Page 45 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Graham

The scream cuts through the hearing room and every rational thought in my head shuts down except one: Delilah is here, and she's in danger.

I'm pulling out my phone before the echo fades, fingers flying across the screen to access the Club's security system. The hearing, the accusations, the careful political dance I've been performing for the past hour—none of it matters anymore.

"Graham, what are you doing?" Preston demands, but I'm already scrolling through camera feeds.

"How do you have access to that?" Whitmore asks, staring at my phone screen in shock.

"Don't worry about that now," I snap, finding the gate footage from twenty minutes ago. There—my driver's car, with Delilah behind the wheel, talking her way past security. "Motherfucker."

I switch to the interior cameras, scanning through hallway footage until I find her.

She's pressed against the wall outside this very room, clearly trying to listen to our hearing.

Then Martin Pemberton appears in frame, and I watch him corner her, watch her try to resist, watch him strike her before dragging her unconscious form toward a side exit.

"That son of a bitch," I breathe.

"Graham, what's happening?" Preston leans over to see my screen.

"Martin took her. He was conspicuously absent from this hearing, wasn't he?" I'm already switching to another app on my phone—the tracking system linked to the GPS chip I had embedded in the choker I gave Delilah. "There. She's five minutes away."

The signal shows her location at what looks like a mid-tier hotel just outside the estate grounds. I'm moving toward the door before anyone can object.

"Graham, where are you going?" Blackwood calls after me.

"To get my woman back."

"You can't just leave in the middle of a disciplinary hearing!"

"Watch me."

Preston is on his feet too now, following me toward the door. "Graham, think about this. If you leave now, if you take matters into your own hands again?—"

"Then they can add it to the list of charges." I pause at the door, turning back to face the three Collectors. "But if any of you think I'm going to sit here debating Club politics while someone tortures the woman I love, you're all insane."

The admission hangs in the air for a moment, but I don't have time to process what I've just said or how it might complicate things later.

"You can come with me or you can stay here arguing about protocol," I tell Preston. "But I'm going. Now."

"Goddamn it," Preston mutters, but he's already grabbing his jacket. "This is the worst idea you've ever had."

"I've had worse."

"No, you haven't."

We're out of the building and in my car in less than two minutes, Preston sliding into the passenger seat while I start the engine.

"Tell me you have a plan," Preston says as I pull out of the Club's circular drive.

"Get Delilah. Don't kill anyone unless they make me. Make it look like they made me."

"That's not a plan. That's barely a wish list."

"It's enough."

The hotel is exactly what I expected—the kind of place that rents rooms by the hour and doesn't ask questions about what happens inside them. I park directly in front of the main entrance, not caring about legality or courtesy.

My phone shows Delilah's signal coming from the third floor, room 312. I take the stairs three at a time, Preston keeping pace.

The hallway is dimly lit and smells like industrial disinfectant and despair. I can hear voices through the door of 312—a man's voice, calm and conversational, and underneath it the sound of metal against metal.

Handcuffs.

Every civilized instinct I possess dies a violent death.

I don't knock. I don't announce myself. I put my shoulder into the door with enough force to splinter the frame, and the lock gives way like it was made of cardboard.

Pemberton is standing beside the bed, one hand reaching toward Delilah, who's cuffed to the headboard and pulling against the restraints with obvious desperation. The look of terror in her eyes when she sees me is immediately replaced by relief so profound it makes my chest ache.

I have my gun out and pressed against Martin’s temple before he can fully turn around.

"I wouldn't," I say quietly.

Martin freezes, his hand still extended toward Delilah. "Graham. How nice of you to join us."

"Step away from her. Now."

"Or what? You'll shoot me? I don't think so. Too many complications."

"You'd be surprised what I'm willing to do when someone threatens what's mine."

That's when I hear footsteps in the hallway behind us—multiple sets, moving with purpose. Preston appears in the doorway, followed by what looks like half the NYPD.

"NYPD! Nobody move!"

Martin’s face goes white as officers flood into the room, weapons drawn. "What the hell?—"

"I’ve had private security on Delilah since the first time a Torrino lackey tried to take her," I explain conversationally, keeping my gun steady. "Turns out kidnapping is still illegal, even when Club members do it. They called it in the moment you took her from the estate.”

Two officers move to restrain Martin while a third produces a key to unlock Delilah's handcuffs. She rubs her wrists where the metal left marks, but otherwise seems physically unharmed.

"You okay?" I ask, holstering my weapon now that Pemberton is in custody.

She nods, though I can see the residual fear in her eyes. "How did you find me?"

"GPS tracking. Remind me to send Leon a bonus for suggesting it."

“GPS tracking how?”

I tap the charm in her choker and she looks at me with a mix of shock and horror.

“You put a tracking device on me?”

“Duh.”

“You’re insane,” she huffs, but I can tell there’s no real anger in her voice.

“Also duh.”

The police are already reading Pemberton his rights while Preston speaks quietly with what appears to be the detective in charge. I catch fragments of their conversation—kidnapping, assault, federal charges due to interstate connections.

"Miss Reeves," the detective says, turning toward us. "We're going to need a full statement about what happened here."

"Tomorrow," I interrupt before Delilah can respond. "She's been through enough tonight."

"Sir, in a kidnapping case, it's important to get the victim's account while events are still fresh?—"

"Tomorrow," I repeat, my tone making it clear this isn't a negotiation. "My lawyers will contact you to arrange an interview at a more appropriate time."

The detective looks like he wants to argue, but Preston steps forward with the kind of authority that comes from having judges on speed dial.

"Detective, I'm sure you understand that Miss Reeves has been through a traumatic experience. Surely the investigation can wait twelve hours for her to recover?"

"Of course, Mr. Wolfe. We'll be in touch."

As the police finish processing the scene and take Martin away in handcuffs, I help Delilah to her feet. She's steady enough, but I can feel the fine tremor in her hands when I take them in mine.

"Let's get you home," I say quietly.

She doesn't argue, which tells me more about her emotional state than any amount of tears or dramatics would have. I lift her into my arms and carry her down the stairs in silence, Preston tactfully giving us space by hanging back to speak with the hotel manager about security footage.

The silence stretches between us as we navigate through the city streets.

Delilah stares out the passenger window, her reflection ghostlike in the glass, and I can see the exhaustion in the set of her shoulders.

But underneath that exhaustion, I catch glimpses of something else—the sharp intelligence that never stops working, even in moments like this.

She's probably already putting the pieces together, figuring out exactly how much danger she's still in. How much danger we're both in, as long as Stanley Torrino draws breath.

Which is why tonight can't end with just Pemberton’s arrest. It has to end with Stanley understanding—permanently—that some lines should never be crossed.

The real conversation we need to have isn't about who hired Pemberton. It's about what I'm going to do about it.