Page 12 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Delilah

I slip away from the terrace where Graham lies unconscious on the chaise lounge, his chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sedated sleep.

The Manhattan skyline glitters beyond him like a backdrop to some impossible dream, and for a moment I'm tempted to stay—to curl up beside him and pretend this is something other than what it is.

Instead, I gather my scattered clothes from where they landed during our... encounter. The black dress slides over my skin like liquid silk, and I try not to think about the way Graham's hands felt tracing those same lines just minutes ago.

I take one last look at him sprawled across the outdoor furniture, his massive cock still standing at attention despite the fact that its owner is practically comatose. Then I slip back through the penthouse, past the expensive art and designer furniture, and out through his private elevator.

The lobby staff nod politely as I pass, their faces professionally neutral.

The cab ride back to Brooklyn feels endless, giving me too much time to think about what happened tonight.

About the way Graham laughed when he realized I'd drugged him again—not with anger or fear, but with genuine delight.

Like it was the most entertaining thing that had happened to him in years.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I switch my phone back on as we cross the Manhattan Bridge, and it immediately explodes with notifications. Nineteen missed calls and forty-two text messages, all from Iris. The preview texts alone make my stomach clench with guilt:

DELILAH WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU ANSWER YOUR PHONE RIGHT NOW I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU'RE DEAD I'M GOING TO KILL YOU

This isn't funny anymore please just tell me you're alive

I scroll through the increasingly frantic messages, each one a testament to how badly I've fucked up.

Iris has been my partner for three years, my closest friend, the person who's kept me alive and sane through dozens of jobs.

And I disappeared on her without a word because I was too caught up in Graham Ellsworth's dangerous smile to think straight.

I'm okay. On my way home. Sorry for scaring you.

DON'T YOU DARE "SORRY" ME.

GET YOUR ASS HOME RIGHT NOW.

I spend the rest of the cab ride trying to figure out how to explain tonight without sounding like I've completely lost my mind.

The truth is, I don't understand what happened.

I've never lost control like that, never let personal feelings interfere with a job.

I pride myself on being professional, calculated, always three steps ahead.

But Graham... Graham makes me feel like he sees right through all my carefully constructed masks to something real underneath.

Like maybe, impossibly, he might actually understand who I am and what I've been through.

There's something about him that feels familiar in a way that has nothing to do with the wealthy men I usually target and everything to do with recognizing another person who lives by their own rules.

By the time I reach our fourth-floor walkup, I've almost convinced myself that tonight was just adrenaline and good chemistry. Graham is just another mark—a more challenging one than usual, but still just a job. I can compartmentalize this. I can get my priorities straight.

I barely get the door open before Iris launches herself at me, wrapping me in a fierce hug that smells like coffee and floral shampoo.

"Don't you ever do that to me again," she says into my shoulder, her voice thick with relief and residual fear. "I was ready to call the fucking police."

"I'm sorry," I say, and I mean it. The guilt sits heavy in my chest as I hug her back. "I should have texted you. I wasn't thinking clearly."

She pulls back and promptly pinches my arm hard enough to make me yelp. "Damn right you weren't thinking clearly! You turned off your phone and disappeared with a billionaire who could have you disappeared for real!"

"Ow! Okay, I deserved that." I rub my arm, feeling like a scolded child. "But I'm fine. See? All limbs accounted for."

"This time," she says darkly. "What if next time he decides you know too much? What if he gets bored of your little games and decides to make you a permanent problem?"

The thing is, she's not wrong. Everything about Graham Ellsworth screams danger—the kind of man who could make problems disappear with a phone call. I should be terrified of him.

Instead, all I can think about is the way he looked at me on that terrace, like I was the most fascinating puzzle he'd ever encountered.

"It won't come to that," I say, though I'm not sure I believe it myself. "He's... different than I expected."

Iris stares at me for a long moment, her dark eyes searching my face for something I'm not sure I want her to find. "Delilah. Please tell me you're not catching feelings for this guy."

"Of course not," I say quickly. "It's just a job. A complicated job, but still just a job."

She doesn't look convinced, but she lets it slide. "Okay. Well, since you're alive and apparently unharmed, come look at what I found. I've got some news that might change everything."

She leads me to our kitchen table, which is currently sporting the evidence of what looks to be at least seven different coffee cups and five Monster energy drinks.

"Jesus, Iris. How long have you been awake?"

"Since you disappeared and scared the shit out of me," she says, settling into her chair. "But the insomnia was productive. Look at this."

She pulls up a series of financial documents that make my eyes water just looking at them. "Graham Ellsworth's net worth? I was wrong. It's not four-point-seven billion. It's closer to eight billion, and most of it's in cryptocurrency and tech investments that have been growing exponentially."

My mouth goes dry. "Eight billion?"

"With a B."

She clicks to another screen showing a web of corporate connections that looks like a conspiracy theorist's fever dream.

"If you play this right, Delilah, this could be our last job.

Ever. We could retire, buy a nice house somewhere with decent coffee and no extradition treaties, and never have to run another con again. "

The idea should be appealing. Financial security, safety, the chance to stop looking over my shoulder every day. But something twists uncomfortably in my stomach at the thought of taking advantage of Graham.

Which is ridiculous. He's got more money than he could spend in ten lifetimes. He won't even notice whatever I manage to siphon off. This is what I do. This is who I am. I can't start developing a conscience now just because my mark has a dangerous smile and looks at me like I matter.

"Right," I say, forcing enthusiasm into my voice. "One big score and we're out."

"Exactly." Iris grins, but then her expression turns serious. "Though there's something else you need to know. Something less pleasant."

My blood turns to ice. "What?"

"I got some... rumblings. About Stanley Torrino."

I flinch at hearing the name. Stanley Torrino—the Philadelphia crime boss whose wife I may have accidentally conned two years ago.

In my defense, I thought she was just another bored socialite with too much money and too little sense.

I had no idea she was gambling with money that belonged to some very dangerous people.

By the time I realized my mistake, it was too late. The fallout was... messy. And Stanley blamed me for all of it.

"What kind of rumblings?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know.

"The kind that suggest he hasn't forgotten about you. Or forgiven you." Iris's voice is carefully neutral, but I can see the worry in her eyes. "My sources say he's been asking questions, following money trails, trying to track down a certain blonde con artist who ruined his life."

"Does he know where we are?"

"Not yet. But I'm not sure it's going to stay that way for long. He's got resources, Delilah. And he's got motivation."

The comfortable safety of our Brooklyn apartment suddenly feels fragile, temporary. Stanley Torrino isn't the kind of man who forgets slights, and he definitely isn't the kind who forgives them. If he's actively looking for me...

"Then we work Graham for everything he's worth and get the hell out of here," I say, surprised by how steady my voice sounds. "Fast."

"Agreed." Iris extends her hand. "Partners?"

I shake it, trying to ignore the way my chest tightens at the thought of leaving Graham behind. This is survival. This is what needs to happen.

"Partners," I confirm. "Let's retire in style."

But even as I say the words, I can't shake the memory of the amusement in Graham's eyes before the sedative took hold.