Page 105 of His to Hunt

I step closer, taking her face between my hands, needing her to understand. "Your art deserves to be seen. And I promised you both freedom and me. This is what that looks like."

She searches my face, perhaps looking for any sign of manipulation or ulterior motive. Finding none, she rises on her toes and presses her lips to mine in a kiss that feels like gratitude and promise combined.

When she pulls back, there's a new determination in her eyes. "Show me everything."

I take her hand and lead her toward the entrance, where the building's security system recognizes me immediately, doors sliding open to admit us. The interior is still partially under construction—scaffolding in places, plastic sheeting protecting certain areas—but the bones of what it will become are clearly visible.

Soaring ceilings. Pristine white walls. Strategic lighting designed to showcase artwork from every angle. A central staircase leading to a second level that overlooks the main gallery space.

"The south wing will be the primary exhibition area," I explain as we walk. "The north wing includes a studio space for you to work on-site if you choose. There's also private gallery space for more exclusive showings."

Luna moves through the space slowly, trailing her fingers along walls, stepping into pockets of natural light that stream through the windows. I can see her mind working, already envisioning her art hanging here, already planning what she'll create to fill these walls.

"And upstairs?" she asks, glancing toward the staircase.

"Office space. A small apartment if you need to stay overnight. And a private viewing room for potential buyers."

She turns to face me, her expression suddenly serious. "This is real. You're really giving me this."

"I am."

"What do you want in return?" The question isn't accusatory, just practical. Honest.

I step closer, resting my hands lightly on her waist. "I want you to create. I want you to thrive. I want you to be exactly who you are, without constraints."

"And that's enough for you?" she presses, still searching for the catch, the condition, the price.

"That's everything," I tell her, the truth of it surprising even me. "Seeing you like this—in your element, in your power—that's all I need."

She studies me for a long moment, then nods once, decision made. "When's the opening?"

"Three weeks from Saturday," I reply, not mentioning that Christopher has already confirmed his attendance, that the trap is already set.

"Then I better get to work," she says, a smile spreading across her face that carries none of the hesitation or fear I've seen there before. "I have a gallery to fill."

I pull her against me, overwhelmed by the fierce pride surging through my chest. She fits perfectly in my arms, strong and soft and completelyher own.

"Yes," I agree, pressing a kiss to her temple. "You do."

And as we stand there in the empty gallery that will soon showcase her talent to the world, I allow myself to acknowledge what I've been avoiding—that in giving Luna her freedom, I've somehow found my own.

Forty-Four

LUNA

I've never paintedlike this before.

It's as though a dam has broken inside me, releasing not just the familiar torrent of anger and pain, but something deeper, richer, more nuanced. My art has changed—not less emotional, not less raw, but somehow more complete. As if I've finally found the missing colors in a palette I didn't know was incomplete.

For the last two weeks now, Beckett and I have lived in this strange, suspended reality at the upstate house. The gallery construction continues in our absence, but here, in this remote fortress, time feels different. Measured not in hours or days, but in canvases completed. In truths revealed. In barriers dismantled between us.

Beckett hasn't left me alone since he returned. He takes calls occasionally, disappears into his office for an hour or two when necessary, but always returns. Always finds his way back to me, to this studio that has become the heart of the house.

Today, though, is different. He's been here since morning, sitting silently in the leather recliner, watching me work with an intensity that would be unnerving if it came from anyone else. He isn't scrolling through his phone. Isn't making notes or taking calls. He's just... present. Completely. His eyes following every stroke of my brush, every movement of my body as I transform blank canvas into something living.

The painting before me is unlike anything I've created before—a storm breaking over water, golden light piercing through clouds so dark they're almost black. It's violence and peace existing simultaneously. Chaos yielding to clarity. The moment of transition when one reality gives way to another.

I step back, assessing the balance, feeling the need for something more. Something that will bridge the final gap between what I see in my mind and what exists on the canvas.