Page 44 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Delilah

The first thing I notice is the smell. Cheap disinfectant, stale air, the faintest trace of mildew underneath everything. The second thing is the handcuffs. Cold metal bites into my wrists where they're locked to a steel pipe bolted against the headboard.

A groan slips out before I can stop it. My head throbs like someone's playing drums inside my skull and it takes a few seconds for memory to catch up. Pemberton. The hallway. His hand cracking across my cheek, then nothing.

I push against the cuffs and try to shift but the metal holds. Panic scrapes at the edges of my chest. I test the chain, pull harder, then force myself to stop before I shred my wrists. Think. Get bearings first.

The room looks like a cut-rate hotel that never made it past three stars. Faded carpet. Brown curtains that don't quite close. A dresser with half the veneer peeling. The kind of place no one remembers staying in, which makes it perfect for disappearing someone.

Water runs in the bathroom, steady and casual. Then a voice drifts out.

"You're awake."

I go cold.

The faucet shuts off. Martin steps out of the bathroom, drying his hands on a towel. But something's different about him now. The bumbling rich boy facade has been stripped away and replaced with something cruder and more dangerous.

"What the fuck do you want with me?"

He laughs. Not amused, not mocking. Just easy, like he's been waiting for this conversation for months. "For someone so clever, you really didn't put it together, did you?"

My heart stutters. "Put what together?"

"I was hired from the start," he says while leaning against the doorframe. "You were supposed to be my target. Easy money, clean claim, no complications. Then that idiot Graham decided to swoop in and complicate everything."

I try and process what he just said. "Hired by who?"

"Come on, Delilah." He pushes off from the doorframe and takes a slow step into the room. "You already know the answer. You just don't want to admit it."

Stanley Torrino. The name hammers through my skull even though he hasn't said it out loud. The man who's been hunting me since Philadelphia.

"Stanley sent you," I whisper.

"Stanley Torrino is a very wealthy man with a very long memory. And you, sweetheart, cost him a lot of money and even more face. Did you really think you could just disappear into the New York social scene and he'd never find you?"

"I thought you were just another rich asshole looking for a good time."

"I am a rich asshole and I do love a good time. But I'm also a rich asshole who doesn't mind getting his hands dirty if the price is right." His smile turns bitter. "Not all of us live in glass towers with infinite trust funds, Delilah. Some of us actually have to work for our money."

"So what, Stanley offered you enough to betray your precious Club loyalty?"

"Loyalty?" Martin laughs and the sound is harsh in the small room. "Loyalty doesn't pay my debts. Loyalty doesn't fund my lifestyle. And loyalty certainly doesn't help when men like Graham Ellsworth look at men like me and see nothing but disposable entertainment."

"So this is about jealousy."

"This is about survival. About taking opportunities when they present themselves." He takes another step closer. "When Stanley's people reached out about locating a certain blonde con artist who'd infiltrated New York's elite circles, it seemed like providence."

"How long have you been working for him?"

"Long enough to know all about your little operation with Iris. Long enough to know about your fake identity. Long enough to know that you've been playing a very dangerous game with some very dangerous people."

My throat feels dry as dust. "The whole thing was a setup. Our meeting, the dinner invitation, everything."

"Everything." His grin widens. "I made myself look like an easy mark because you have a type, don't you? Rich, lonely, not too bright. I played the part perfectly."

"Graham doesn't know."

"About Stanley? About your real name? About the fact that you're wanted for fraud in three states?" Martin's smile turns predatory. "No, he doesn't. Though I have to admire the irony—you set out to con him and ended up falling for him instead."

"That's not?—"

"Please. I've been watching you for weeks. The way you look at him, the way you've changed your entire approach. You were supposed to be extracting money and disappearing. Instead you're playing house and catching feelings."

"What does Stanley want?"

"Justice. Restitution. A very public example of what happens to people who steal from him." Martin shrugs. "He's not particularly picky about the details as long as the end result involves you suffering appropriately."

"And you're just fine being his delivery boy?"

"I'm fine being well-compensated for minimal effort. The original plan was elegant—get close to you, gain your trust, deliver you to Stanley's people, collect my fee. Clean, simple, no messy complications."

"But I chose Graham instead."

"But you chose Graham instead," he agrees. "Which meant I had to get creative. When he put you in the Hunt, I thought perfect—I'll just claim you during the game and no one will question it. But then he interfered again."

"You're making a mistake. Graham will come looking for me."

"Graham is currently facing expulsion from the Club for weapons violations.

Even if he wanted to help you, he's got bigger problems." Martin moves closer and I can see the cold calculation in his eyes.

"Besides, by the time anyone figures out where you've gone, you'll already be on your way to Philadelphia.

He's eager for a personal reunion. Something about closure and making sure you understand the consequences of your actions. "

"Fuck you. And fuck Stanley."

Pemberton chuckles and tosses the towel aside. "Oh, that can be arranged. See, the thing about Stanley's instructions is that he was very specific about wanting you delivered alive and relatively undamaged. But he didn't say anything about unmarked."

The way he says it makes my skin crawl. His eyes slide over me with obvious intent, and I recognize the shift in his demeanor. This isn't just about money anymore. This is about power, about taking something he wants because he can.

"Stay the hell away from me."

"I don't think so. See, you've been a very expensive problem for a very long time. And I think I deserve a little... compensation for all the trouble you've caused."

He keeps moving toward the bed, his footsteps thudding on the faded carpet. My pulse spikes as I yank against the cuffs, metal clanging against the pipe. The sound seems to encourage him.

"You know what the best part is?" he continues conversationally. "Even if Graham somehow figures out where you are, even if he comes charging to your rescue like some kind of white knight, it won't matter. Because after tonight, you'll belong to Stanley. And Stanley doesn't give back his property."

"I don't belong to anyone."

"Everyone belongs to someone, Delilah. The only question is whether you choose your owner or they choose you."

He's close enough now that I can smell the whiskey on his breath, can see the cruel satisfaction in his eyes as he reaches toward me.

That's when the door explodes inward.

Wood splinters. Hinges scream. The frame gives way under a force too strong and too violent to be anything but purposeful.

And then everything happens at once.