Page 36 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Delilah

Walking back across the manicured grounds toward the mansion, I'm acutely aware of every sensation—Graham's shirt hanging loose around my shoulders, the cool night air against my skin, the ache between my legs that somehow feels both satisfied and desperately wanting more.

It doesn't make sense. I just came twice, my body still humming with the aftershocks, but there's this persistent hunger coiled in my belly that Graham's refusal to actually take me has only made worse.

"You're thinking too loud," Graham murmurs beside me, his hand possessive on my lower back as we approach the mansion's warm lights.

"Just processing," I reply, tugging his shirt closer around me. "That wasn't exactly how I expected the evening to go."

"No? What did you expect?"

The honest answer is that I expected him to lose control completely, to take what he wanted with the same ruthless efficiency he brings to business deals. Instead, he'd maintained perfect composure even while reducing me to a trembling mess against that rock.

"More," I say simply.

His laugh is low and dangerous. "Patience, beautiful. Good things come to those who wait."

"I'm not particularly good at waiting."

"I've noticed." He glances down at me, something unreadable in his expression. "Though you might want to work on that particular skill. Tonight was just the beginning."

"The beginning of what?"

"Of you learning that I don't do anything halfway." His fingers trace the edge of his shirt where it falls across my shoulder. "Including claiming what's mine."

"But you didn't actually claim me," I point out, voice barely above a whisper. "Not according to their rules."

"Their rules," he repeats, something cold entering his tone. "Are about to become very flexible."

Before I can ask what he means, we reach the mansion's terrace where other hunters are returning with their prizes—some triumphant, others clearly empty-handed and bitter about it. The formal claiming process happens here, witnessed by Club officials who record the results for posterity.

"Graham," I say, catching his arm. "What are we doing here? If you didn't actually claim me?—"

"I claimed you in every way that matters," he interrupts, his voice firm. "The rest is just paperwork."

"Paperwork that could get us both in serious trouble if they find out."

"They won't find out unless you tell them." His eyes meet mine, serious and intent. "Are you planning to tell them?"

The question hangs between us, loaded with implications I'm only beginning to understand. "That depends on what you're really planning."

"I'm planning to keep you safe. Everything else is negotiable."

Preston Wolfe stands near the entrance, still wearing his tuxedo from earlier but now with the addition of a silver medallion that marks him as tonight's Hunt Master.

His eyes find us immediately, cataloging our appearance with the sharp attention to detail that's made him one of the most powerful men in the city.

"Showtime," Graham murmurs, his hand sliding to my waist in a gesture that looks possessive but feels protective.

"Graham," Preston says as we approach. "Successful evening, I take it?"

"Very," Graham replies smoothly. "Though I have to say, the competition was more aggressive than usual this year."

"Indeed. We've had several... incidents that required intervention." Preston's gaze shifts to me, taking in Graham's shirt, my disheveled appearance, the obvious signs of our encounter in the woods. "Miss Reeves. You look like you've had an eventful Hunt."

"You could say that," I manage, hyperaware of the lie we're about to tell.

"I trust Graham took good care of you?" There's something in Preston's tone, a subtle probing that makes me think he knows more than he's letting on.

"He was very... thorough," I reply, which makes Graham's mouth twitch in what might be amusement.

"Excellent. The Hunt should be memorable for all participants." Preston produces his leather-bound ledger and looks expectantly at Graham. "For the record, then?"

This is it. The moment where I could tell the truth, could expose Graham's deception and probably cause some kind of diplomatic incident within the Club.

But looking at him now—at the way he's standing slightly in front of me, protective and possessive even in this formal setting—I find myself staying quiet.

"Sophia Reeves," Graham says clearly. "Claimed by Graham Ellsworth at approximately 1:47 AM."

Preston makes a note in his book, then looks at me. "Miss Reeves, do you confirm that you have been claimed by Mr. Ellsworth?"

"I confirm it," I say, the words feeling strange and final on my tongue.

"Excellent." Preston closes the ledger with a satisfied snap. "Congratulations to you both. The claiming anklet, if you please?"

Graham reaches into his pocket and produces my silver anklet, the small padlock charm catching the light as he hands it over.

"Very good," Preston says, adding it to a collection box that already contains several others. "Miss Reeves, you're free to return to the mansion or depart with Mr. Ellsworth, as you prefer."

"I'll go with Graham," I say automatically.

"Natural choice." Preston's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Though I should mention, there may be some... administrative details to discuss in the coming days. The Club likes to ensure all participants are satisfied with the evening's outcomes."

"Of course," Graham replies evenly, though I catch the slight tension in his shoulders. "Always happy to provide feedback."

"I'm sure you are. Miss Reeves, I hope you found the evening educational?"

"Very," I say, though I'm not entirely sure what I'm supposed to have learned.

"Wonderful. The Club prides itself on providing unique experiences." Preston turns back to Graham. "A word before you leave?"

The request sounds casual, but something in Preston's tone makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. This isn't just pleasantries—this is business, and serious business at that.

"Of course," Graham replies. "Sophia, why don't you wait for me inside? I'll just be a moment."

"Actually, I think I'll get some air," I say, not wanting to be dismissed like a child. "I'll wait by your car."

Graham's eyes flick to me, and I catch a moment of what might be approval before he nods. "Don't wander off."

"Wouldn't dream of it."