Page 32 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Delilah

Standing on the mansion's grand terrace with the other women, I'm starting to wonder if I've made some terrible mistake.

The October night air cuts through the sheer dress like ice, and my feet are already aching in the heels I wore to the ball.

Around me, the other women shift nervously in their identical masks and barely-there dresses, their breath visible in small puffs of vapor.

The entire evening, I couldn't find Graham anywhere.

Did he decide not to attend? What does that mean for me?

I mean, it shouldn't mean anything, right?

My plan was never to be claimed by him. I wanted to escape capture entirely, win the prize money, and finally have enough resources to disappear from Stanley Torrino's reach forever.

To never have to answer to a man just because having a dick makes them think they have the right to tell me what to do.

To be able to make my own rules and live by them.

So why does the thought of Graham not being here make my chest feel hollow?

Logically, his absence would make everything easier. One less predator to evade, one less complication to navigate. But standing here in the darkness, wearing his collar around my wrist like some kind of twisted promise, I can't shake the feeling that I've been abandoned.

Which is ridiculous. This is a job. His feelings—or mine—shouldn't factor into any of this.

But they do, and that realization is almost as terrifying as what's about to happen.

A woman next to me is crying softly, her makeup already streaking down her cheeks. Another is pacing in tight circles, muttering what sounds like prayers or mantras. A few seem almost excited, bouncing on their toes like runners preparing for a race.

"How long do you think we have?" asks a redhead whose dress is already torn from our trek through the woods.

"Not long," replies a brunette with sharp eyes who's been studying the tree line since we arrived. "Look."

She points toward the mansion, visible as a distant glow through the trees. Even from here, we can see lights moving—flashlights, maybe, or torches. The hunters are preparing.

I check the silver anklet around my ankle one more time, making sure it's secure.

The small padlock charm catches what little moonlight penetrates the canopy, a delicate reminder of what happens if I'm caught.

Preston's words echo in my mind: intimate access required for removal.

The implications make my stomach clench.

"What's your plan?" the brunette asks me directly.

"Run fast, hide well," I reply, which earns a bitter laugh from several women.

"That's everyone's plan. Most of us won't make it past the first hour."

She's probably right. Looking around at the group, I can already identify who won't last long. The woman in heels who refused to take them off. The one who's been sobbing since we arrived. The blonde who seems more interested in fixing her hair than planning her survival.

"Some of them want to be caught," the brunette continues, nodding toward a cluster of women who are whispering and giggling despite our circumstances. "Makes it easier for the rest of us, I suppose."

The sound cuts through the night like a death knell—a deep, resonant gong that seems to vibrate through the very earth beneath our feet.

The Hunt has begun.

Immediately, chaos erupts. Women scatter in every direction, most of them crashing through the underbrush with no plan beyond putting distance between themselves and the starting point. They're running blind, making noise, leaving obvious trails—exactly what panicked prey would do.

Lambs to slaughter.

I watch them disappear into the darkness, their shouts and breaking branches creating a cacophony that will draw the hunters like moths to flame. Within minutes, the clearing is nearly empty except for me and the smart brunette, who's studying me with obvious curiosity.

"Not running?" she asks.

"Not yet."

"Interesting strategy. Most people think distance equals safety."

"Most people are wrong." I glance toward the mansion again, noting how the lights are moving differently now—more organized, more purposeful. "Distance without direction is just exhaustion."

She nods approvingly. "I'm Caroline, by the way. Caroline Blake."

"Sophia." The lie comes automatically, though it feels strange to use my fake name in a moment this raw and honest.

"Well, Sophia, I have a feeling you and I might be the only ones with actual plans tonight." Caroline checks her own anklet, then looks back at me. "Though I have to ask—are you actually trying to win, or are you hoping someone specific finds you first?"

The question hits too close to home. "Why would you ask that?"

"Because you're wearing a collar that screams ownership, albeit on your wrist, and you keep looking toward the mansion like you're expecting someone, and you have the body language of a woman torn between running toward something and running away from it."

Perceptive. Dangerously so.

"Everyone has their reasons for being here," I say carefully.

"True. Mine happen to involve a quarter million dollars and a new life in a country without extradition treaties." Her smile is sharp in the moonlight. "What about yours?"

Before I can answer, new sounds reach us from the direction of the mansion. Voices, organized and purposeful. The hunters are moving out.

The first group of hunters exits through the main doors, and even in the darkness, I can make out their shapes. They're no longer wearing tuxedos—instead, they've changed into practical hunting gear. Dark clothing, sturdy boots, equipment that suggests they take this very seriously.

The men form a semicircle, moving in perfect unison, their voices ringing out as one. “Hunt what runs.”

“Keep what’s caught,” the women around me, including Carolina, say the words like some ritual.

Then all together, they say, “Control what’s kept.”

I swallow down the fear that threatens to fill me. This tradition, this game, has rules I don’t know, don’t understand. But I must survive it anyway.

A bell chimes again in the distance.

"Time to go," Caroline says, already melting toward the tree line.

But I don't follow her. Instead, I do something that goes against every survival instinct I've developed over the years of running cons and evading consequences.

I turn around and walk back toward the mansion.

The building looms in the distance, warm light spilling from its windows like a beacon in the darkness.

I press myself against the stone wall where the shadows are deepest, becoming invisible in the contrast between light and dark.

From here, I can observe without being seen, can watch the hunters emerge and decide how—or if—I want to run.

The smart play would be to head deeper into the woods, to use the head start to put as much distance as possible between myself and the men who want to claim me. But I find myself frozen, waiting to see if Graham emerges from those doors.

Waiting to know if I've been playing this game alone.

I read somewhere that the closer you are to danger, the further away you are from harm. I hope that’s true and not just some sage shit said to make people feel like they can speed past police stations.

The hunters spread out with military precision, some heading toward the sounds of the fleeing women, others taking different routes through the estate.

These aren't amateur predators stumbling around in the dark.

They're experienced, organized, and utterly confident in their ability to claim their chosen prey.

My heart pounds as I scan each figure, looking for any sign of Graham's familiar silhouette. But the darkness and distance make identification impossible.

More hunters emerge, then more. I count at least fifteen before I lose track, all of them armed with flashlights and moving with purpose. Some work alone, others in pairs. All of them radiating the kind of focused intent that makes my mouth go dry.

Then I see him.

Even in the darkness, even wearing different clothes and a bone-white skull mask, I recognize the way Graham moves. Confident, predatory, utterly self-assured. He pauses at the edge of the mansion's light, head tilted like he's listening to something I can't hear.

Relief floods through me so suddenly I nearly gasp aloud. He's here. He came to hunt me.

The realization should terrify me. Instead, it makes me feel more alive than I have in years.

Graham turns in my direction, and for a moment, I swear he's looking directly at me. But that's impossible—I'm invisible in these shadows, completely concealed. Still, something in his posture suggests awareness, like a predator who's caught the scent of his prey.

He starts moving toward my section of the estate, not directly but in a pattern that will eventually intersect with my position. Other hunters have headed toward the sounds of chaos deeper in the woods, but Graham is taking a different approach.

He's tracking me specifically.

The smart thing would be to run now, while I still have the advantage of knowing his position. But I find myself paralyzed by the implications of what I'm seeing. This isn't just about the Hunt anymore. This is personal, primal, the kind of claiming that goes far deeper than any game.

The Hunt is underway, and I'm standing here like an idiot, mesmerized by the sight of the man who's come to claim me.

Time to decide: run and try to win, or let myself be caught by the one predator I'm not sure I want to escape.

Either way, the game is about to get very real.