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"I don't need things!" My voice cracks with frustration. "I need?—"

I cut myself off before I can finish that thought, before I can admit what I really need.

He pauses at the threshold, and for one breathless moment, I think he might change his mind. But then his shoulders straighten, resolve hardening his spine.

"I'll be back," he says. "When it's safe."

The door closes behind him with a heavy finality, and I hear the locks engage—electronic, mechanical, multiple layers of security sealing me inside this stone prison.

"You bastard!" I shout, knowing he can still hear me through the door. "You can't do this! You can't just lock me away!"

I slam my palm against the door, the impact reverberating up my arm.

"Goddamn it, Beckett! Open this door!"

But there's no response, just the fading sound of footsteps and then silence—absolute, crushing silence that tells me he's already walking away, leaving me trapped in this fortress with nothing but my anger and the uncomfortable realization that what I really need might be him.

Thirty-Three

BECKETT

I killthe phone display with a swipe of my thumb, slipping the device into my inner suit pocket. Even across miles, the image of Luna pacing through the house remains burned into my vision. I've watched her for hours on the security feed, tracking her methodical exploration of the property—her hand trailing over walls, her cautious approach to each room, the hesitant way she stepped into the art studio I'd prepared for her.

But she hasn't painted. Not a single brushstroke. Just stood there, arms wrapped around herself like armor, staring at the blank canvas as though it represented something she couldn't bring herself to face.

That concerns me more than her anger, more than the string of elegant curses she hurled at the security cameras before pointedly turning her back on them. Anger I understand. Anger I can work with.

This stillness, though. This silence. It suggests something breaking underneath that I can't yet see.

"Mr. Sinclair."

The voice pulls me from my thoughts. One of the Club's staff—perfectly pressed suit, neutral expression, eyes fixed respectfully just over my shoulder rather than meeting mine directly. "The Collectors will see you now."

I rise, buttoning my jacket with practiced precision. The weight of the gun beneath it shifts, then settles against my ribs, a silent reassurance I don't technically need but prefer to have anyway. Rules or no rules, I've never walked unarmed into a room where my control might be challenged.

I follow him down the corridor toward the chamber reserved exclusively for the Collectors' use. My footsteps are measured, unhurried despite the urgency clawing at my insides. Panic is for prey, not predators. And I refuse to be hunted in these halls.

The doors open before us, revealing a chamber that seems deliberately designed to intimidate. The ceiling soars overhead, a dome of intricate latticework that filters light down in patterns that dance across polished obsidian floors. The walls are lined with dark wood paneling, interrupted only by narrow windows and oil paintings of hunts throughout history—men pursuing deer through forests, falcons diving for rabbits, wolves circling wounded prey.

At the center stands a massive round table, carved from a single piece of black walnut. The surface is polished to a high gleam, reflecting the crystal chandelier suspended above it like dark water under moonlight. Three men occupy high-backed chairs around its circumference, leaving the fourth position conspicuously empty.

My seat.

Or what would be my seat, if I belonged at this table.

My gaze moves first to Anthony Baine—mid-fifties, lean as a whip with thinning silver-blond hair and the kind of aristocratic features that speak of generations of careful breeding. His eyes are cold, calculating, tracking my every movement with the practiced assessment of a seasoned hunter. He wears a navy suit so dark it's nearly black, a platinum signet ring adorning his left hand.

To his right sits Preston Wolfe—the silver fox of the group, with his salt-and-pepper hair artfully styled and beard meticulously trimmed. He's in his mid-forties, and his physique suggests regular training, shoulders broad beneath his charcoal suit. He's watching me with an expression of mild curiosity, as though I'm a specimen he hasn't quite decided how to classify.

The third man is Edgar Blackwood—oldest of the three, with deeply lined features that have settled into a permanent expression of stern disapproval. His suit is traditional, almost old-fashioned, and the gold watch chain draped across his vest speaks to a preference for tradition over innovation. His gnarled hands rest flat on the table, liver spots visible against pale skin.

I stop at the edge of the table, neither taking a seat nor asking permission to do so.

"Hunt what runs," I begin, speaking the ritual words that open all formal proceedings within the Club.

"Keep what's caught," they respond in unison.

"Control what's kept," we finish together, the ancient mantra hanging in the air between us.