Page 13 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Graham

Preston Wolfe's office occupies the top floor of a Madison Avenue high-rise that whispers wealth rather than shouting it.

Everything is precisely curated—from the museum-quality art on the walls to the way the afternoon light filters through custom blinds to cast perfect shadows across his mahogany desk.

Even the air feels expensive, carrying notes of leather-bound books and expensive cologne.

The man himself is a study in controlled power.

Silver hair swept back with mathematical accuracy, steel-gray eyes that miss nothing, wearing a suit I know cost an easy twenty grand.

Even at forty-five, Preston Wolfe could have any woman in Manhattan, and frequently does.

But what makes him truly dangerous isn't his looks or his money—it's the way he can reduce grown men to stammering schoolboys with nothing more than a raised eyebrow.

"Graham," he says without looking up from the documents spread across his desk. "You're seven minutes late."

"Traffic," I lie, settling into the leather chair across from him. "You know how the city gets."

"I know how punctuality works." He sets down his Mont Blanc pen with the kind of precision that suggests he's considering using it as a weapon. "And I know that successful men don't blame external circumstances for their failures."

"Failure seems a bit strong for being seven minutes late to a friendly chat."

"Is that what this is?" Preston finally looks up, those gray eyes scanning my face with the intensity of a security camera. "Because my assistant said you requested an urgent meeting to discuss Club business."

Right. Getting straight to the point, then. Preston has never been one for small talk, which is both refreshing and terrifying depending on your perspective.

"I want to formally submit a name to the Catalog for this year's Hunt."

Preston's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in the air between us—a subtle tension that speaks to years of carefully maintained power dynamics.

The Catalog is exactly what it sounds like: a collection of profiles detailing the invitees for the annual Hunt.

Beautiful women from various walks of life, all carefully vetted, all guaranteed to provide the kind of entertainment that Club members pay premium prices to experience.

The Hunt itself is a single night of predatory elegance held at the Club’s private estate.

“Really?” Preston leans back in his chair, fingers steepled.

“In three years of membership, you’ve never once submitted anyone to the Catalog.

The first year, you participated—and then you and your possession went your separate ways before dawn and never spoke again.

Since then, nothing. You attend the Hunt, you show up for the dinners, but you’ve never truly engaged. ”

I raise an eyebrow. “Geez, Preston. Stalker much? You keeping a scrapbook on me somewhere? Did you want to go to Michaels together after this?”

“Patterns matter,” he replies evenly. “And yours suggest reluctance, not enthusiasm.”

“Right. Maybe you’re more of a Joann Fabrics girl.”

“Graham.” Preston’s tone suggests that he’s not amused by my antics.

I roll my eyes. “Maybe I was just waiting for the right candidate,” I counter, flashing a grin.

"Or maybe you were waiting to grow up." The words are designed to cut deep. "Tell me, Graham—what's changed?"

I could tell him about Delilah. About the way she's managed to outmaneuver me twice, about how she makes me feel more alive than I have in years. About the fact that she knows about the Club and wants in anyway.

Instead, I shrug. "Thought I'd shake things up this year. Keep life interesting."

Preston studies me for a long moment, and I can practically hear the gears turning behind those calculating eyes. He knows there's more to the story—Preston always knows when people are lying to him. But he also knows better than to push when I'm clearly not in the mood to elaborate.

"Very well," he says finally. "Submit your candidate's information to my assistant by Friday. Full background check, psychological profile, the usual documentation. You know the process."

"Of course."

"And Graham?" His voice stops me as I start to rise from my chair. "Be very certain this is what you want. The Hunt isn't a game. Once someone enters the Catalog, there are... consequences for all involved parties."

The warning is delivered with the kind of casual menace that Preston has perfected over decades of wielding power. But instead of being intimidated, I find myself grinning.

"Consequences," I repeat. "How delightfully ominous."

"I'm serious, Graham. This isn't one of your corporate acquisitions where you can simply buy your way out of complications. The Hunt has rules. And those rules will be enforced."

“Good thing I’ve always been excellent at following rules,” I say, which makes Preston’s mouth twitch in what might charitably be called amusement.

“Yes. You’re practically a model of compliance.” He sets the pen down just long enough to reach for his phone, typing a quick message with the same calm efficiency he uses to dismantle opponents in negotiations. “I’ll have my assistant circulate the announcement that you’re submitting this year.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Wow. Not wasting any time, are we? Should I be flattered you’re broadcasting my love life before I’ve even left the building?”

“It would be a very dangerous thing to confuse love with the Hunt.” Logically I know Preston’s words are wise, but in my own true fashion, I ignore them. “Friday, Graham.” He picks up his pen again, a clear dismissal. “Don’t make me wait.”

“Friday, got it,” I say, already halfway to the door. “I’ll bring the info, a bottle of wine, maybe some glitter glue. We’ll make a night of it—scrapbooking party, just you and me.”

“Graham,” Preston warns, voice tight.

I grin. Irritating him is half the fun.

I’m barely out of Preston’s building when my phone starts buzzing with Idiots United notifications.

Sebastian

Did you actually just submit someone to the Catalog?

Beckett

That was fast. Announcement just went out.

Sebastian

WHO IS SHE?

Graham

Meet me at The Plaza. Oak Room. Drinks in thirty.

Sebastian

This better be good, you secretive bastard.

Graham

Bringing Luna. She'll want to hear this.

The Oak Room at The Plaza maintains the kind of old-world elegance that makes conversations about secretive organizations feel appropriately dramatic.

Dark wood, leather banquettes, and waitstaff who've perfected the art of selective hearing.

I've barely settled into our usual corner booth when Sebastian and Beckett arrive, looking like men on a mission.

"Alright," Sebastian says without preamble, sliding into the booth across from me. "Talk."

"Hello to you too," I reply, signaling the waiter for our usual. "How's the engagement planning going?"

"Don't deflect. You know why we're here." Beckett settles beside Sebastian, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes alert. "You submitted someone to the Hunt Catalog. That's unexpected."

"Is it? I am a red-blooded male with functional eyesight. Sometimes we notice attractive women."

"You notice attractive women every day," Sebastian points out. "You don't usually volunteer them for potential kidnapping."

"It's not kidnapping if they consent to participate," I correct. "Technically, it's more like... competitive dating with extremely high stakes."

Luna arrives just as our drinks do, sliding into the booth beside Beckett. The moment she hears what we're discussing, something subtle shifts in her posture—a careful stillness that speaks to experience.

"So you've finally decided to play for keeps," she says quietly.

"The mysterious blonde who's been drugging him," Sebastian supplies helpfully.

"She has a name," I protest.

"Which is?"

I take a sip of my whiskey, savoring both the burn and the suspense. "Sophia Reeves. Art lover. Recently moved to the city. Has excellent taste in champagne and questionable judgment regarding pharmaceutical additions to beverages."

"Graham," Luna says carefully, "please tell me you've thought this through. The Hunt isn't... it's not a game."

"Everything's a game if you approach it with the right attitude. And she specifically asked about the Hunt."

Beckett and Luna exchange a look—one of those wordless communications that couples develop after sharing something profound.

"She asked about it," Luna repeats, and there's something cautious in her voice.

"Mentioned wanting an invitation. Said it sounded... intriguing."

"They all think it sounds intriguing," Sebastian mutters. "Until it actually happens."

"Two weeks isn't much time for preparation," Beckett observes. "The briefings, the physical conditioning, the psychological evaluations."

"She can handle it," I say, though something possessive and dark coils in my chest at the thought of other men competing for her.

"Can she?" Luna asks softly. "Because once your name goes in that Catalog, you become fair game for everyone."

"Everyone who can afford the entry fee," Sebastian corrects. "Which narrows it down to about fifty of the most competitive bastards on the planet."

"Including Martin Pemberton," Beckett adds with distaste. "He's been circling like a vulture ever since you upstaged him."

The thought of Martin—or anyone else—laying hands on Delilah makes me want to break something. Preferably dear Marty’s face.

"The Catalog isn't just a list of names," Beckett explains. "Each entry includes detailed preferences, boundaries, compensation requirements. Think of it as... a very exclusive dating profile with legally binding terms and conditions."

"I'm aware of the rules," I say evenly.

"Are you?" Sebastian leans forward, his expression unusually serious. "Because once someone enters the Hunt, there's no backing out. For either party. If you submit her name and then change your mind..."

"The Club takes a very dim view of members who waste everyone's time," Beckett finishes. "Preston would be particularly displeased."

"Preston's always displeased about something. It's part of his charm." I sip my drink. "She's not some helpless socialite," I say evenly. "Trust me, she can take care of herself."

"I'm sure she can," Luna says, but there's something in her voice. "Just remember, Graham. Once the Hunt starts, anything can happen."

"And you won't be the only one who wants to win," Sebastian adds cheerfully. "Competition's going to be fierce this year. Half the membership's been waiting for something interesting to come along. And you submitting a candidate might just be what they’re looking for."

"Graham." Luna's voice cuts through our banter. "What aren't you telling us?"

I consider lying, maintaining the facade that this is just another amusing diversion. But these people have seen me through acquisitions, betrayals, and the occasional drunken attempt on my life. They deserve at least a version of the truth.

"She's not what she appears to be," I say finally. "And I want to see what happens when she's forced to show her true colors."

"That's either romantic or psychotic," Sebastian observes. "I'm not sure which."

"Can't it be both?"

Luna shakes her head, but she's smiling. "You're all insane. Every single one of you."

"Probably," I agree. "But we're never boring."

My phone buzzes with a text from Preston:

Friday deadline stands. Don't disappoint me.

I down the rest of my whiskey, feeling the familiar thrill that comes with making irrevocable decisions. "Gentlemen, Luna. I have paperwork to file."

"Graham," Beckett calls as I stand. "Just... make sure you're ready for the competition. Some of those men don't like to lose."

"Neither do I," I reply.

"That's what I'm afraid of," Luna murmurs, but she's smiling when she says it.

Because if I'm going to fall for a criminal mastermind who drugs my champagne, I might as well see if she can survive being the most coveted prize in the most exclusive game in the world.