Page 33 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Graham

The air feels fresh and clean as I step outside the mansion—a welcome relief from the stifling atmosphere of masked pleasantries and veiled threats inside.

I've traded the tuxedo for practical hunting gear: black t-shirt, dark jeans, combat boots that'll give me traction on uneven terrain.

The bone-white skull mask feels different from the elegant venetian mask I wore earlier.

More primitive. More honest about what I am tonight.

A predator with hunger coursing through my veins and only one target in mind.

Other hunters spread out around me. Some head immediately toward the sounds of panicked women crashing through the woods like wounded animals. Amateur hour. Smart prey won't be making that kind of noise or following obvious escape routes.

Smart prey thinks like a predator.

I bypass the chaos entirely and move toward the section of estate where instinct tells me Delilah would go. She's too intelligent to run blindly into the woods and too calculating to waste energy on panic. She'll have a plan—which means I need to think three steps ahead of whatever she's plotting.

The mansion casts long shadows across manicured grounds, creating pockets of darkness perfect for concealment. I move through them systematically while scanning for any sign of movement that doesn't belong.

That's when I see her.

She's pressed against the stone wall of the mansion's east wing, invisible in the shadows unless you know exactly where to look. Clever girl. While other women fled toward the forest, she circled back to observe and gather intelligence before making her move.

I have to admire the strategy. It's exactly what I would have done.

I position myself where I can watch her without being seen. She studies the hunters as they emerge from the building, cataloging their movements, their equipment, their tactical approaches. Even now—even in the middle of being hunted—she's gathering information.

My little criminal mastermind never stops working the angles.

But she makes one crucial mistake: she lingers too long. Whatever she was waiting to see keeps her stationary when she should be moving. That hesitation will cost her.

I begin my approach with the kind of stealth that comes from years of high-stakes negotiations where reading body language can mean the difference between success and failure. Every step is calculated to keep me in shadows while closing distance between us.

When she finally senses my presence and turns, our eyes meet through the darkness.

Even behind her mask, I can see the moment of recognition. The flash of something that might be relief or terror or both.

"You know," I say softly, "most people would consider hiding in plain sight a rookie mistake."

Her chin lifts with that defiant tilt I've come to associate with her most dangerous moments. "Most people aren't worth hiding from."

"And yet here you are, pressed against a wall like a scared rabbit."

"Who says I'm scared?" She shifts her weight and I realize she's calculating distance to various escape routes. "Maybe I was waiting for you."

The admission hits deeper than it should. She was testing me—measuring my commitment to this twisted game we've been playing.

"And what's the verdict?"

"Still deciding." She glances toward the forest where sounds of pursuit echo through trees. "Though you should know, you're not the only one who noticed my little observation post."

I step closer and catch her wrist. My thumb finds the choker wrapped around it instead of her throat where it belongs. Rage builds in my chest like a wildfire.

"What the hell is this?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.

"It's exactly what it looks like."

"No." I tighten my grip on her wrist until she winces. "This belongs around your throat. It marks you as mine."

"Does it?" She tries to pull away but I don't let her. "Maybe I don't want to be marked."

"You wore it to that ballroom. Every man in there saw you reject my claim." The anger in my voice surprises even me. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"I've made a statement."

"You've made yourself a target." I lean closer until she's trapped between my body and the stone wall. "You've told every predator in there that you're available for claiming."

"Maybe I am."

Wrong answer. I grab her other wrist and pin both hands against the wall above her head. "Tell me why I shouldn't just rip that anklet off right now and claim you here. Against this wall. In front of anyone who wants to watch."

Her breathing quickens but she doesn't look away. "Because you want the thrill of the hunt as much as I do."

"Do I?"

"You could have taken me in your office any day this week. Could have cornered me in that supply closet and finished what we started." Her voice drops to a whisper. "But you didn't. Because the chase is what makes your blood sing."

She's right and we both know it. But that doesn't cool the fury burning in my chest.

"The choker," I say through gritted teeth. "Why isn't it where it belongs?"

"Because I don't surrender that easily."

"Even when surrender would keep you safe?"

"Especially then." She meets my gaze directly. "You want a conquest, Graham? You'll have to earn it."

I release her wrists and step back. She rubs the red marks I left behind while studying my face.

"You're angry," she observes.

"I'm furious." No point in denying it. "You have no idea what you've walked into tonight."

"Then maybe you should have explained the rules better."

"The rules are simple: wear my token where it belongs and other men know you're protected. Wear it anywhere else and you become prey."

"And if I like being prey?"

Something dark and possessive unfurls in my chest. "Then you better hope you're faster than the men hunting you."

She runs.

This time she heads directly for the tree line, abandoning her heels at the edge of formal gardens before plunging into forest proper. Smart move—the shoes would have been a liability on uneven terrain ahead.

I follow but give her a fifteen-second head start. She needs to think she has a chance and believe she can outmaneuver me. The best games require prey to feel hope right up until the moment of capture.

The forest is ancient—full of towering oaks and maples that create a canopy so thick it blocks out most moonlight.

Preston has maintained the natural landscape carefully, preserving the kind of wilderness that makes for excellent hunting grounds.

Fallen logs provide both obstacles and cover while thick underbrush creates natural blinds and hiding spots.

Delilah moves through it with surprising skill, using game trails that most people would miss entirely.

She's done this before—maybe not exactly this but something that required similar woodcraft and spatial awareness.

She avoids obvious paths and clearings that would expose her to pursuit, instead threading between trees and using terrain to mask her movement.

I track her methodically, noting the signs she leaves behind. A broken twig here, a disturbed patch of leaves there, the faint impression of bare feet in soft earth. She's moving northeast initially then doubling back southwest in what appears to be an attempt to throw off pursuit.

After ten minutes of steady tracking, I close distance enough to catch glimpses of her through trees. She's moving well but she's also tiring—adrenaline and unfamiliar terrain taking their toll. This is when most prey makes crucial mistakes.

I surge forward, closing the gap until I'm within twenty feet of her. She must sense my proximity because she suddenly changes direction, diving behind a massive fallen oak and disappearing from view.

Clever. But not clever enough.

I circle around the log from the opposite direction, expecting to flush her from her hiding spot. Instead I find nothing but disturbed earth and a pile of fallen leaves.

Underground. She's found some kind of natural depression or hollow beneath the log. I drop to my hands and knees, searching for the entrance she used.

That's when dirt explodes in my face.

She erupts from her hiding spot like a wild animal, hurling handfuls of earth and rotting leaves directly at my mask. Temporarily blinded, I hear her footsteps as she sprints away, crashing through underbrush with renewed energy.

I wipe debris from my mask. Using the environment as a weapon—primitive but effective. She bought herself precious seconds and probably thinks she's gained significant advantage.

She's wrong but I appreciate the creativity.

I resume tracking, following her trail deeper into the estate's wilderness.

She's moving faster now, sacrificing stealth for speed, which makes her easier to follow but harder to predict.

The terrain grows more challenging—rocky outcroppings, dense thickets, streams that could mask her scent and tracks.

That's when she tries her second escape.

I'm following what appears to be a clear trail when it suddenly ends at the edge of a shallow creek. No footprints on the opposite bank, no obvious exit point. She's either gone upstream or downstream, using water to mask her passage.

I choose upstream, following the creek bed while scanning for signs of her exit. After fifty yards I find nothing. Backtracking, I head downstream instead, moving more carefully now.

She's good. Better than I expected. But she's also making one crucial error—she's so focused on evading me that she's not paying attention to other threats in these woods.

That's when I hear the other voices, closer than they should be.

"—tracks go this way?—"

"—little bitch is fast, I'll give her that?—"

"—doesn't matter how fast she is once we corner her?—"

Martin Pemberton and his crew. They must have been tracking her too, probably following the same signs I've been reading. But they're moving faster, with less caution, converging on her position from a different angle.

I abandon methodical tracking for speed, crashing through underbrush toward the sound of voices. If they reach her first, this carefully orchestrated game becomes something much uglier.

The sounds of pursuit grow louder ahead—multiple men moving through trees with predatory purpose, closing in on their target. I can hear branches breaking, heavy footsteps, the kind of noise that comes from hunters who no longer care about stealth.

Then I hear her voice, sharp with defiance despite her obvious disadvantage.

"You know, for apex predators, you make an awful lot of noise."

Martin's laugh is ugly, full of cruel anticipation. "Doesn't matter how quiet we are, sweetheart. You're out of places to run."

I push harder, my boots finding purchase on rocky ground as I sprint toward the confrontation. Just ahead, through trees, I can see the glow of flashlights converging on a single point.

I round a massive boulder and see them—Delilah backed against a rocky outcropping with nowhere left to go.

Three hunters approach her with predatory confidence.

Martin is in the center, flanked by Richard Harrington and Peter Goeffrey.

All of them wearing those bone-white skull masks that turn them into anonymous agents of violence.

Her dress is torn from her flight through the woods, mud streaking her legs and arms. But her spine is straight, her chin lifted in defiance even as she faces impossible odds.

"Well, well," Martin says, his voice carrying clearly in the still air. "The little rabbit ran right into a trap."

She's cornered, outnumbered and completely at their mercy.

Which means it's time for me to remind these men exactly why I don't lose at anything that matters to me.

The game just changed from hunt to war.