Page 13 of His to Hunt

The music no longer dances. It pulses. Slow, rhythmic, laced with something primal and low. The notes thrum beneath the skin, vibrating like a warning no one dares speak aloud. The lights have dimmed, subtly but with intention,casting the edges of the room in long, flickering shadows. Candlelight trembles. Conversations drop to murmurs.

The choosing is over.

The Hunt is coming.

No one says it. No one needs to. The Club operates on tradition, not instruction. You feel the transition before you recognize it. The women begin to vanish—escorted by silent stewards in tailored black, led toward the back of the estate where the woods begin. None of them speak as they disappear, not even to each other. They know better. Their time for words ended when they walked into this room.

Now? Now they run.

My gaze flicks to the double doors near the east wing. They remain closed for now, but I know what waits beyond them—the dressing rooms for the men, the final moment of calm before the storm. The suits are left behind. The masks go on. The roles shift.

The predators shed their polish.

And become what they were always meant to be.

I move toward the corridor without hesitation. The other Collectors part for me without realizing it—just enough to let me pass, just enough to acknowledge what they all know but won't say aloud.

She's mine.

But I also know the rules. The ancient clause no one likes to talk about. The loophole that still exists—intended to make the Hunt real, to give it teeth.

If another man gets to her first, and he takes her?

She's his.

It doesn't matter who claimed her in the ballroom. It doesn't matter who gave her a collar. The Hunt rewrites the terms.

Once she steps into the woods, she belongs to the man who catches her first.

Which means I put a target on her back the second I touched her.

And now?

I have to get to her before anyone else does.

Sebastian appears at my side just as I reach the threshold of the corridor, his champagne finally gone, his smirk softer now—sharpened into something focused. He falls into step beside me, jacket loose in his grip, mask still tilted back on his head.

"She hit you," he says mildly.

"I noticed."

"She looked like she meant it."

"She did."

He glances at me. "You like that?"

I don't answer. Because he already knows.

"You know what that choker did," he adds, tone dropping, quieter now. "You marked her before the Hunt even began."

"I know."

"You didn't give her a token."

"No," I say. "I gave her something better."

Sebastian hums like he's not sure if I'm bold or insane. Probably both.