Page 29 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Graham

The preliminary meeting takes place in the boardroom of Preston's private club on the Upper East Side, a room designed to intimidate with its mahogany paneling and oil paintings of long-dead patriarchs.

Tonight, it feels particularly theatrical—fifty men in identical black suits and venetian masks seated at an elevated table, looking down at the women filing in below us like some twisted parody of a judicial proceeding.

The irony of the orderly nature of it all isn't lost on me. We're discussing human hunting with the same clinical precision most people reserve for quarterly earnings reports.

The women enter in a neat line, all wearing identical simple black dresses that were provided when they arrived.

No names, no personal touches, just anonymous figures in a carefully orchestrated display.

They take their seats in the gallery below us, and I can feel the collective assessment happening around the table—predators evaluating prey, calculating advantages, already planning strategies for the Hunt.

Unlike us, they don't have the luxury of anonymity. We can see their faces, study their expressions, catalog their reactions. It's a power dynamic as old as civilization itself, dressed up in expensive suits and formal procedures.

Preston rises from his position at the head of the table, commanding attention without effort. Even behind his mask, his authority is unmistakable.

"Ladies," his voice carries across the room with practiced gravitas, "welcome to the preliminary briefing for this year's Hunt. What you're about to hear will determine whether you choose to participate in tomorrow night's event, or whether you exercise your right to withdraw."

Preston outlines the structure with clinical precision.

Tomorrow evening begins with a masked ball where all participants—hunters and prey alike—are required to conform to a certain dress code.

Men in their tux and masks, and the women wear the mask and gowns provided.

During the ball, hunters may offer favors to women of their choosing, tokens that signal intention to claim but also create risk, as showing preference makes both parties targets.

"The Hunt itself begins at midnight when the ball ends," Preston continues. "The objective is simple: survive until sunrise without being claimed. The prize for any woman who remains uncaptured is two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

He pauses, letting that sink in before delivering the crucial detail.

"This year, we've implemented a new game to avoid any.

.. challenges to the legitimacy of claims." His eyes briefly flick toward where Beckett would normally sit, though tonight all faces are masked.

"A successful claim is now confirmed only when a hunter removes the participant's anklet.

The design requires intimate access to complete the removal. "

I know exactly what Preston means by "challenges." The new anklet system eliminates any ambiguity about what constitutes a capture.

"Before you leave tonight, you'll receive your anklet—a delicate silver chain with a small padlock charm. You'll wear this throughout tomorrow evening's events."

"Anyone who wishes to withdraw may do so now," Preston announces.

Seven women stand and leave. Smart girls.

The ones who remain either fully understand what they've signed up for, or they're about to learn in the most visceral way possible.

I scan the remaining faces, looking for Delilah. She's in the back row, trying to blend in with the others, but she stands out to me like a beacon. Even in that generic black dress, even trying to appear unremarkable, there's something about the way she holds herself that draws my attention.

Our eyes meet across the room, and she gives me the smallest of smiles. My blood runs cold and hot simultaneously. Is it possible she recognizes me even behind the mask? The thought should be concerning, but instead I find it thrilling.

The women are dismissed to receive their anklets, filing out in the same orderly fashion they entered. That's when the real show begins.

The moment the doors close, the atmosphere in the room shifts. Masks come off, revealing faces I know from business deals and social functions. The polite formality dissolves into something more primal.

"Well, well," comes a voice from behind me. Peter Geoffrey, looking like a predator who's just spotted wounded prey. "Graham Ellsworth finally decided to play with the big boys."

"Something like that," I reply, not bothering to turn around.

"Have to say, your little blonde is quite the specimen." His voice takes on a lewd quality that makes my jaw clench. "Can't wait to get my hands on that tight little body. Might keep her tied up for days, see how many times I can make her scream before she breaks."

I turn slowly, my smile carefully controlled. "Peter. Always such a poet."

"Just being honest about my intentions." He grins, the expression making him look like a rabid dog. "Fair warning though—I plan to make her mine within the first hour. By the time you even find her trail, she'll already be learning what it means to belong to a real man."

Two other Club members have drifted over, drawn by the conversation like vultures to carrion.

"The Geoffrey approach," laughs Richard Harrington, another trust fund parasite who's never worked a day in his life. "Crude but effective. Though personally, I prefer a more... extended courtship. That little blonde's going to provide entertainment for weeks if I claim her."

"Assuming any of you can catch her," says the third man, whose name I can't be bothered to remember. "She looked like she has some fight in her. Might be fun breaking that spirit."

I continue smiling, nodding along with their crude fantasies, playing the part everyone expects of me—the bored billionaire who views this whole thing as an amusing diversion. But underneath the carefully maintained facade, something dark and violent is coiling in my chest.

If any of these men so much as touch her, they're going to discover that accidents happen during the Hunt. Tragic, unfortunate accidents that leave promising young men unable to continue their participation.

Permanently.

"May the best man win," I say cheerfully, raising an imaginary glass in salute.

"Oh, he will," Peter replies with a laugh. "He definitely will."

The conversation continues for another twenty minutes, each man trying to outdo the others in their descriptions of what they plan to do once they claim their prizes. I laugh at the right moments, make the appropriate comments, play my role perfectly.

All while mentally cataloging exactly how I'm going to eliminate each of them if they get too close to what's mine.

By the time I return to my penthouse, the carefully maintained control is starting to crack around the edges. I pour myself three fingers of twenty-five-year-old Macallan and down it in one go, then immediately pour another.

I've attended the Hunt for three years, always as an observer, never with any personal investment in the outcome. It was entertainment, a display of power and wealth that I appreciated from an aesthetic standpoint without feeling emotionally involved.

This is different. This is Delilah out there in the woods, being hunted by men who view her as nothing more than a prize to be claimed and used. The thought of their hands on her skin, of her being forced to submit to whatever degradation they have planned...

I pour a third drink and stare out at the Manhattan skyline, trying to understand this foreign emotion twisting in my gut. I've never felt possessive about a woman before. They've always been pleasant diversions, temporary distraction, easily replaceable.

But the idea of losing Delilah to someone else—especially to Peter fucking Geoffrey—makes me want to burn the world down.

Tomorrow night, the Hunt begins. And I'm going to make sure that when the sun rises, there's only one man left standing with any claim to make.

Even if I have to eliminate the competition permanently.