Page 42 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Delilah

The frustration has been building all day, a steady pressure behind my ribs that makes it impossible to focus on anything Graham actually wants me to do.

He's keeping secrets from me—big ones, judging by the way his entire demeanor changed after that phone call—and the hypocrisy of my irritation isn't lost on me.

I'm keeping secrets too. Massive ones. My real name, my criminal background, the fact that I originally targeted him for a con that's now so thoroughly derailed I can't even remember what the endgame was supposed to be.

But somehow, his secrets feel different. More dangerous. More immediate.

When Graham tells me it's time to go and that his driver will take me back to the penthouse, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he's avoiding my eyes. This isn't just some routine business meeting—this is something that has him genuinely worried.

His dismissive tone had made something hot and angry flare in my chest, but I'd bitten back my response. Fighting with him in the office wouldn't get me the answers I need.

Now, as we ride the elevator down to the lobby together in tense silence, I'm finalizing my plan. It's risky, possibly stupid, but the alternative is spending the evening pacing around Graham's penthouse wondering what kind of trouble he's walking into because of me.

Graham's driver is waiting with his usual professional courtesy, holding open the rear door of the black sedan for me while Graham heads toward his own car.

"Miss Reeves," James says with a polite nod. "Mr. Ellsworth asked me to take you directly back to the penthouse."

"Of course." I slide into the backseat, watching through the window as Graham gets into his Aston. He doesn't look back at me, but I can see the tension in his movements, the way he grips the steering wheel.

As James gets behind the wheel, I lean forward. "Oh God, I'm so sorry. I just realized I left something important on my desk. Could you possibly run back up and get it for me? My feet are absolutely killing me from these heels, and I don't think I can manage another trip up there."

James glances at me in the rearview mirror with what might be sympathy or might be annoyance. I make a point of shifting uncomfortably, wincing slightly as if the shoes are genuinely painful.

"Of course, miss. What am I looking for?"

"It's a small leather portfolio. Should be right on top of my desk. Black leather, about this big." I gesture vaguely with my hands. "I'd be so grateful. It has some important documents I need to review tonight."

He nods and heads back into the building, leaving me alone with his car and approximately thirty seconds before he realizes there's no portfolio on my desk because I never left one there in the first place.

I slide into the driver's seat, adjust the mirrors and seat position, and pull away from the curb with the kind of smooth confidence that comes from years of emergency getaways. The car handles beautifully—expensive, responsive, the kind of vehicle that makes stealing it almost a pleasure.

By the time James emerges from the building looking confused and increasingly panicked, I'm already several blocks away and trying to figure out where Graham might have gone.

He mentioned the Club yesterday, and something about Preston's phone call suggested official business rather than a casual meeting.

The Owner's Club it is.

The drive gives me time to second-guess my decision approximately seventeen times.

What am I going to accomplish by showing up at the Owner's Club?

I can't exactly march into their meeting and demand they go easy on Graham.

I don't even officially know what's happening—for all I know, he really is just in some routine business discussion.

But the knot in my stomach tells me otherwise. The way Graham’s voice sounded on the phone, the careful neutrality in his expression when he told me not to worry—these aren't the signs of routine business.

The Owner's Club looks even more foreboding in the daylight.

High stone walls, wrought iron gates, the kind of imposing architecture designed to keep people like me on the outside looking in.

Security cameras track my approach and I can see at least two guards stationed at various points around the perimeter.

I've always been good with directions—drive to a place once and I'll know my way there forever.

Mental maps come naturally when you need to make fast getaways or plan escape routes.

But this is the first time I've ever willingly returned to a place of danger.

Funny how Graham has flipped everything on its head.

Even down to the fact that it's me begging to be fucked when usually it's the other way around—me being the holdout while marks try to convince me into bed.

Graham Ellsworth has turned me into someone I don't recognize—someone who chooses love over logic and throws caution to the wind for a man who's supposed to be just another job.

But when I pull up to the main security checkpoint and roll down the window, the guard recognizes Graham's driver's car immediately.

"Evening, miss," he says with professional courtesy. "Here for Mr. Ellsworth?"

"That's right." I keep my voice steady, confident, channeling every ounce of entitled privilege I can muster. "He's expecting me."

The guard glances at his clipboard, then at the car's license plate, then back at me. For a moment I think he might ask for ID or some kind of verification. Instead, he simply waves me through.

"Parking is around the back, miss. Main entrance is clearly marked."

"Thank you."

I park in the circular drive behind the mansion and take a moment to steel myself before getting out. The building looms above me, all Gothic Revival architecture and dark windows that seem to watch my every move.

The main entrance is unlocked, opening into a foyer that belongs in a museum rather than a private club. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, oil paintings of stern-faced men who probably founded this place when treating women like property was still legally acceptable.

I can hear voices coming from deeper in the building—not the casual conversation of a social gathering, but the formal cadence of official proceedings. I follow the sound down a long corridor lined with more portraits, each one seeming to judge my presence here.

The voices grow clearer as I approach what appears to be a set of double doors at the end of the hall, but before I can get close enough to see what's happening inside, footsteps echo behind me.

"Well, well," a familiar voice says. "What have we here?"

I turn slowly, my heart sinking as I recognize Martin Pemberton approaching from a side corridor. He's traded his hunting gear for an expensive suit, but the predatory gleam in his eyes is exactly the same.

"Martin," I say, trying to project confidence I don't feel. "What a surprise."

"I’m surprised to hear that. Because I have to say, I was rather expecting to see you today." His smile is all teeth and malice. "Though I thought you'd have the sense to stay hidden in Graham's penthouse where you belong."

"I was just?—"

"You were just what? Lost? Looking for the ladies' room?" He steps closer, effectively blocking my path back toward the entrance. "We both know why you're here, sweetheart."

"I don't know what you mean."

"You're here because you can't stand not knowing what's happening to your precious Graham. Because despite all your protests about independence and autonomy, you're already thinking like property."

The accusation hits too close to home, making me defensive. "That's ridiculous."

He laughs and the sound makes me cringe. "You look like a woman who's driven across the city to spy on Club business that doesn't concern her." His voice drops to something more dangerous. "Do you have any idea what the penalty is for that?"

"There's no law against visiting a private club."

"There are Club laws. And they're considerably more... flexible than civilian ones."

He moves closer, close enough that I can smell his expensive cologne and the whiskey on his breath. I take a step back but the corridor wall stops my retreat.

"You know what I think?" Martin continues conversationally. "I think Graham's little claim on you is about to become null and void. And when that happens, well... I have some very unfinished business with the woman who humiliated me."

"Graham will?—"

"Graham will what? He's rather busy defending himself against charges that could see him expelled permanently." Martin's smile widens with cruel satisfaction. "Which would leave you completely unprotected. Completely available for someone to collect what he's owed."

"I don't belong to anyone."

His hand traces the air near my throat where Graham's collar sits. "You made yourself his property, sweetheart. But what you really did was slap me in the face. Walking out on me at that auction. Choosing him over me in front of everyone who matters."

The venom in his voice makes my skin crawl. This isn't just about possession—it's about revenge.

"Do you know what it's like to be laughed at by men who used to respect you?" His eyes glitter with malice. "Graham made sure everyone knew he'd stolen my woman. He even sent out a fucking newsletter about it.”

My stomach drops. A newsletter? Graham never mentioned?—

"Every member of this Club knows you rejected me for him. Every conversation I've had for weeks includes pitying looks and barely concealed amusement." His grip on the wall beside my head tightens. "You turned me into a joke."

"That wasn't my intention?—"

"Intention doesn't matter. Results do. And the result is that Martin Pemberton became the man who couldn't keep a woman's attention long enough to finish dinner."

The humiliation in his voice is raw and dangerous. This has escalated far beyond simple desire into something much more vindictive.

"But here's the beautiful irony," he continues. "When Graham loses his standing today—and he will—you become unclaimed property. Free for anyone to take. And I'm first in line."

"You're insane."

"I'm owed." His voice turns deadly quiet. "So here's your choice, sweetheart. Come with me quietly and I'll take you as a Possession. Proper paperwork, legitimate ownership. You'll have certain protections under Club law."

"And if I refuse?"

His smile turns predatory. "If you refuse, I'll still have you. But first I'll let Peter and Richard work out their frustrations. They're still quite upset about last night's... interruption. And maybe after I've had my fill, I'll let them have another turn."

The casual way he discusses sharing me like a piece of property makes bile rise in my throat. "You're talking about rape."

"I'm talking about consequences. You made choices. Now you get to live with them."

He reaches for my arm and instinct takes over. I twist away from his grasp but he's faster than expected. His hand closes around my wrist with bruising force.

"Let go of me."

"I don't think so. See, the thing about unclaimed property is that possession becomes nine-tenths of ownership." His grip tightens until I gasp. "And I'm very good at taking possession of what's mine."

I twist but he's stronger and the wall blocks my escape. He hauls me toward a side door while panic surges through my veins.

I drive my elbow into his ribs. He curses and wrenches my wrist high—ugly leverage that lights fire through my shoulder. Then he backhands me. White heat blooms across my cheek and copper floods my mouth.

"Move," he snarls and keeps pulling.

No. I cannot let him take me.

I suck in air and scream—loud enough that the sound skates along marble and into the next room. A door bangs open ahead and voices rise in alarm.

I rake my nails down his face, four hard lines that draw blood. With my free hand I rip the white pocket square from his jacket and drop it at the threshold as he drags me over it—a small bright marker someone will see.

He hits me again, precise and punishing. The corridor tilts, the chandelier smears into light and everything narrows to black.