"Shhh," Richard murmured against his neck, his voice hoarse and wrecked and tender in a way Brett had never heard it. "I've got you, pet. I've got you."

Brett sobbed once, a raw, broken sound that tore his throat. "Don't," he whispered, but his hands — his traitor hands — came up to clutch at Richard's forearm, holding on instead of pushing away. "Don't let go."

Richard pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the spot just above the choker, right where Brett's pulse fluttered like a trapped bird. "Never."

Brett closed his eyes, tears leaking hot and fast down his cheeks into the pillow. His mind was a storm of contradictions, each thought more terrifying than the last.

I begged for it. I said 'I need you inside me.' I said 'don't stop.'

I'm married. I'm Lance's wife. I wore white lace for him.

I don't feel like his wife anymore. I haven't for weeks. Not since the hormones ran out.

Richard is a pretty good kisser. Richard held me after. Richard didn't laugh at me when I untucked.

Oh my God, what's happening to me?

Richard shifted, rolling Brett gently onto his back so he could see his face. Brett tried to turn away, ashamed of the tears, ashamed of the want still humming low in his belly, ashamed of the way his body had arched and yielded and asked for more.

Richard caught his chin, his thumb stroking over Brett's swollen lower lip, his blue eyes — Lance's eyes, but colder, clearer — searching Brett's face with an intensity that made Brett's breath catch.

"Look at me," Richard ordered softly.

Brett obeyed, because he always obeyed now, because obedience felt easier than thinking.

"You did so well," Richard praised, his voice low and intimate, the voice of a true alpha praising his chosen mate. "So perfect for me, pet. So honest."

Brett whimpered, his hands fisting in the black sheets. "I'm not... I'm not supposed to... I'm married..."

"You are married," Richard agreed, leaning down to brush his lips over Brett's forehead, his eyelids, the tip of his nose. "And for the next twenty-one hours, you're mine. Not Lance's. Mine."

The words should have horrified him. They did horrify him. And yet, deep in the hollowed-out place in his chest where Brielle used to live, something warm and terrible uncurled at the sound of them.

Mine.

No one had claimed him like that in months. Not since before Singapore. Lance had been distant, distracted, treating Brett like glass, like a problem to be managed. Lance hadn't looked at him with hunger. Lance hadn't held him after. Lance hadn't made him feel like a man and a woman and nothing and everything all at once.

Richard had.

Richard was still looking at him like he was something precious and filthy and worth keeping.

"Say it," Richard whispered, his hand sliding up to wrap gently around Brett's throat, his thumb resting over the choker. "Say 'I'm yours.'"

Brett's lips trembled. His whole body trembled. He thought of Kalispell, of the little rental, of Lance asleep alone, of the wedding ring in Mara's pocket on the plane.

He thought of the empty hormone vial in their bathroom trash.

He opened his mouth, and the truth fell out, soft and broken and completely his own.

"I'm yours, Sir."

Richard's eyes flared with triumph, with heat, with something that looked almost like affection. He lowered his head and kissed Brett deeply, slowly, claiming his mouth the way he'd claimed his body, and Brett kissed him back — not because he was paid to, not because he had to, but because in that moment, in that bed, with that man holding him like he would never let go, Brett wanted to.

When Richard finally pulled back, Brett was crying silently, his hands clutching at Richard's shoulders, his legs tangled with Richard's under the sheets.

This was Stockholm syndrome, Brett thought dazedly, the psychology term floating up from some long-ago class. Falling in love with your captor. Bonding with the hand that feeds you, that hurts you, that holds you after.

He should fight it. He should be disgusted with himself.

Instead, Brett turned his face into Richard's neck, breathed in the cedar and sweat and power scent of him, and let himself be held.

"Sleep," Richard commanded softly, his arm tightening around Brett, his hand cradling the back of Brett's head like he was something fragile. "I'll be right here when you wake up."

Brett closed his eyes, his body limp and sated and terrifyingly content in the arms of his father-in-law, and whispered the last coherent thought he had before sleep took him:

"I don't want to go home."

Twenty-one hours left, and Brett Sullivan was already lost.…