Page 31 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Graham

I'm trying very hard not to be irritated by the fact that the little minx has my collar wrapped around her wrist instead of displayed properly at her throat where I specifically instructed her to wear it.

She doesn't quite understand the signal she's giving off right now—to every man in this room, it looks like a woman I clearly want who isn't sure whether she wants me back.

Just lovely.

I can see her scanning the crowd, searching for me among the masks and tuxedos.

But I'm staying deliberately out of sight, positioned where I can observe without being observed.

She'll see me when the moment's right, not before.

I won't give her the satisfaction of knowing she has me tracking her movements like some lovesick fool.

Even if that's exactly what I'm doing.

"Well, well," Sebastian's voice cuts through my brooding as he approaches with Beckett in tow. "Look who's finally joined the ranks of the desperately obsessed."

"I prefer strategically invested," I reply, accepting the whiskey he offers.

"Is that what we're calling it?" Beckett's tone is dry, but there's something in his expression—understanding, maybe, or recognition. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're about two seconds away from eliminating the competition before the Hunt even begins."

"The thought has crossed my mind."

"I noticed she's wearing your collar like a bracelet," Sebastian observes with obvious amusement. "Bold choice. Really sends a message about who's in control here."

My jaw clenches involuntarily. "She'll learn."

"Will she? Because right now, every man in this room is looking at her and thinking she's fair game." Beckett's voice carries a warning. "Marty Pemberton's been circling her like a shark all evening."

I follow his gaze across the room to where Martin is indeed hovering near Delilah, his posture aggressive and predatory. Even from this distance, I can see her tension, the careful way she holds herself when she feels threatened.

"He can circle all he wants," I murmur. "Won't change the outcome."

"You sure about that?" Sebastian asks. "Because I've seen that look before. Martin isn't just hunting tonight—he's settling scores."

"Then he's going to be disappointed."

"Is he, though?" A new voice joins our conversation—Preston Wolfe himself, still wearing his mask but unmistakable in his bearing. "Because from what I observed earlier, Miss Reeves seemed quite eager to get away from Mr. Pemberton. Suggests there's history there."

"Ancient history," I reply, though something cold settles in my stomach.

"The kind that makes men do stupid things," Preston continues smoothly. "The kind that makes them take unnecessary risks during the Hunt just to prove a point."

"What are you saying, Preston?"

"I'm saying that Martin has been asking questions about your little blonde. Her background, her connections, her relationship with you." Preston's voice is barely above a whisper. Sebastian whistles low. "That's not good."

"It's not about good or bad," Beckett says quietly. "It's about obsession. And obsessed men make dangerous hunters."

I watch as Martin approaches Delilah near the champagne table. Even from across the room, I can read the body language—his aggressive stance, her careful retreat, the way she positions herself for escape. My hands clench into fists.

"You know," Preston observes, following my gaze, "there are ways to handle problematic competition before the Hunt begins."

"Such as?"

"Disqualification for unsporting conduct. Removal from the premises for inappropriate behavior toward participants." His smile is sharp beneath the mask. "The Club has strict standards about maintaining the integrity of the event."

"And what would constitute inappropriate behavior?"

"Oh, any number of things. Excessive drinking, aggressive pursuit during the social hour, making threats toward other participants." Preston shrugs. "I'm sure creative minds could think of something."

The suggestion hangs in the air. It would be so easy—provoke Martin into doing something stupid, get him removed from the competition before it even begins. But that feels too much like cheating, and I've never needed to cheat to win anything in my life.

"Tempting," I say finally. "But I prefer to handle my own problems."

"Suit yourself. Though I should mention—Pemberton isn't your only concern tonight."

"No?"

"Richard Harrington has been asking about her as well. And Peter Geoffrey. Apparently, your Miss Reeves has made quite an impression during her brief time in our circles."

Sebastian frowns. "That's unusual. Most of the participants are unknowns, selected specifically to avoid this kind of... attention."

"Yes, well, Graham has always been fond of complications," Preston replies dryly.

Across the room, I watch as Delilah smoothly extricates herself from Martin’s conversation and disappears into the crowd. Good girl. But Martin’s eyes follow her movement with predatory intent, and I can practically see him planning his strategy for the Hunt.

"You know what the real problem is?" Beckett says suddenly.

"What?"

"She doesn't know the rules. Not the real ones." He takes a sip of his whiskey, his expression thoughtful. "The social protocols, the unwritten codes, the way these things actually work versus what Preston told them in that sterile briefing."

"Such as?"

"Such as the fact that wearing another man's collar as jewelry instead of around her neck is basically an open invitation for challenge.

Such as the fact that some of these men view the Hunt as foreplay rather than competition.

Such as the fact that mercy isn't part of the game once midnight strikes. "

The weight of his words settles over me like ice water.

Delilah thinks she's playing some elaborate game of cat and mouse, but she has no idea what she's actually walked into.

The Hunt isn't just about survival—it's about domination, possession, the kind of primal claiming that civilized society pretends doesn't exist.

"She'll figure it out," I say, though doubt creeps into my voice.

"Will she? Or will she hesitate at the wrong moment, show mercy when she should be running, try to negotiate when she should be fighting?" Beckett's tone carries the weight of experience. "The women who survive the Hunt aren't the ones who play by civilized rules."

"Luna survived."

"Luna got lucky. She had me tracking her instead of someone like Geoffrey or Harrington." His expression darkens. "And even then, it was close."

Before I can respond, another figure approaches our group—a man I recognize as Charles Stanton, one of the Club's newer members.

"Gentlemen," he says, raising his glass in greeting. "Quite the turnout tonight."

"Chuck," Preston acknowledges. "How are you finding your first Hunt?"

"Educational. Though I have to say, the competition seems particularly intense this year." His eyes find mine behind the mask. "Especially around certain participants."

"Competition keeps things interesting," I reply carefully.

"Indeed. Though I couldn't help but notice the lovely blonde with the silver choker. The one who's been drawing so much attention." Chuck’s smile is predatory. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to share any insights about her... preferences?"

The question is casual, but the undertone is clear. He's fishing for information, trying to determine whether I’ll fight for Delilah or let her go.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," I say evenly.

"Of course not." Chuck’s laugh is sharp. "Well, may the best man win, as they say."

He moves away, but not before I catch the calculating look in his eyes. Another hunter, another potential threat to navigate.

"This is getting complicated," Sebastian observes.

"It was always going to be complicated," Preston replies. "Graham knew that when he submitted her name. The question is whether he's prepared for just how complicated it might become."

I'm about to respond when a commotion near the main entrance catches my attention. Three men in expensive suits are being escorted out by security, their voices raised in angry protest.

"What's that about?" Sebastian asks.

"Pre-Hunt disqualifications," Preston explains calmly. "Excessive intoxication, inappropriate conduct toward participants. As I said, we maintain certain standards."

I watch as the men are removed, noting that the ballroom suddenly feels less crowded, less charged with aggressive energy. Preston's earlier suggestion about removing problematic competition suddenly seems less theoretical.

"How many others are you planning to disqualify?" I ask.

"As many as necessary to ensure a fair competition." Preston's smile is enigmatic. "The Hunt works best when the participants are... evenly matched."

Across the room, I spot Delilah again, this time engaged in conversation with a masked figure I don't immediately recognize. She's maintaining careful distance, but her body language suggests wariness rather than fear. Good. She's learning to read the room.

"Fifteen minutes," Beckett says suddenly, checking his watch. "Then it begins."

The reminder sends electricity through my veins. Fifteen minutes until the social pleasantries end and the real game begins. Fifteen minutes until Delilah is released into two thousand acres of darkness with dozens of predators tracking her every move.

"You ready for this?" Sebastian asks quietly.

I think about the question seriously. Am I ready? Ready to hunt the woman who's been driving me insane for weeks? Ready to claim her in the most primitive way possible? Ready to show her exactly what happens when she pushes a man beyond his limits?

"I've been ready since the moment she first drugged my champagne," I reply.

The bell begins to toll, signaling the end of the ball and the beginning of the real entertainment.

Around us, the atmosphere shifts instantly.

Conversations die mid-sentence, masks are adjusted, and the men begin moving toward the changing area with predatory purpose.

The social hour is over. The Hunt is about to begin.

I follow the crowd, but my mind is already in the woods. Already tracking, hunting, planning exactly how I'm going to pin Delilah down in the dirt and show her what that collar was really meant for.

She wants to play games? She wantsto see what happens when ordinary rules don't apply?

She's about to find out exactly what she's gotten herself into.

And when I finally catch her—when I tear that anklet from her leg and claim what's mine—she's going to understand that some games have consequences she never imagined.

The Hunt begins now. And I intend to win.