Page 34 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Delilah

I have to give Graham credit—he found me quickly.

Too smart for his own good, that man. But as I crash through the forest with him chasing me, there's this weird sense of happiness and excitement coursing through my veins.

Like this is exactly where I'm supposed to be, running through the darkness with my heart pounding and adrenaline singing in my blood.

This is what I've been craving without even knowing it—the thrill of being pursued by someone who's actually a match for me.

I throw dirt in his face and manage to lose him at the creek, using every trick I learned during my years of evading consequences. For a few precious minutes, I think I might actually have gained enough distance to find a real hiding spot, maybe even make it to the estate's perimeter.

That's when I hear the footsteps behind me again.

I turn around, expecting to see Graham's familiar silhouette emerging from the trees. Instead, three figures in masks are closing in on me fast, and they definitely don't look friendly.

Shit.

I run harder, my bare feet slipping on wet leaves and rocky ground, branches tearing at my already shredded dress.

But they're gaining on me, and it's clear they know this forest better than I do.

Every path I choose seems to lead to another dead end, every hiding spot I consider is too exposed, too obvious.

My lungs are burning by the time I realize I've made a fatal error—in my panic to escape Graham, I've run myself straight into a trap. The rocky outcropping behind me blocks any further retreat, and the three hunters are spreading out to cut off my remaining escape routes.

I'm cornered.

"Well, well," says the one in the center, his voice carrying cruel amusement. "Look what we caught."

I recognize that voice. Martin Pemberton. Of course it's fucking Martin.

"You boys certainly took your time," I say, trying to project confidence I don't feel. "I was starting to think the Owner's Club had lower standards than advertised."

"Oh, we have very high standards," Martin replies, moving closer. "Especially when it comes to breaking in new toys."

The other two—I think one of them is Richard Harrington based on his build—laugh like he's made the cleverest joke in the world.

"Tell you what," Richard says, his tone conversational despite the menace underneath. "We'll make this easy for you. You can choose which one of us gets the honor of claiming you first, or we can decide for ourselves."

"Personally," says the third man, "I vote we all have a turn before we decide who gets to keep her."

My stomach turns to ice. I knew the Hunt was dangerous, but I thought the rules—twisted as they were—provided some structure, some limits. Looking at these men now, I realize how naive I've been.

“I see you didn’t heed my warning,” Martin continues, gesturing toward my wrist where Graham's choker sits. "Mixed signals like that can be dangerous in our circles."

"Though I have to say," Richard adds, "I think we can save a little taste of you for Graham. Shove that choker of his up your pussy while we take turns fucking what I’m sure is a tight little cunt of yours. Leave it for him to find."

They're close enough now that I can see their eyes behind the masks, cold and predatory and utterly without mercy. This isn't a game anymore. This is something much uglier, much more dangerous than anything I prepared for.

"You know," I say, backing against the rock wall, "this is a really disappointing way to end what was shaping up to be an interesting evening."

"Oh, sweetheart," Martin laughs, "the evening's just getting started. And unlike the last time, it will be ending when I say it will."

That's when Graham appears.

He materializes out of the darkness like something conjured from my deepest fears and most desperate hopes. Still wearing that bone-white skull mask, still moving with that predatory grace, but there's something different about his posture now. Something that makes the temperature drop ten degrees.

"Gentlemen," he says, his voice carrying just enough joviality to maintain the pretense of civility. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Graham." Martin doesn't turn around, but his entire body tenses. "Sophia and I were just getting reacquainted. So, if you don’t mind, kindly fuck off."

"Actually, I do mind. Quite a lot, in fact." Graham's tone remains conversational, but there's steel underneath now. "So why don't you find some other entertainment for the evening?"

"Now, now," Richard says, finally turning to face him. "You know the rules as well as anyone. Once the Hunt begins, it's every man for himself. You don't get to call dibs."

"Maybe not," Graham agrees. "But I can certainly express my preferences."

"Your preferences," the third man says, "aren't really our concern."

"No?" Graham's hand moves to his jacket, and suddenly the entire dynamic shifts. "How about my willingness to enforce them?"

The metallic click of a safety being disengaged cuts through the forest air like a blade.

"Whoa, whoa," Martin says, finally turning around completely. "Easy there, Graham. You know weapons are against the rules."

"Are they?" Graham's voice is deadly calm now, all pretense of humor gone. "Because I seem to remember the rules saying a lot of things about appropriate conduct and sporting behavior. And what you just said you’d do to Ms. Reeves here, well, that’s definitively not in the rulebook. Funny how selective enforcement works."

"This is insane," Richard protests. "You can't just?—"

"I can do whatever the fuck I want," Graham interrupts, and the cold fury in his voice makes my knees weak. "Get away from my woman, or I'll bury you right here in Preston's carefully maintained woods. I'm sure he can arrange for some landscaping to cover the disturbed earth."

The silence that follows is deafening. Even the normal forest sounds seem to have stopped, as if the trees themselves are holding their breath.

I should be horrified. I should be recognizing red flags and plan my escape from this obvious psychopath.

Instead, I'm fighting the urge to press myself against the nearest tree because watching Graham defend me with deadly serious intent is quite possibly the most arousing thing I've ever experienced.

What the hell is wrong with me?

"You're making a mistake," Martin says finally, but he's already backing away. "The Club won't tolerate this kind of disruption."

"Let me worry about the Club," Graham replies. "You worry about getting the fuck out of my sight before I decide you're too much of a future liability to leave breathing."

They go. Not quickly—they maintain enough dignity to walk rather than run—but they definitely go, melting back into the forest like the cowards they apparently are underneath all their bluster.

I let out a breath, my entire body sagging with relief.

But when I look up at Graham, he doesn’t look relieved. He's looking at me with the same cold intensity he just directed at Martin and his friends, and suddenly I realize that being rescued doesn't necessarily mean being safe.

"Graham," I start, but he cuts me off with a gesture.

"Don't." His voice is quiet now, but no less dangerous. "Don't say a fucking word until I decide whether I'm more angry at them for cornering you or at you for making it so goddamn easy."

He steps closer, and I can feel the fury radiating off him like heat from a fire.

This conversation is not going to go the way I hoped.