Page 37 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Graham

Preston's office feels smaller at two in the morning, the mahogany walls and leather-bound books creating an atmosphere of old-world authority that's designed to intimidate.

Under normal circumstances, I'd appreciate the theatrical staging.

Tonight, I'm too focused on the fact that I've left Delilah outside while Preston plays whatever power game he's orchestrating.

"Sit," Preston says, moving behind his massive desk like he's preparing for a board meeting rather than a conversation between friends.

"I'd rather stand." I remain near the door, hyperaware of every second that passes with Delilah out of my sight. "Whatever this is about, make it quick."

"This is about you brandishing a weapon during the Hunt." Preston's voice is clipped, professional, the tone he uses when he's genuinely angry rather than just mildly irritated. "Multiple witnesses, Graham. Care to explain?"

I consider deflecting, maybe making a joke about overenthusiastic competitors, but the steel in Preston's eyes tells me he's not in the mood for my usual charm offensive.

"Yeah, I did. What about it?"

"What about it?" Preston's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "Graham, you pulled a gun on three Club members during an official Hunt. Do you have any idea what kind of position that puts me in?"

"The position of having to explain why your members thought they could gang up on someone under my protection?"

"Your protection?" Preston laughs, but there's no humor in it. "She was fair game the moment the Hunt began. You know that. Everyone knows that."

"Fair game doesn't include Martin Pemberton and his cronies planning to take turns before deciding who gets to keep her."

"According to who? You? Based on what you think you overheard in the heat of the moment?"

I step closer to his desk, letting him see exactly how serious I am. "Based on what I heard them say to her face while she was cornered and defenseless."

Preston stares at me for a long moment, then shakes his head with the kind of weary frustration that suggests this conversation is the latest in a long series of disappointments.

"You know, Graham, when I sponsored you for membership I thought you understood what you were signing up for. I thought you could handle the responsibilities that come with this level of access."

"And I have handled them. Quite well, in fact."

"Have you? Because from where I'm sitting, you've been a thorn in my side since the day you walked through those doors. The questions, the challenges to established protocols, the casual disregard for traditions that have worked perfectly well for decades."

I can't help grinning at that. "You say that like it's a bad thing. When was the last time anyone in this organization had an original thought?"

"Original thoughts are overrated when they threaten the stability of an institution that's survived and thrived for over a century."

"Stability through stagnation. How inspiring."

Preston pinches the bridge of his nose like he's fighting off a headache. "This isn't a joke, Graham. There are going to be consequences. Real ones."

"Such as?"

"Such as a formal hearing before the Club's governing board.

Such as potential expulsion from the organization.

Such as the very real possibility that your actions tonight have jeopardized not just your own membership, but my ability to protect other members who might be inclined to follow your example. "

The threat hangs between us, heavy with implications.

Expulsion from the Owner's Club isn't just about losing access to exclusive events—it's about being cut off from a network of power and influence that touches every aspect of elite society.

For most members, it would be social and professional death.

For me? It's Tuesday.

"I'm not particularly concerned about a hearing," I say, settling into the chair across from his desk with deliberate casualness. "Or about my membership status, for that matter."

"You should be. The Club has resources you can't imagine, Graham. Influence that extends far beyond these social gatherings. Cross the wrong people, and you'll find yourself dealing with problems that money can't solve."

"Is that a threat, Preston?"

"It's a reality check." He leans back in his chair, studying me with the kind of calculating attention that's made him one of the most feared negotiators in international finance.

"Though I have to ask—is she really worth all this?

This woman you've known for what, a few weeks?

Is she worth throwing away everything you've built? "

The question should be easy to answer. A few weeks ago, it would have been. But sitting here now, thinking about the way Delilah looked when Martin and his friends had her cornered, thinking about what would have happened if I hadn't intervened...

"Yeah," I say simply. "She is."

Preston's expression shifts, surprise replacing calculation. "Well. That's unexpectedly honest."

"I'm full of surprises."

"Indeed." He opens a drawer and pulls out a crystal decanter and two glasses, pouring what looks like very expensive scotch. "For what it's worth, I'll do what I can for you at the hearing. No promises, but I'll advocate for leniency given your... emotional investment in the situation."

"How generous of you."

"Don't be glib, Graham. This is serious."

I accept the scotch he offers, noting the way his hand trembles slightly as he pours his own drink. Preston Wolfe, unflappable master of the universe, is genuinely worried about something beyond my disciplinary hearing.

"What aren't you telling me?" I ask.

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with."

"Try again."

Preston takes a long sip of scotch, then sets the glass down. "There are members of the governing board who have been looking for an excuse to make an example of someone. Your actions tonight may have given them exactly what they needed."

"An example of what?"

"Of what happens when people forget their place in the natural order of things."

The words send a chill down my spine, but I keep my expression neutral. "And what place is that, exactly?"

"The place where beautiful women are prizes to be won and powerful men are free to claim them without interference from romantic notions about protection and possession."

"How delightfully medieval."

"How effectively functional." Preston's eyes meet mine across the desk. "The hearing is in three days. I suggest you use that time to consider whether your conscience is worth your life."

"When have you ever known me to back down from a fight?"

"When have you ever known me to offer promises I can't keep?"

I finish my scotch and stand to leave. Preston's right about one thing—he's never been one for empty reassurances or false hope. If he's worried, I should be too.

But as I head for the door, all I can think about is Delilah waiting for me outside, wearing my shirt like a claim I've already made and am prepared to defend.

"Graham," Preston calls as I reach for the handle.

"Yeah?"

"Whatever you're planning to do next, be very careful. There are forces in motion that go far beyond Club politics, and you've already drawn more attention than is healthy for either of you."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"See that you do. And Graham? Next time you feel the need to pull a weapon on fellow members, perhaps consider the possibility that you're playing exactly into someone else's hands."

I pause at that, hand frozen on the door handle. "Meaning?"

"Meaning sometimes the best way to destroy someone is to let them destroy themselves."

The words follow me out of the office and into the cool night air, where Delilah is waiting by my car exactly as promised. She looks up as I approach, and I can see the questions in her eyes, the concern she's trying to hide behind casual interest.

"Ready to go?" I ask, opening her door.

"More than ready." She studies my face as I help her into the car. "Everything alright?"

"Fine," I lie, because the truth—that we may have just walked into a trap—isn't something she needs to hear right now.