Dawn was coming through the blackout curtains in thin gold lines, painting stripes across the black silk sheets, across Richard's bare chest, across Brett's face where he lay curled against Richard's side.

Brett was awake. He hadn't slept more than twenty minutes at a time all night. Every time he drifted off, he'd jerk awake with his heart hammering, sure he'd dreamed it all — the plane, the money, the slutty tramp choker, the shower, the way he'd begged.

Then he'd feel the weight of the white leather collar around his throat — RICHARD'S MISTRESS — and feel Richard's arm heavy and warm around his waist, and remember it was all real.

And somehow, that didn't terrify him anymore.

That terrified him more than anything.

Richard was awake too, his blue eyes open, watching the ceiling, one hand stroking slow, lazy patterns on Brett's back under the black t-shirt. He hadn't let go once all night. Not to check his phone, not to get water, not for anything.

Like Brett might disappear if he did.

Brett shifted, pushing himself up on one elbow, his honey blonde hair a mess, his lips swollen, his new collar catching the dawn light. He looked down at Richard — at the silver at his temples, at the lines around his eyes, at the absolute power that radiated off him even half-asleep in bed.

And the realization hit him, soft and devastating and complete.

He didn't want to be Brett for Richard.

Brett was the boy who'd run out of hormones six weeks ago. Brett was the flat, numb, confused husband who'd been pushing Lance away, who couldn't feel anything, who didn't know who he was without the estrogen.

Brett was... boring. Lost.

But Brielle —

Brielle was the girl Richard had first seen on the plane, in white lace and a push-up bra and a choker that called her a tramp. Brielle was the one Richard had chosen, had paid five million dollars for, had washed clean and then claimed again and again.

Brielle was the one Richard had called "baby" and "mistress" and held like she was precious.

Brett wanted to be her again. Not for Lance. Not for Instagram. Not for the world.

For Richard.

He wanted to be Richard's wife.

The thought should have sickened him. It should have sent him scrambling for his phone to call Lance, to beg forgiveness, to go home to Kalispell.

Instead, Brett felt a slow, warm bloom of want spread through his chest, low in his belly. A giddy, girlish, terrifying hope.

He bit his lip, his fingers playing nervously with the hem of Richard's black t-shirt he was still wearing. He felt shy suddenly, coy in a way he hadn't felt since before the hormones ran out.

"Richard?" he whispered, his voice still low and male from the lack of estrogen, but soft, flirtatious.

Richard's eyes dropped to his, instantly focused. "Hmm?"

Brett traced a fingertip over Richard's chest, over the light dusting of silver hair, his cheeks flushing pink. He couldn't look Richard in the eye. He stared at his own finger instead, drawing little circles.

"Do you..." he started, then stopped, giggling nervously, the sound high and breathy and so Brielle it made his own heart skip. "Omg, this is stupid."

"Nothing you say to me is stupid, baby," Richard said, his hand coming up to cup Brett's jaw, tilting his face up, forcing eye contact. "Tell me."

Brett swallowed, his throat working against the RICHARD'S MISTRESS collar. He took a deep breath.

"Do you... do you have another one?" he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper, his eyes darting away again, shy and fluttering. "A choker, I mean."

Richard's eyebrow lifted, just slightly. "I have a whole drawer, pet. You saw."

"Yeah, but..." Brett's fingers twisted in the sheet, his whole body squirming with embarrassed want. "Do you have one that says..."

He couldn't say it. He mouthed it first, silently.

wifey

Then, in a rush, his face flaming red: "Wifey? Do you have one that says wifey? Omg."

The silence that followed was absolute. Brett wanted to die. He wanted the black silk sheets to swallow him whole. He'd gone too far, he'd misread everything, Richard wanted a mistress, not a wife, not—

Richard moved so fast Brett gasped.

In one smooth motion Richard rolled him onto his back, looming over him, his big body caging Brett in, his hands pinning Brett's wrists gently to the pillow above his head. His blue eyes were blazing, dark and hungry and something else Brett had never seen before — something soft and stunned and possessive all at once.

"Say that again," Richard ordered, his voice low and rough.

Brett's breath hitched, his chest heaving under the t-shirt, his new collar feeling suddenly tight. "I... I asked if you had a choker that says wifey..."

"Why?" Richard demanded, his thumbs stroking over Brett's pulse points, feeling his heart hammer. "Why do you want that one, baby?"

Brett's eyes filled with tears, his lower lip trembling. The truth poured out of him in a whisper, raw and broken and completely honest.

"Because I want to be her for you," he confessed, his voice cracking. "I want to be Brielle for you, Richard. Not for Lance, not for anyone else. Just for you. I want... I want to be your wife."

He sobbed once, hard, his whole body shaking under Richard. "I know I'm not a girl anymore, I know the hormones are gone, I know I'm just Brett, but when you look at me, when you call me baby, I feel like her again, and I like it, I like it so much, and I want you to keep me, I want you to—"

Richard kissed him. Hard. Deep. Silencing the spiral of words with his mouth, with his tongue, with a claiming kiss that tasted like dawn and possession and promise.

When he pulled back, Brett was panting, dazed, tears streaming down his temples into his hair.

Richard's forehead pressed to Brett's, his breathing ragged for the first time all night.

"I don't have one that says wifey," Richard said quietly, his voice thick with emotion Brett had never heard from him before.

Brett's face crumpled. "Oh."

"But," Richard continued, his thumb brushing away Brett's tears, "I will have one made by noon. White leather, to match this one. With a little diamond heart on the clasp. And it will say RICHARD'S WIFEY in pink script."

Brett gasped, his eyes going wide, his hands flying up to clutch at Richard's shoulders.

"Do you want that, baby?" Richard whispered, his lips brushing Brett's ear, his voice the voice of a true alpha billionaire giving his chosen one the world. "Do you want to be my wifey?"

Brett nodded frantically, sobbing and laughing at the same time, the sound high and girlish and utterly Brielle. "Yes! Yes, Sir, please, yes, omg, yes—"

"Then that's what you'll be," Richard promised, kissing his tears away, kissing the RICHARD'S MISTRESS collar, kissing the pulse hammering in Brett's throat. "My mistress for now. My wifey by lunch."

Brett threw his arms around Richard's neck and held on tight, his body shaking with relief and joy and a love so big and wrong and right it felt like it might split him open.

He didn't think about Lance. He didn't think about Kalispell. He didn't think about the five million dollars or the twenty hours left.

He only thought: I'm going to be Richard's wifey.

And for the first time since his hormones ran out, Brett Sullivan — Brielle — felt whole.…