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Prologue

BECKETT SINCLAIR

The mask waitsfor me across the room like it already knows what I'm about to become.

Polished leather. Cold silver. Brutal, clean lines—nothing soft. Everything I've built myself into. Elegant. Precise. Designed to conceal, but never to forget.

I roll my cuffs into place with practiced control, ignoring the strange shift crawling under my skin. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my Manhattan penthouse, the lights of New York City stretch out below, oblivious to what happens in the shadows of upstate estates like the one I'll be driving to tonight.

Tonight feels different, though I shouldn't feel anything at all.

Silence fills the room, broken only by my measured breath and the soft slide of fabric against skin as I dress.

Collar. Tie. Jacket.

Every motion exact. Every line smoothed. Control always starts here, in the quiet before the Hunt.

A lesson taught by my father.

Control was his religion. Passed down through generations of Sinclair men like scripture. He wore his mask with the same cold precision, carrying the legacy of the Owner's Club in his blood long before he rose to Collector status—the highest tier. The ruling three.

My birthright granted me membership, but I earned my place as an Owner—proved my dominance, passed their secret trials, demonstrated I could control what belongs to me. Like most members of the Club, I maintain residences in both the city and upstate, where the real power gathers in sprawling estates hidden from prying eyes. The elite from across the country converge here, drawn by the promise of what only New York's oldest and most secretive society can offer.

Yet in all these years, I've claimed no one at the Hunt.

The Hunt is tradition, a centuries-old game wrapped in silk and shadows that began when men of power craved something beyond the mundane reaches of their influence. They call it choice, power, fantasy. But everyone in this house knows the truth. It's about claiming what you want and watching the world step out of your way when you take it.

"Hunt what runs. Keep what's caught. Control what's kept."

The creed whispers through my thoughts as I straighten my tie, the words ingrained in me since childhood. The foundational principle of the Owner's Club, passed from father to son along with the mask and the legacy.

I've played before—walked through the motions, masked up, watched the chase. But I've never claimed. Not once. I didn't need to. The women who ran wanted the danger, thethrill, the fantasy. And the men who chased them needed something to prove.

While I have nothing to prove.

That's what they think. They think I'm above it.

They're wrong, of course. I've just never felt the desire to claim anyone for my personal entertainment.

If I take something, it's because I intend to keep it. And I've never trusted myself not to break what I keep.

As my suit jacket slides over my shoulders and I adjust my perfectly centered tie knot, I feel the pressure building—tight in my chest, low in my spine. It's been crawling up on me for days now. A low hum under my skin, a flicker of something I've ignored for too long.

Need.

Not for sex.

Not for power.

For something else. Something I can't name.

My gaze finds the mask again. Custom made, matte black with a silver sigil carved at the temple—the mark of my lineage, a symbol recognized by every member of the club. It's meant to showcase my eyes, because the Owner's Club believes the truth lives there.

Idiots.

There's nothing honest in a man's stare, only what he wants you to see. And I've spent my entire life making sure no one ever sees me.

I pick up the mask and turn it over in my hands, my thumb grazing the stitching, my jaw flexing as the weight of it settles into my palm like a promise. I've worn this same one for years, and for years, it's done its job—turned me into something untouchable, unmovable.