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"I'm sure we can come to an understanding," I respond, reading between the lines. "My skills are at the Club's disposal, within reasonable parameters."

Edgar scoffs. "And who defines what'sreasonable?"

"We all have our boundaries, Mr. Blackwood," I say evenly. "I'm simply acknowledging mine exist."

"This is highly irregular," Edgar protests, but there's less force behind his objection now.

Anthony silences him with a slight gesture. "We will need to deliberate on your proposal, Mr. Sinclair. Such an exception to our established protocols cannot be decided hastily."

I incline my head slightly. "Of course. I merely ask that you consider the advantages of my solution compared to the disruption of forced removal."

"And if we decide against you?" Preston asks, curiosity evident in his tone.

My expression doesn't change, but something shifts in my posture—a subtle transformation from businessman to predator that doesn't go unnoticed by any of them.

"Then we would have a profound disagreement," I say softly. "Which would be... unfortunate for all involved."

The threat hangs in the air, unspoken but unmistakable.

Anthony's mouth curves in what might generously be called a smile. "You will have our decision within forty-eight hours."

I bow my head slightly. "I appreciate your consideration."

"Hunt what runs," Anthony intones, signaling the end of our meeting.

"Keep what's caught," I respond along with the others.

"Control what's kept," we finish in unison.

I turn and walk out without looking back, feeling their eyes on me until the doors swing shut behind me. In the corridor, I allow myself a single deep breath before my mask of perfect control slides back into place.

Forty-eight hours.

Time enough to ensure they make the right decision. Timeenough to contact Genevieve Laurent. Time enough to secure the leverage I need.

Because Luna isn't leaving my protection. Not for the Collectors. Not for anyone.

She's mine. And I protect what's mine.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Another alert from the security system at the house. I pull it out, expecting to see Luna's continued pacing.

Instead, I find her in the art studio. Painting at last.

The canvas blooms with violent strokes of crimson and black, a storm of color and emotion that makes something in my chest tighten unexpectedly.

I stare at the image for a long moment, then slip the phone away.

Perhaps she's not breaking after all.

Perhaps she's merely finding her edges.

Thirty-Four

LUNA

I've been pacingthis prison for two days.

Two. Goddamn. Days.