Page 10 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Delilah

"Sophia," Graham says, and I freeze mid-step like I've been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.

But when I turn to look at him, he's smiling. Not the cold, predatory smile of someone who's about to destroy me, but something warmer, more amused. Like he's enjoying a private joke that I'm not quite in on yet.

"Would you like to come back to my hotel with me?"

My brain screams at me to run. He knows.

Obviously he knows—the way he said my fake name, the casual reference to being roofied, the fact that he's standing here grinning instead of calling the police.

Graham Ellsworth has figured out exactly who and what I am, and I should be halfway to the Canadian border by now.

Instead, I hear myself saying, "Yes."

The word slips out before I can stop it, and I immediately want to take it back. This is insane. This is professional suicide. This is the kind of mistake that gets people like me arrested or worse.

But Graham's smile widens, and something warm unfurls in my chest despite every survival instinct I've cultivated over the past decade.

"Excellent," he says, opening the car door for me with the same courtly gesture he's used all evening. "I promise this time will be more... memorable."

Graham settles into the driver's seat and pulls away from the curb, my phone starts buzzing like an angry hornet. I glance down to see a string of increasingly frantic texts from Iris:

Where are you going?

D your location is moving toward Midtown

Are you going back to his hotel?

DELILAH ANSWER ME

This is insane you need to get out of there NOW

"Popular tonight?"

"Something like that." I force a laugh. "Martin is just getting jealous."

"Ah. Should I be concerned about my safety?"

"Probably." I quickly type back to Iris:

I'll be fine. Stop tracking me.

Then I turn my phone off completely, ignoring the way my hands are shaking slightly.

Graham notices, of course. The man seems to notice everything.

"Having second thoughts?" he asks as we pull up to a stoplight.

"Always," I reply honestly. "But I've never been good at listening to my better judgment."

"Thank God for that," he murmurs, and the heat in his voice makes my stomach flip.

The drive to The Ellsworth passes in a haze of charged silence and stolen glances. Every red light feels like an eternity, every turn bringing us closer to whatever line I'm about to cross. By the time we reach the hotel, the tension in the car is so thick I can barely breathe.

Graham's penthouse is exactly as I remember it—elegant, expensive, intimidating in the way that only serious wealth can be. But tonight, it feels different. Tonight, it feels dangerous in an entirely new way.

"Wine?" Graham asks, moving toward the bar.

"Please." I need something to do with my hands, something to calm the nervous energy thrumming through my veins.

He pours two glasses of wine, and when he hands it to me, our fingers brush. The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm, and I have to work not to drop the glass.

"To new experiences," he says, raising his wine in a toast.

"To making terrible decisions," I counter, which makes him laugh.

We drink in silence for a moment, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between us like a loaded gun. Then Graham steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

"You know," he says softly, "most people would be running by now."

"I'm not most people."

"No," he agrees, his hand coming up to trace the line of my jaw, "you're definitely not."

He leans down, and for a moment I think he's going to kiss me. Instead, he pauses just inches from my lips, his breath warm against my skin, waiting for me to close the distance.

I should step back. I should maintain control of the situation. I should remember that this is a job, not a fairy tale.

Instead, I find myself stepping onto the terrace, needing air, needing space, needing a moment to think clearly without the distraction of Graham's proximity.

The city spreads out below us, all lights and possibility and danger. From up here, Manhattan looks manageable, contained, like something you could hold in your hands and control.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Graham's voice comes from behind me, closer than I expected.

"It's... a lot," I admit, gripping the railing as I try to organize my thoughts. "Sometimes I feel like I'm drowning in it. All the noise, all the people, all the..." I trail off, realizing I'm saying too much, revealing too much of the girl who used to dream of quiet places and simple lives.

"All the what?" he asks gently.

"Nothing. I just... I grew up in a small town. Sometimes the city feels overwhelming."

It's more truth than I've shared with anyone in years, and I immediately regret it. Sophia Reeves doesn't have a backstory that involves small towns and overwhelming cities. Sophia Reeves is sophisticated, worldly, completely at ease in places like this.

But before I can backtrack, I feel Graham's presence behind me, his hands sliding up my arms in a touch that's both possessive and gentle. I shiver despite the warm night air.

"I like this side of you," he murmurs against my ear. "The real side."

The words send a chill down my spine that has nothing to do with the night air.

Shit. He definitely knows who I really am.

But before I can spiral into panic, his lips find the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, and coherent thought becomes impossible.

This is exactly what I can't let happen.

The whole game depends on keeping them wanting more, on disappearing before things go too far, on maintaining control at all costs.

But tonight, I just want to get lost. In his humor, in his danger, in the way he looks at me like I'm fascinating.

His mouth moves along my neck, and I feel my carefully maintained composure starting to crumble. I should stop this. I should maintain the rules that have kept me safe for so long.

Instead, I turn in his arms and meet his eyes directly.

"Graham," I breathe, my hands fisting in his shirt, "I want you. But if we do this, I lose my chance at the Hunt."

He laughs against my neck, the sound vibrating through my skin. "That's not really how that works, baby. It's not a hunt of virgins."

"Oh." Heat floods my cheeks. Not that I was a virgin, but I could lie my ass off if I needed to. "I thought... I mean, I assumed..."

"Look," he says, pulling back to meet my eyes, his expression suddenly serious, "if you want a spot in the Hunt, I'll get you one. But you should know that no one has won the prize money. Everyone ends up being claimed in the end."

There's something in his voice, some warning or promise that I should probably pay attention to. But his hands are still on my arms, his body is still pressed against mine, and all I can think about is how much I want to stop thinking altogether.

So instead of asking what he means, instead of demanding explanations or maintaining professional distance, I reach up and pull his mouth down to mine.

And for the first time in my adult life, I stop calculating the risks and let myself fall.