“Don’t be gross. You’re married.”
“I’m married, not dead,” she said. “I can appreciate a fine man when I see one. Paul isn’t the possessive type.” She snorted, glancing at him. “Though it looks like you are.”
“I’m not possessive,” Jordan said.
“Please,” Eloise said. “You look like you’re one step away from strangling me for daring to look at your man this way.”
“He isn’t my anything,” Jordan said, his stomach clenching at the truth of those words. Damiano wasn’t his anything. He had no real claim to him.
His sister’s gaze turned serious as she studied him. “But do you want him to be your something?”
Jordan didn’t reply. Thankfully Eloise’s youngest took that moment to throw an apple at his brother, which promptly made Eddie burst out crying, and Eloise hurried off, her interrogation forgotten.
But Jordan couldn’t forget her words. Do you want him to be your something?
Her words were still on his mind during dinner. Damiano wasn’t seated next to him—Jordan’s mother was too particular about her seating arrangements to allow an unexpected guest to mess with them—and Jordan ended up watching Damiano from the other end of the table and thinking about his sister’s words.
He knew what the answer to her question was, of course: yes. Fuck yes. He would let Damiano put a fucking collar on him with his name on it, anything to have tangible proof of meaning something to him. Something significant. Something that would make their relationship real. Because he often felt like his life consisted of nothing but waiting for Damiano’s call and being stressed if he didn’t hear from him for a few days. He hated it. Hated the utter lack of control over their relationship, hated that if something happened to Damiano, no one would even notify Jordan, because he was a dirty little secret, a weakness Damiano was ashamed of. Damiano had even come to Boston under the pretense of visiting his estranged stepbrother, not Jordan. There was nothing tying them together. Nothing but their messy feelings. Nothing permanent.
Jordan frowned, looking at his hands.
At the ring on his finger.
***
They left Jordan’s parents’ house well after midnight.
It was snowing again, large snowflakes falling onto Damiano’s dark hair as they walked slowly toward the parked cars.
“Thanks,” Jordan said quietly, lifting his face and closing his eyes as snowflakes fell onto his overheated cheeks. “For putting up with my father all evening. He can get carried away when he discusses politics and wine.”
Damiano just hummed. He didn’t lie that it was no bother to him. Jordan knew he was introverted and big social gatherings weren’t really his thing.
“At least his conversation was reasonably intelligent,” Damiano said, coming to a halt and looking at him. It was hard to read his expression in the light of the street lamps. “Your bodyguards will take you home in their car. I can’t be seen much by your apartment complex. It’s not safe.”
Right.
“Will I see you before you go home?” He was impressed with how casual his voice sounded.
Damiano shook his head, the line of his shoulders tense. “My plane is leaving within the hour.”
Oh.
It must have been nice to have a private jet that let you leave the country—and unwanted feelings—whenever you wanted to.
The package in Jordan’s pocket seemed to burn him through his coat.
Just give it to him.
Looking at the snow at his feet, Jordan said, “I have something for you.” Slipping his hand into his pocket, he retrieved the package and handed it to Damiano.
“A Christmas gift?”
Jordan’s lips twisted. “Sort of.”
He didn’t look as Damiano opened it.
“It’s a ring.” Damiano had never sounded so baffled. It almost made Jordan smile. Almost. He didn’t really feel like smiling. His throat felt uncomfortably thick. Damiano was leaving. Again. And he clearly had no intention of giving him any promises. Again.
“It is,” he said tersely, unable to meet his eyes.
“It looks like yours,” Damiano said in a strange voice.
Jordan nodded, looking at his own ring. “They’re from the same batch, so they’re similar in design. Our family company specializes in mini gadgets, and this one is basically a very sophisticated GPS tracker.”
He felt rather than saw Damiano tense up. “A tracker?”
“Yeah,” Jordan said. “Look, I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not—it’s not that I want to track you and control you—it’s…” His throat constricted. “I hate not knowing where you are,” he admitted, without looking at Damiano. “I hate the anxiety when you don’t call for days, hate wondering if something happened to you. It’s not like anyone would tell me if something did happen. I’m no one to you. So I thought—I thought I could give you one of these. It’s really useful—we might have been found sooner if we had one of these rings on us when we were kidnapped.”
Silence fell.
“How many people have access to the tracker?”