Page 11 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Ten

LUNA

His voice slices through the night—two words that freeze my blood and send my heart into a panicked sprint.

I whirl around, but there's nothing there—just the massive oak trunk, rough bark against my palms, shadows stretching in every direction.

"Found you," he says again, and this time I can place it—behind me, above me, the sound seeming to come from the tree itself.

I stumble back, nearly falling as I crane my neck to look up. And there he is, perched on a thick branch about twelve feet off the ground, one leg dangling casually as he looks down at me through the hollow eyes of that bone-white mask.

"That's cheating," I gasp, trying to sound defiant despite the fear coursing through me.

He tilts his head, the gesture somehow more unsettling with the skull mask rendering his expression unreadable. "There are no rules against climbing trees, little thief."

Before I can respond, he moves—a fluid, graceful motion that brings him from branch to ground in seconds, landing with barely a sound just a few feet away from me.

I back up instinctively, but the tree is behind me now, my escape cut off by bark and wood and a man who moves like he was born to hunt.

"Stay back," I warn, though we both know it's an empty threat. "I don't want to hurt you."

A low chuckle emanates from behind the mask. "You couldn't if you tried."

"I got in a pretty good slap earlier," I remind him, trying to keep my voice steady.

"You did." He takes a step closer, moving with a deliberate confidence that makes my stomach clench. "And I let you have that one."

"Let me?" My hands ball into fists at my sides. "You think I need your permission to stand up for myself?"

Another step. "I think you're talking because you're afraid of what happens when you stop."

He's right, damn him. Words are the only shield I have left, the only barrier between his merciless approach and the terror building in my chest.

"I'm not afraid of you," I lie.

"Yes, you are." He's close enough now that I can see the gleam of his eyes through the mask's sockets. "But not for the reasons you should be."

"And what reasons are those?"

"You're not afraid I'll hurt you." Another step, closing the distance to mere inches. "You're afraid I'll see you. Really see you. All the parts you try to hide, even from yourself. "

My breath catches.

"You don't know me," I say, but the words sound hollow even in my own ears.

"Don't I?" His gloved hand rises slowly, fingers brushing against the choker at my throat. "I knew the moment I saw you that you didn't belong in that ballroom. That you were pretending to be someone you're not. That you were running from something—or someone."

I swallow hard, feeling the velvet collar tighten with the movement. "Everyone's running from something."

"But not everyone steals an invitation to the Owner's Club to do it." His fingers trail from the choker to my jaw. "That takes a special kind of desperation."

"Or stupidity," I mutter.

He laughs—a genuine sound that catches me off guard with its warmth. "Perhaps a bit of both."

For a moment, we simply stand there, my back against the ancient oak, his body blocking any path to freedom, his fingers still resting lightly against my jaw. The night settles around us, the sounds of the Hunt distant now, as if the forest itself is holding its breath.

"What happens now?" I finally ask, unable to bear the tension any longer.

His hand drops to my waist, not gripping, just resting there like he has all the time in the world. "Now? Now you have a choice."

"I thought the whole point of the Hunt was that I don't get a choice."

"The Hunt is about ritual. About performance." He leans closer, the mask's grinning death just inches from my face. "But what happens between us after I catch you? That's about something else entirely. "

"And what's that?"

"Power," he says simply. "Who has it. Who wants it. Who's willing to surrender it."

I lift my chin, meeting the empty eyes of the mask with as much defiance as I can muster. "And if I refuse to surrender?"

His grip on my waist tightens, just slightly, just enough to remind me of the strength behind his controlled movements. "Then we stay here, in these woods, playing this game until one of us breaks. And it won't be me."

The certainty in his voice sends a shiver down my spine—not entirely from fear. There's something else mixed in now, something I don't want to acknowledge. Curiosity, thrill, a treacherous whisper that wonders what surrender might feel like.

"And if I don't break?" I challenge.

I can't see his smile behind the mask, but I can hear it in his voice. "Then I get to enjoy the pleasure of trying to break you for a very, very long time."

His hand slides from my waist to the small of my back, drawing me closer until our bodies touch—chest to chest, hip to hip, his heat seeping through the thin fabric of my torn dress.

Before I can respond, his fingers slide beneath the edge of my mask. I should stop him—this final barrier is all that stands between me and complete exposure—but I remain still as he carefully lifts it away.

The cool night air touches my flushed cheeks as the mask comes free. I feel naked in a way that has nothing to do with clothing. The disguise that let me steal another woman's place, that gave me the courage to enter this dangerous game, is gone.

I don't answer. Can't answer. Because the truth is, it's worse. Without the mask, without that barrier between us, there's nothing to hide behind. Nothing to pretend this is just a game, just a ritual, just a night that will end when the sun rises.

He tosses the piece of ceramic to the ground before his eyes scan my fully revealed face, taking in every detail with an intensity that makes me want to turn away. But his hand catches my chin, keeping my gaze locked with his.

"There you are," he says softly, something like satisfaction in his voice. "No more hiding."

I reach up, intending to pull his mask off his face, but his firm grip on my wrist stops me.

I click my tongue and roll my eyes. I can't stop the small part of me that hopes he's not disappointed with what he finds underneath the mask. Because that would mean I cared about what he thought. Which I don't.

His eyes search mine, reading the conflict written there. "You still haven't made your choice, little thief."

"What choice?" I whisper.

"Whether you're going to keep fighting me," his grip tightens, fingers pressing into the small of my back, "or whether you're going to admit what we both already know."

"And what's that?"

I can see his lips curve into a smile beneath that haunting mask of his, a smile that's both beautiful and terrifying in its certainty.

"That you've been mine since the moment you stepped into that ballroom."

"I didn't come here to belong to anyone."

"No," he agrees, "you came here to use this world for your own purposes. To take what you need and disappear." His thumb traces my lower lip, the leather of his glove cool against my heated skin. "But plans change, little thief. And now you belong to me. "

For a moment, I think he's going to kiss me. Instead, he takes a step back.

"You're going to run again," he says, his voice low in the darkness.

My heart stutters. "What?"

"You heard me." The space he's given me feels more like a taunt than mercy. "I'm giving you another chance."

I stay frozen, certain this is some kind of trick. "Why would you do that?"

"Because the hunt isn't just about catching. It's about earning."

Understanding floods through me, followed by a flash of anger. "You think this is a game. This is my life and you're playing games?"

"Everything's a game when you know you're going to win," he replies.

My chest tightens as my breathing quickens, every muscle in my body tensing for flight.

"This time," he tells me, voice muffled behind the death's grin, "when I catch you—and I will catch you—be ready to fight me."

I take a step backward, then another, my eyes never leaving his through the mask's hollow sockets.

"You'll regret that," I whisper, then turn and plunge into the darkness of the trees.

I run faster than before, heart pounding in my ears, knowing he's counting behind me. Knowing he's giving me just enough of a head start to believe I have a chance.

Knowing, deep down, that I never did.