Page 43 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Graham

The hearing room feels smaller than it did when I walked in, the weight of three Collectors' stares pressing down on me. Preston sits in the center of the tribunal, flanked by two men who represent everything I've grown to despise about the Club's hierarchy.

To his left is Harrison Blackwood, recently promoted to Collector status after his father's death left him with more money than sense and a desperate need to prove himself worthy of the family legacy.

He's younger than the others—maybe forty-two—with the kind of soft features that suggest he's never worked for anything in his life.

I've watched him bumble through business deals and social situations with equal incompetence, and the fact that he now sits in judgment of me is almost insulting.

To Preston's right is Charles Whitmore, a silver-haired patriarch whose family has been part of the Club since its founding.

He carries himself with the kind of rigid authority that comes from generations of unchallenged privilege, and he's looking at me like I'm something unpleasant he's found on the bottom of his shoe.

"Mr. Ellsworth," Whitmore begins, his voice carrying the weight of old money and older prejudices, "you stand accused of drawing a weapon during the Hunt. A violation that strikes at the very heart of our most sacred traditions."

"Sacred seems a bit strong," I reply, settling back in my chair casually. "Though I appreciate the dramatic flair."

Blackwood's face flushes with indignation. "This is exactly the kind of attitude that got you into this situation. You show no respect for the gravity of your actions."

"On the contrary, Harrison, I have tremendous respect for the gravity of protecting someone from assault. I wouldn’t go so far as to call myself a hero, but if you’d like to, I’d be okay with that."

"Mr. Ellsworth," Preston interjects, his tone carrying a warning, "I strongly suggest you take these proceedings seriously. The consequences of your actions extend far beyond personal inconvenience."

"I'm taking them very seriously, Preston. That's why I'm here instead of my lawyers."

"Your lawyers couldn't help you with this," Whitmore says coldly. "Club justice operates by different rules than civilian courts."

"Oh, what fun. Do I get a trial by combat, or are we sticking with the denial of due process approach?"

Blackwood leans forward, clearly trying to project authority he doesn't naturally possess. "The evidence against you is overwhelming, Mr. Ellsworth. Multiple witnesses saw you draw a weapon and threaten fellow Club members."

"Multiple witnesses," I repeat thoughtfully. "By which you mean Martin Pemberton, Richard Harrington, and Peter Geoffrey. The same three men who were in the process of cornering and threatening to rape a helpless woman."

"The circumstances are irrelevant," Whitmore declares. "The rules are clear—no weapons during the Hunt. No exceptions."

"Are they? Because I seem to recall the Club's charter mentioning something about maintaining civilized conduct and upholding certain standards of behavior."

Preston's eyes narrow slightly. "What are you getting at, Graham?"

"I'm getting at the fact that the men accusing me of misconduct were themselves planning to violate every principle the Hunt supposedly represents.

" I lean forward, meeting each of their gazes in turn.

"They weren't interested in a fair chase or honorable claiming.

They were planning to take turns with her, whether she consented or not. "

“A woman who consents to participate in the Hunt consents to be claimed,” Blackwood says stiffly.

I nod like he’s made a good point. “Absolutely true, your Honor.” His eyes narrow at my sarcasm, but I keep going.

“But, these men had no interest in claiming her. I heard it myself that they planned to take turns with her, even if she didn’t consent in the moment.

Our traditions are…well, traditional, but they are not and cannot sanction criminal conduct.

That would put all of us at true risk.” I smile deviously.

“Because, as much as you’d like to think you’re untouchable sitting up there, no man is truly above the law. ”

"You're twisting the situation to suit your narrative," Whitmore says, but there's less conviction in his voice now.

I chuckle. “I don’t need to twist the narrative. Because the events of last night were already a clusterfuck on their own. I'm pretty sure 'we're going to take turns before we decide who gets to keep her' isn't open to interpretation."

The three Collectors exchange glances, and I can see the doubt creeping into their certainty. The Club may operate by its own rules, but even they can't openly endorse gang rape as acceptable Hunt behavior.

Preston clears his throat. "You're claiming that your actions were justified as protection against imminent criminal assault?"

"Yes. And I'm also claiming that my actions were necessary to prevent three Club members from violating every principle this organization supposedly stands for. Personally, I thought you brought me here to thank me. Imagine my surprise."

"And you have proof of their intentions?" Whitmore asks.

"I have their own words, spoken in front of witnesses."

"What witnesses?" Blackwood demands.

I pull out my phone and dial a number I memorized this morning. "Caroline Blake. She participated in last night's Hunt."

The call connects and I put it on speaker. "Caroline? It's Graham Ellsworth. I'm in a disciplinary hearing and I need you to tell these gentlemen what you witnessed last night in the woods."

"Of course." Caroline's cultured voice fills the room. "I was being pursued by William Hartridge, when we heard voices ahead of us. Three men had cornered Miss Reeves against some rocks."

"And what did you hear?" I prompt.

"Explicit threats of sexual assault. They were discussing what they planned to do to her in rather graphic detail. I was about to intervene when Mr. Ellsworth arrived."

"Thank you, Caroline. Is William there with you?"

"I am," comes a deeper voice. "I can confirm Miss Blake's account. I heard the same threats but didn't intervene because Graham was already handling the situation. Besides..." There's amusement in his tone. "I had other priorities at the time."

Caroline's laugh is warm. "He certainly did. Which worked out perfectly since he claimed me moments later."

"So you're saying Mr. Ellsworth's actions were justified?" Preston asks.

"Completely," Caroline responds. "Those men were about to commit a serious crime. Graham stopped them."

“Hartridge, you’re in agreement? You’d be willing to issue a formal statement in support of Mr. Ellsworth’s actions?”

“Yes,” his answer unequivocal.

I end the call and look directly at Blackwood. "There's your witness testimony. Three Club members threatened gang rape. I prevented it."

The room falls silent. Preston fights back a smile while the other two Collectors look like they've stepped in quicksand.

"This is... problematic," Whitmore admits.

"Problematic how?" I ask with false innocence. "Are you saying the Club condones behavior that would be criminal in civilized society?"

"Of course not," Blackwood says quickly. "But the proper response would have been to report the matter to Club officials, not take matters into your own hands."

"Right. I should have left a woman being threatened with gang rape while I went to find a Club official to file paperwork. How very civilized."

"Mr. Ellsworth," Preston says carefully, "are you prepared to testify under oath that you witnessed Club members explicitly threatening sexual assault?"

"I am."

"And are you prepared to name these members publicly?"

"With pleasure. And, I’m glad you brought this up, Preston. Because here's what's really interesting." I lean back in my chair. "You can expel me if you want. Strip my membership, ban me from the premises, make whatever statement satisfies your sense of authority."

"But?" Whitmore senses a trap.

"But expelling me releases me from my Club obligations." I let that sink in. "Which means I'd be free to report Martin Pemberton, Richard Harrington and Peter Geoffrey to civil authorities for conspiracy to commit sexual assault."

The color drains from Blackwood's face. "You wouldn't dare."

"Try me. I have witness testimony, physical evidence from the scene and my own firsthand account. Any prosecutor would love a case this clean-cut."

Whitmore looks sick. "The scandal would destroy us."

"That's not my problem. You want to punish me for preventing a crime? Fine. But don't expect me to protect the criminals afterward."

Preston clears his throat. "Gentlemen, perhaps we should reconsider?—"

That's when we hear it. A scream from somewhere outside the hearing room—high, terrified and unmistakably female.

Unmistakably Delilah.

I'm on my feet before I consciously decide to move, every protective instinct I possess suddenly screaming at maximum volume.

"What the hell was that?" Blackwood asks, looking around like he expects to find answers written on the walls.

But I already know. Somehow, impossibly, Delilah is here. And she's in trouble.

"Gentlemen," I say, my voice deadly calm, "I believe this hearing just became irrelevant."

I'm moving toward the door before any of them can object, because whatever's happening outside this room, whatever danger Delilah has walked into, it's infinitely more important than Club politics or disciplinary hearings.

They want to talk about protecting women and upholding standards?

They're about to see exactly what that looks like.