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He doesn't phrase it as a threat. He states it as fact, as inevitability, which somehow makes it more unsettling than any overt display of force.

"Why me?" I ask, voicing the question that's been burning since he first locked eyes with me. "There are plenty of willing women here."

"Willing isn't interesting," he says simply. "I prefer defiant."

My spine remains straight, my expression guarded as he moves behind me. The room grows so still I can hear my heartbeat echoing in my ears—a frantic rhythm against the dignified silence. This moment holds more weight than I realized when I stole my way in.

When a woman accepts the collar, she doesn't become untouchable. She becomes a target. It's not protection—it's a challenge. A signal that someone intends to claim her. But in the Hunt, nothing is guaranteed.

The collar is a warning. Not a promise.

I should resist. I should object. I should expose myself rather than become someone's prisoner.

Instead, my body is frozen as he brushes my hair gentlyover one shoulder, his fingers grazing my skin with unexpected delicacy. He fastens the velvet around my throat with practiced ease, though something in his touch suggests he's never done this quite the same way before.

When the clasp clicks shut, the atmosphere shifts perceptibly.

I've been marked. The rules of engagement have changed.

His breath warms my ear as he leans closer. "You should've never come here, little thief."

"Then take it off," I demand through gritted teeth.

"No."

"I don't want it."

"Liar," he whispers, the word a caress against my skin. "Your body betrays you. Your breath. Your pulse. The way you didn't run when you should have. You came here to be claimed—you just didn't know who would do the claiming."

"You're presumptuous."

His voice drops to a whisper, intimate and certain. "And you're mine now. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be for both of us."

"I don't do easy."

I feel rather than see his smile. "Good. Neither do I."

Five

LUNA

His hand doesn't leavemy back as we move through the crowd, a warm pressure that feels more like a brand than a guide. Conversations resume around us, but the tone has shifted—hushed whispers, curious glances, the occasional sharp intake of breath when someone recognizes the velvet band around my throat.

I'm hyper-aware of his proximity, the subtle cologne that clings to his skin, the effortless way he navigates the room while keeping me firmly within his orbit. He doesn't grip or push—he doesn't need to. His presence alone is enough to propel me forward, to keep me moving alongside him like we've practiced this a hundred times before.

And then—he stops. Looks at me for one weighted moment. And simply walks away.

Just like that.

No flourish. No smile. No warning. He steps back, blends into the crowd of masked men, and leaves me standing in thecenter of the ballroom with a black velvet band around my throat and the weight of a thousand eyes tracking every inch of my body.

I remain still, counting my breaths until I can trust myself to move without revealing how thoroughly he's unsettled me.

When I finally step forward, I make myself walk with measured grace, as though none of this phases me, as though I'm exactly who I pretended to be when I stepped into this estate.

But the ballroom feels different now. The music seems softer, conversations more hushed, gazes more intent. The men watch with newfound interest—not polite curiosity, but something hungrier. Because now I'm marked. And yet, some of them don't seem to care.

A man steps into my path as I pass the bar—not just any man, but a presence that commands attention. Tall and impeccably styled, he carries himself with the kind of confidence that suggests he's rarely denied anything. Sandy brown hair and brown eyes complement the silver mask adorned with a carved insignia at the temple, different from the one worn by the man who just claimed me.