Page 39 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Graham

The elevator ride to my penthouse is silent except for the soft hum of machinery. Delilah stands on the opposite side of the car, my shirt still draped around her shoulders, but there's a distance between us that has nothing to do with physical space.

Events at Preston's estate hang heavy in the air—threats from Martin and his cronies, the promise of a disciplinary hearing, the careful web of lies we've constructed around tonight's supposed claiming.

Underneath it all is something else though, something that's been building since the moment I pressed her against that rock in the woods.

The penthouse doors open with their usual soft chime. She steps into the familiar space like she's seeing it for the first time. Maybe she is—everything looks different now, charged with new possibilities and complications I hadn't anticipated when this started.

"You should get cleaned up," I say, breaking the silence that's stretched between us since we left the mansion. But when I look at her—really look—I see the dirt ground into her knees, the scratches on her arms from branches, the way she's holding herself like something still hurts.

"There's a bathroom through there," I continue, but the words feel inadequate. She went through hell tonight. The least I can do is make sure she's actually okay.

"Thanks." She starts toward the hallway but I catch her arm gently.

"Let me help."

Her eyes flick to mine, searching. "Graham?—"

"Not like that. Just..." I run a hand through my hair. "You're hurt. Let me take care of you."

Something shifts in her expression. The careful walls she's been maintaining since we left the estate crack just slightly. "Okay."

The guest bathroom is spacious, all marble and chrome, but it feels intimate when we're both standing in it. I turn on the shower, adjusting the temperature until steam begins to fog the mirror.

"Is this all right?" I ask, testing the water against my wrist.

She nods, suddenly shy in a way that's completely at odds with the fierce woman who faced down three hunters in the woods.

I help her out of my shirt first, then what's left of the torn bodysuit. She winces when fabric pulls away from a particularly deep scratch on her shoulder.

"Here." I guide her under the warm spray, keeping my touch clinical even though every instinct screams to pull her closer.

The water runs brown at first—dirt and leaves and the detritus of her flight through the forest swirling down the drain. I work shampoo through her hair carefully, fingers gentle against her scalp.

"Thank you," she whispers.

"Don't mention it."

I soap a washcloth and start with her arms, washing away grime and dried blood from where branches caught her skin. She stands still under my ministrations, eyes closed, letting me tend to each cut and scrape.

When I reach a particularly nasty scratch on her thigh, she flinches.

"Sorry. Is this okay?"

"It's okay."

Her voice is soft, unguarded in a way I've never heard before. This isn't Sophia the con artist or Delilah the mastermind. This is just a woman who's been through something traumatic and is letting someone else take care of her for once.

I work methodically—washing dirt from her knees where she hit the ground, checking the bruises already forming on her hips where I gripped too hard during our encounter against the rock.

Each mark tells the story of tonight, and I find myself memorizing them like evidence of something precious and terrible.

"Turn around," I say softly.

She does, presenting her back to me. More scratches here, and a bruise blooming purple between her shoulder blades where she must have hit a tree. I wash each one carefully, my touch reverent rather than possessive.

"Graham?" Her voice is barely audible over the sound of water. "Thank you. For everything tonight."

The simple gratitude in her voice does something to my chest. Makes it tight and warm and complicated.

"You don't need to thank me."

"I do though."

When I'm satisfied that every trace of the forest has been washed away, I turn off the water and wrap her in the largest, softest towel I can find. She stands there dripping and vulnerable while I dry her hair, patting rather than rubbing to avoid tangling the still-damp strands.

"Better?" I ask when we're both back in the living room twenty minutes later. She's wearing one of my button-down shirts and a pair of silk pajama shorts I found in a guest room drawer. Her hair falls in damp waves around her shoulders.

"Much." She settles onto the sofa, tucking her legs under her. "Thank you."

The weight of everything unsaid hangs between us. What happened tonight changed something fundamental, shifted the dynamic between us in ways neither of us fully understands yet.

"We need to talk."

"I figured."

I pour myself a whiskey—the good stuff, because if we're going to have this conversation, I'm going to need fortification. "Want one?"

"Sure."

I hand her the glass and settle into the chair across from her, maintaining distance while I figure out how to say what needs to be said.

"I'd like you to stay here," I begin. "Move in. Permanently."

She goes very still, the whiskey glass frozen halfway to her lips. "What?"

"You heard me. I want you to live here, with me."

"No." The response is immediate, sharp. "That won't work for me."

"Why not?"

"Because I have a life, Graham. An apartment, a job—your job, technically—friends, responsibilities. I can't just disappear into your penthouse like some kind of kept woman."

"Can't you?" I lean forward, studying her face. "Because I don't think you really understand the rules of the Hunt. What it means to be claimed."

"I understand perfectly." Her voice rises slightly, the first crack in her composed facade. "But as I keep telling you, you didn't actually claim me during the Hunt. You never completed the ritual."

"The ritual doesn't matter." My own temper is starting to fray around the edges.

"What matters is that every member of the Club believes you belong to me now.

What matters is that Martin and his friends are planning to use you against me.

What matters is that your safety depends on maintaining the fiction we created tonight. "

"Fiction being the operative word."

"Is it? Because it feels pretty fucking real."

She sets down her whiskey glass. "You can't just decide I belong to you because it's convenient for your Club politics."

"Convenient?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "You think any of this is convenient? You think I wanted to complicate my life with someone who drugs my champagne and lies about her identity and makes me care more than I've ever cared about anything?"

"Then let me go." Her voice is quiet now, but there's steel underneath. "Let me disappear. I'm good at it—I can vanish completely, and your Club friends will never find me."

"No."

"No?"

"You wanted this." The words come out harder than I intended. "You specifically asked about the Hunt. You wanted to see what happens when ordinary rules don't apply. Well, congratulations—this is what that looks like."

"That's not?—"

"You initiated this," I continue, standing and pacing to the windows. "Every step of the way. You seduced me, you asked for access to the Club, you played games with my collar instead of wearing it properly. You can't start a fire and then act surprised when you get burned."

"The hell I can't." She's on her feet too now, color high in her cheeks. "You don't get to make that decision for me."

"Don't I? You made yourself part of this whether you intended to or not."

"I was helping you!"

"And now I'm helping you." I turn to face her fully. "By keeping you safe from men who would hurt you just to get to me."

"By imprisoning me in your penthouse?"

"By protecting what's mine."

She stares at me like she's seeing me clearly for the first time, and I'm not sure she likes what she's looking at.

"I'm not yours," she says finally.

"Like fuck you arent." I step closer, close enough to see the pulse jumping in her throat. "Because your body seemed to think otherwise when I had you against that rock. Your mouth seemed pretty convinced when you were moaning my name."

"That was sex. This is something else entirely."

"This is the same thing. This is me claiming what I want and keeping it."

"Jesus Christ, Graham." She backs away from me, shaking her head. "Listen to yourself. You sound like a caveman."

"Maybe that's what you need. Maybe that's what you've been asking for since the moment you walked into my life and started playing games you didn't understand."

"I understand them perfectly. What I don't understand is how you went from charming and mischievous to controlling and dangerous."

"Nothing's changed except your perspective."

"Everything's changed!" Her voice cracks with frustration. "This morning you were someone I was getting to know. Tonight you're talking about keeping me like some kind of pet."

"You were never just someone I was getting to know." The admission slips out before I can stop it. "Not from the beginning."

Something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe, or recognition. But she recovers quickly, wrapping her arms around herself like armor.

"That doesn't change anything," she says. "I'm not staying here."

"Yes, you are."

"Watch me leave."

She heads for the elevator, but I'm there first, my hand flat against the metal above her head.

"Don't," I say quietly.

"Move."

"Look at me."

She turns, and I can see the battle playing out behind her eyes—fear and defiance and something that might be longing all tangled together.

"Please," I say, and the word costs me more than I expected. "Just stay tonight. We'll figure out the rest tomorrow."

For a moment, I think she might give in. Her body sways toward mine, and I catch the faint scent of my soap on her skin from the shower.

Then she steps back, chin lifted in that gesture I've learned means she's made up her mind.

"I'll stay tonight," she says. "But I'm sleeping in the guest room. And tomorrow, we're going to have a very different conversation about what happens next."

She pushes past me and stalks toward the guest suite. The door slams with enough force to rattle the windows, leaving me standing alone in my living room with the taste of defeat bitter on my tongue.

I pour another whiskey and settle into my chair, trying to process what just happened. Somewhere in the space of a few hours, I've gone from confident predator to something that feels dangerously close to desperate.

My phone buzzes with text messages, and I check them more for distraction than interest.

Sebastian

So you actually did it. Claimed someone at the Hunt. Never thought I'd see the day.

Beckett

How does it feel to join the ranks of the domesticated?

Sebastian

More importantly, how does it feel to be facing a disciplinary hearing for weapons violations?

Beckett

That part's less amusing.

Sebastian

Seriously though, are you okay? Word is Preston's not happy.

I stare at the messages for a long moment, trying to summon my usual wit for deflecting serious conversations. But the jokes feel hollow tonight, the casual banter forced.

I'm fine. Everything's under control.

Sebastian

That's not what Pemberton is telling people.

Beckett

What exactly happened out there?

Nothing I can't handle.

It's a lie, and we all know it. But it's the only response I can manage right now, with Delilah locked away in my guest room and the future suddenly uncertain in ways I never anticipated.

I finish my whiskey and head to my own bedroom, but sleep feels impossible. Every time I close my eyes, I see Martin and his friends surrounding her, hear the threats they made, feel the cold certainty that this is far from over.

Tomorrow, I'll figure out how to fix this. How to keep her safe without keeping her prisoner. How to claim her properly without destroying whatever it is that's growing between us.

Tonight, I'll lie awake and listen for sounds from the guest room, making sure she's still here, still safe, still mine in all the ways that matter.

Even if she won’t admit it yet.