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As we pass, I meet his gaze directly, a silent message passing between us.

You may know her past, but I control her present.

Twenty-Eight

BECKETT

The car is too quiet.

Not in the way silence usually feels around Luna now—comfortable, heavy with promise, like the aftermath of something we've both surrendered to.

This is different. This silence has sharp edges, brittle and dangerous, as if the air between us might crack like thin ice if either of us dares to exhale too loudly.

She sits beside me, still wearing the lace from the gallery, body curved inward as if trying to make herself smaller. Her eyes remain fixed forward but unfocused, fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of her dress—a last desperate attempt to maintain whatever control she still believes she has. I can read every subtle shift in her posture, every tightening of her jaw. She hasn't been this closed off since I found her in the woods during the Hunt.

I haven't spoken since we left. Not because I don't want to,but because I'm not certain I can trust what might come out if I do.

This feeling is unfamiliar—this burn behind my ribs, this sharp, unrelenting pressure crawling down my spine and wrapping tight around the base of my skull. It whispers accusations I don't want to hear.

You missed something.

And worse?

She didn't tell you.

The man who'd walked in at the club hadn't said a word. He didn't need to. His expression said everything. That wasn't simple recognition crossing his features when he spotted Luna. That was familiarity. That wasn't surprise. That was possession—the look of a man who believes something belongs to him, something I now claim as mine.

And Luna felt it. I felt her feel it—the way she tensed, her body freezing as if he'd reached through the crowd and dug his fingers into a wound I hadn't discovered yet.

Then she looked away. No explanation. No panic. Just a quiet, gut-level fear I haven't seen on her face since the night she walked into the Hunt like a woman with nothing to lose but everything to escape.

But that man, he smiled. Not politely. Not nervously. Cruelly. Like he already knew the ending to this story and was simply watching me fumble through the first act of something he'd read to completion.

The car pulls up to the building, the soft crunch of tires on pavement breaking the fragile silence. The driver steps out and opens the door with practiced efficiency. Luna doesn't move. Neither do I.

After a moment, my hand finds the small of her back—a steady, deliberatetouch.

"Come," I say simply, guiding her out of the car.

My voice is calm, my movements measured. Because even if the fire in my chest threatens to consume everything in its path, I still control the pace. I always do.

We step into the elevator together. Her shoulders remain rigid under my touch, but she doesn't pull away. If anything, she leans into me. Looking for some part of my protection.

And I can't lie and say it doesn't lessen some of the sting.

The ascent is silent, the soft hum of machinery the only sound between us. When we reach the penthouse, she follows me inside without hesitation, but there's a new distance in her eyes—a place she's retreated to where I can't follow.

The door shuts behind us with the soft finality that should feel satisfying. It doesn't.

I shrug off my jacket with deliberate movements, tossing it across the arm of the couch before undoing the top button of my shirt. Then I turn to face her.

She's still standing near the entrance, as if unsure whether she's allowed further into a space she's lived in for weeks. Her uncertainty would be amusing if it didn't make something cold twist in my chest.

I don't move toward her. Instead, I ask the question that's been burning since we left the gallery.

"You knew him."

No inflection. No accusation. Just truth, sitting in the center of the room like an uninvited guest.