Page 30 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Delilah

The night of the Hunt has finally arrived, and anticipation thrums through my veins like electricity. This is what I've been building toward for weeks—the moment when everything changes.

I can barely keep my hands still as I get ready in ‘Sophia’s’ apartment. The anklet feels delicate around my ankle—silver chain with that small padlock charm Preston described with clinical precision. But the choker? That's a different story entirely.

Graham's choker rests in my palm, black silk and silver insignia catching the lamplight. He expects me to wear it around my throat like some kind of collar. Like I'm already his.

Not happening.

Instead, I wrap it around my wrist, fastening the clasp with deliberate defiance. If he wants to claim me, he'll have to work for it. I can't just give him everything he wants—can't let him think he's already won.

My phone buzzes with another message from Iris:

Emergency protocols are in place. You sure about this?

Never been more ready for anything in my life.

Your confidence is either inspiring or terrifying. Can't decide which.

Both. Definitely both.

The outfit they provided barely qualifies as clothing—nude-colored dress so sheer it might as well be lingerie.

Every curve and line of my body is on full display, like art hung in a gallery for potential buyers to examine.

Which tonight, I suppose we are. These men collect things, and we're the latest acquisitions being presented for their consideration.

But I feel powerful in it. Dangerous. Like I could seduce secrets from every man in that room before midnight strikes.

My phone buzzes again:

Unknown

Your transportation has arrived.

The ride north takes forty-five minutes through increasingly rural countryside. My excitement builds with every mile—this is it, the game I was born to play.

When we arrive, Preston Wolfe's estate steals my breath. Hundreds of acres of carefully maintained forest surround a mansion that looks like something from a European fairy tale. Gothic spires pierce the night sky while warm light spills from dozens of windows.

Inside, they escort us immediately to a holding room where all the women wait. The energy is electric—some nervous, others practically vibrating with anticipation. We're about to become part of something exclusive and dangerous.

Then comes the presentation.

They arrange us in a line and lead us through the ballroom like exhibits in a museum. We walk slowly between two rows of masked men in identical tuxedos. Their eyes follow every movement, cataloging and assessing.

The dynamic hits me immediately. This isn't just a game—it's a display of power. Some women revel in the attention, meeting gazes boldly and smiling like they've already chosen their hunters. Others keep their eyes fixed straight ahead, projecting elegant untouchability.

I fall somewhere between, hyperaware of every stare but projecting confidence rather than submission.

Once they release us to mingle, the atmosphere shifts completely. Some women immediately gravitate toward the nearest hunters, allowing hands to wander over their barely covered bodies. They're treating this like some elaborate hookup opportunity rather than the dangerous game it actually is.

The first hint that something's wrong comes within minutes.

"Champagne?" A masked server appears at my elbow.

"Thank you." I accept the drink gratefully, needing something to occupy my hands.

Almost immediately, a masked figure approaches—expensive tuxedo, predatory smile visible beneath his disguise.

"Well, well. What do we have here?" His eyes fix on my wrist where Graham's choker catches the light. "Interesting choice of placement."

"I'm sorry?"

"The choker, darling. Most women understand that tokens of sponsorship belong around the throat. Unless..." His laugh carries a cruel edge. "Unless you're advertising that your sponsor doesn't command enough respect to claim you properly."

Heat floods my cheeks. "I don't think that's any of your business."

"Oh, but it is. You see, when a sponsor's token is worn incorrectly, it suggests weakness. Lack of control." He steps closer, voice dropping. "It tells the rest of us that you're still very much available for claiming."

Before I can respond, another man joins us. Then another. Within moments, I'm surrounded by masked faces, all staring at my wrist with obvious amusement.

"Poor thing doesn't even know the rules," one murmurs.

"Probably some newcomer who thinks this is all a costume party," adds another.

"The choker on the wrist means she's rejecting her sponsor's claim," explains a third. "Fair game for anyone bold enough to take her."

My stomach drops as reality crashes over me. I thought I was being defiant, showing Graham I wouldn't submit easily. Instead, I've marked myself as prey without protection.

"If you'll excuse me," I manage, already stepping backward.

"Of course," the first man says smoothly. "Enjoy the evening. While you can."

I slip away before they can continue their commentary, but I feel their attention following me across the room. The excitement I felt getting ready has curdled into something much more dangerous.

The ballroom becomes a maze of masked faces and whispered conversations. I wander through clusters of hunters and prey, desperately searching for any sign of Graham. With everyone masked and in identical formal wear, it's nearly impossible to identify anyone with certainty.

More men notice the choker around my wrist. Their reactions range from amused to predatory, but none are reassuring.

"Looking for your sponsor?" asks one with obvious mockery. "Bit hard to find protection when you've publicly rejected it."

"I haven't rejected anything," I protest.

"Haven't you? Then why isn't his token where it belongs?" He gestures to my throat. "Unless you simply don't understand what you've gotten yourself into."

Another approaches with a different kind of hunger in his eyes. "Perhaps you'd be interested in receiving a proper favor? Something from a sponsor who knows how to command respect?"

I deflect him with practiced charm, but inside, anxiety builds like a storm. Where is Graham? I scan face after face, looking for familiar tells—the way he holds his shoulders, his height, anything that might identify him in this sea of anonymous wealth.

"Champagne?" Another server appears.

"No, thank you." My stomach's too twisted to handle more alcohol.

A string quartet plays something classical and haunting from a raised platform. The music weaves through conversations about business deals and social connections, as if this were any other high society gathering. The surreal normalcy makes the underlying menace even more unsettling.

"Having trouble finding someone?"

The voice comes from directly behind me, close enough that I feel warm breath against my ear. I turn to find another masked figure, this one somehow more imposing than the others.

"Perhaps," I reply carefully. "Though I'm beginning to think he might not be here at all."

"Oh, he's here." Something familiar lurks in that voice, but I can't place it. "The question is whether you'll recognize him when you see him."

"Do you know him?"

"I know everyone here, darling. But I'm particularly interested in you." His gaze drops to my wrist. "Such an interesting choice, wearing his token like that. Almost like you're announcing your availability."

"That wasn't my intention."

"Wasn't it? Then perhaps you should consider relocating it before someone gets the wrong idea." He pauses. "Or the right one."

Before I can respond, he melts back into the crowd, leaving me standing alone with racing pulse and growing dread.

Another man approaches—this one familiar enough to make my blood run cold.

"Sophia." Martin Pemberton's voice carries through his mask. "How lovely to see you again."

"Martin." I force a smile though my stomach clenches. "What a surprise."

"Is it? After you walked away from our evening together for Graham Ellsworth?" His voice carries a dangerous edge. "I have to say, I was quite disappointed by your choice in companionship."

My stomach drops further. Martin isn't just another hunter tonight—he's a man with a grudge. Claiming me would be the perfect way to humiliate Graham.

"I'm sure you recovered quickly," I reply, taking a step back.

"Oh, I did. But I have a long memory." His eyes rake over my body with predatory intent. "And I'm very much looking forward to renewing our acquaintance. Properly this time."

"If you'll excuse me?—"

"Of course. But Sophia?" He catches my arm as I turn to leave. "You might want to consider finding your sponsor soon. That choker placement is sending quite the message to everyone here."

"What message?"

"That you're unprotected. Unclaimed. Available to whoever's fast enough to catch you." His grip tightens slightly. "And darling, I'm very fast."

I pull free and slip away, but I feel his attention following me across the room. Not only have I made myself a target, but I've managed to paint a bullseye on my back for a man who already wants to hurt Graham through me.

The excitement I felt hours ago has completely evaporated. This isn't the thrilling game I thought I'd signed up for—this is something much darker and more dangerous.

According to the antique clock dominating one wall, I have less than two hours until the Hunt begins at midnight. Two hours to find Graham in this masked maze and figure out how to survive what I've accidentally set in motion.

Time is running out, and I'm starting to wonder if that's exactly what everyone intended.