Page 38 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Delilah

Standing outside by Graham’s car, I pull Graham's shirt tighter around me and try to look like I belong here instead of like someone who's just been thoroughly claimed in the woods.

The mansion's interior is quieter now, most of the Hunt participants having either departed or retreated to private rooms for whatever post-Hunt activities the Club provides.

I'm checking my phone—no messages from Iris, which probably means she's either asleep or actively ignoring me—when I hear familiar voices approaching from the main hallway.

Martin Pemberton and his two friends round the corner, still wearing their hunting gear but now with the addition of what looks like expensive whiskey and wounded pride. When they spot me, their conversation stops abruptly.

"Well, well," Martin says, his voice carrying that same cruel amusement from the forest. "If it isn't Graham's little prize, standing here all alone."

I straighten my spine and meet his gaze directly. "Not alone. Just waiting."

"For your owner to come collect you?" Richard asks with a laugh that makes my skin crawl. "How romantic."

"For my boyfriend to finish his meeting," I correct, though the distinction feels flimsy even to me.

"Boyfriend," the third man—Peter Geoffrey, I think—repeats mockingly. "Is that what we're calling it now? New age woman over here."

"It's what I'm calling it," I reply, taking a step back toward Preston's office door. "What you call it doesn't particularly concern me."

Martin moves closer, and I catch the scent of alcohol on his breath. Heavy whiskey, expensive cologne, and something underneath that smells like violence barely held in check.

"You know, sweetheart, you might want to reconsider your loyalty to dear Graham," he says, his tone conversational despite the menace underneath. "Word is, his little gun show tonight has put him in some very hot water with the Club leadership."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you?" Richard grins like a predator who's just cornered wounded prey. "Drawing a weapon during the Hunt is a serious violation of Club rules. The kind that gets members expelled. Permanently."

My blood runs cold, but I force myself to keep my expression neutral. "That's quite a story."

"It's not a story," Peter says, stepping closer until I'm effectively trapped between the three of them and the office door. "It's a documented fact. Multiple witnesses, formal complaints already filed with the governing board."

"Which means," Martin continues, his voice dropping to something that's barely above a whisper, "your boyfriend is about to face a disciplinary hearing that he can't charm his way out of."

"And when he gets kicked out—which he will—his little claim on you becomes null and void," Richard adds with obvious satisfaction.

The threat is becoming clearer with each word, and despite my best efforts to appear unaffected, I can feel panic starting to claw at the edges of my consciousness.

"I think you're overestimating how much I care about Club politics," I manage, though my voice sounds thinner than I'd like.

"Are we?" Martin laughs, the sound sharp and unpleasant. "Because from where we're standing, you look like a woman who's just realized she bet on the wrong horse."

"Besides," Peter adds, "it's not just about politics. It's about consequences. Graham embarrassed us tonight, made us look weak in front of the other members. That kind of disrespect has a price."

"What kind of price?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know the answer.

"The kind that involves you learning what happens to unclaimed women who get too comfortable thinking they're protected," Richard says with a smile that makes my stomach turn.

"See, here's the thing about the Club," Martin continues, moving even closer. "We have long memories and longer reach. When Graham loses his membership, he loses his protection. And when he loses his protection..."

"You become fair game again," Peter finishes. "And this time, there won't be anyone around to play hero with illegal weapons."

"You're talking about revenge," I say, surprised by how steady my voice sounds despite the fear coursing through my veins.

"We're talking about justice," Martin corrects. "Graham thinks he can break the rules, threaten fellow members, disrupt centuries of tradition? He's about to learn why the Club has survived as long as it has."

"And you're going to learn what it means to be on the wrong side of that survival," Richard adds.

"I think you're all overestimating my importance in this situation," I say, forcing confidence I don't feel into my voice. "I'm just someone Graham happened to be interested in for a night. When this is over, I'll disappear and you'll never see me again."

"Oh, sweetheart," Martin laughs, and the sound sends chills down my spine. "You really don't understand, do you? This isn't about you disappearing. This is about you staying exactly where we can find you."

"Why?"

"Because the best way to hurt a man like Graham isn't to destroy his business or his reputation," Peter explains with the patience of someone explaining basic mathematics to a child. "It's to take away something he values. Something he's willing to risk everything to protect."

"And judging by tonight's performance," Richard adds, "that something is you."

I swallow hard. They're not just threatening me as collateral damage in their conflict with Graham—they're planning to use me as a weapon against him.

"You can't be serious," I breathe.

"Deadly serious," Martin confirms. "Though we'll give you a choice, of course. We're not unreasonable men."

"What choice?"

"You can convince Graham to apologize publicly for his behavior tonight, to submit to whatever discipline the Club deems appropriate, and to never interfere with Club business again," Peter says. "Do that, and we'll consider the matter closed."

"And if I can't convince him?"

"Then you'll discover firsthand why the Hunt exists in the first place," Richard says with obvious relish. "Though next time, there won't be any rules protecting you. No witnesses to worry about. No time limits or safe words."

That's when Graham's voice cuts through the night like a blade.

"Is there a problem here?"

The temperature in the corridor drops several degrees as Graham emerges from the mansion. He's no longer wearing the casual confidence I've grown accustomed to—instead, there's something cold and dangerous in his posture that makes me suddenly understand why people describe him as lethal.

"No problem at all," Martin says, though he doesn't step away from me. "Just having a friendly chat with your girl about the evening's events."

"Friendly," Graham repeats, and there's something in his tone that makes all three men tense. "How interesting. Because from where I'm standing, it looks like three men cornering a woman who's already been claimed. Again."

"Easy, Graham," Richard says, finally taking a step back. "We're just making conversation."

"Are you? Because it sounded like you were making threats."

"Just sharing some friendly advice about the realities of Club membership," Peter says with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "You know how quickly circumstances can change in our circles."

"Indeed they can." Graham moves to stand beside me, his presence immediately making me feel safer despite the obvious tension crackling between him and the other men. "Which is why I'm sure you'll understand when I suggest you find somewhere else to share your advice."

"Of course," Martin says, but his eyes remain fixed on me. "Though I hope Miss Reeves will keep our conversation in mind. For future reference."

"The only thing Miss Reeves needs to keep in mind," Graham says, his voice deadly quiet, "is that I don't make idle threats. Unlike some people."

"We'll see about that," Richard mutters, but he's already backing away.

"Yes," Graham agrees pleasantly, "we will. And gentlemen? The next time you feel the need to have a conversation with my woman, I suggest you clear it with me first. Professional courtesy and all that."

"Your woman?" Martin laughs, but there's no humor in it. "For how much longer, do you think? The hearing is in three days, Graham. Three days until the Club decides whether you're worth keeping around."

"I'll take my chances."

"Will you? Because the odds aren't exactly in your favor. Not after tonight's little display of theatrical heroics."

"We'll see."

The standoff stretches for several long seconds before Martin finally nods toward his companions. "Come on. Let's let the happy couple enjoy their evening. While they still can."

They move away, but not before Martin catches my eye one more time and mouths what looks like "soon."

Once they're gone, Graham takes my arm with gentle but firm pressure. "Let's go."

"What was that about?" I ask as he guides me toward the mansion's exit.

"It doesn't concern you."

The dismissive tone makes something hot and angry flare in my chest. "Doesn't concern me? They were threatening me, Graham. They said when you get kicked out of the Club?—"

"It doesn't concern you," he repeats, his voice harder now.

"Like hell it doesn't. They made it pretty clear that my safety depends on your standing in this organization, so yeah, it concerns me quite a bit."

Graham stops walking and turns to face me, and for the first time since I've known him, he looks genuinely angry. Not playful or amused or even frustrated—truly, coldly furious.

"Let me make myself clear," he says, his voice low and controlled in a way that's somehow more frightening than shouting would be. "I claimed you tonight. You belong to me now. Which means you'll do as I say when it matters, and this is one of those times."

"You didn't actually claim me," I shoot back, my own temper rising to match his. "You never completed the ritual?—"

"Didn't I?" His smile is sharp. "You confirmed the claim to Preston. You went along with the deception. As far as the Club is concerned, you're mine."

"That was to help you, not because I actually?—"

"Oh, just you wait," he interrupts, stepping closer until I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "You think what happened against that rock was the extent of my ownership?"

The promise in his voice sends heat flooding through my body despite my anger. "Graham?—"

"Tomorrow," he says, his thumb brushing across my lower lip with possessive gentleness, "you're going to learn exactly what it means to belong to me. And trust me, beautiful—there won't be any ambiguity about it."

As he leads me toward his car, his hand firm on my lower back, I find myself caught between fury and anticipation.

Because despite everything—the threats, the danger, the obvious complications we're about to face—part of me can't wait to find out exactly what Graham Ellsworth considers a proper claiming.

Even if it might be the most dangerous thing I've ever done.