Page 12 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Eleven

LUNA

I don't know how long I've run for. It could be two minutes, it could be two hours.

But my exhaustion has set in, and he knows it too.

I know he's there. Not because of footsteps or movement—he doesn't need either to hunt.

It's the silence that gives him away, the sharp kind that falls over the forest like a shadow, enveloping me before I have time to run.

I freeze with one hand still braced against the rough bark of a tree, the other curled into the torn hem of my dress. My knees ache from running, my throat burns with each breath, and blood has dried under my nails from when I stumbled earlier, desperately clawing at anything to keep moving.

His hand wraps around my ankle without warning.

I try to scream, but the sound lodges in my throat as he yanks me down.

My body hits the dirt hard before I can catch myself, palms scraping against moss and mud.

In one fluid motion, he's on me, his weight pressing down in calculated increments as he establishes control—a knee between my thighs, one hand on the small of my back, another firm on the back of my neck, holding me down just hard enough to steal my breath.

The bone-white mask brushes against my cheek, its hollow eyes and silent grin mocking my struggle as I thrash beneath him. He lets me fight, amused by my futile resistance.

"Get the fuck off me!" My voice sounds raw and desperate.

He offers no response.

I shove back against his weight, legs kicking wildly as my hair tangles with twigs and dirt. I claw at anything within reach, but his grip only tightens until I suddenly go still—not because he's stopped me, but because I know I can't escape. Not like this. Not here.

"Don't," I whisper, despising the tremor in my voice. "Please—don't."

His breath slides warm against my neck, steady and even behind that grinning mask. When his hand moves from my neck to my throat, fingers pressing just enough to feel my pulse racing beneath the skin.

"I warned you, little thief. Did you think you could outrun me?" His voice slides over my skin like velvet wrapped around steel. "Or was this what you wanted all along?"

I twist to glare at him over my shoulder, teeth bared. "I wasn't planning on being thrown into the dirt."

He chuckles, the sound vibrating through me like distant thunder. "No? Then what exactly were you planning?"

I fight harder against his hold, bucking and twisting as I hiss his name like a curse. "Get off me?—"

The growl that rumbles through his chest is deep—it's primal, dark, and entirely savage. The sound travels straight down my spine and settles low in my belly, like the answer to a question I never dared ask aloud.

His mask presses cold against my flushed cheek. I can't see his eyes or read his expression, but I feel him everywhere, surrounding me, overwhelming me.

"You like this?" I manage to spit out between ragged breaths. "Throwing women in the dirt and forcing them to comply?"

He shifts his weight slightly, grinding his thigh against me in a way that makes my breath catch traitorously in my throat.

"Say the word," he murmurs, his voice smooth and perfectly controlled beneath all that restraint. "Say stop, little thief. Say no."

His hand trails slowly down the curve of my hip, claiming me inch by inch. I go completely still, not because I want to submit, but because I hate how desperately I want to discover what happens if I don't resist.

"You won't," he adds, his voice dropping darker. "You don't want to."

"I hate you," I breathe, the words barely audible.

"You'll hate me more when you come for the first time with dirt under your knees."

My stomach clenches and my thighs twitch involuntarily. My mouth opens, but no words emerge—because he's right. Because I can't say no. Because some treacherous part of me is burning for his touch. And my desire is clouding my rational judgment.

And judging by the satisfaction in his touch, he knows it perfectly well.

His hand moves lower with deliberate purpose, fingers sliding over the torn fabric at my hip as though he has all the time in the world to explore what he now considers his.

He'd removed his gloves at some point and the feeling of his bare hands on my skin has me involuntarily shivering.

My body betrays me further, arching instinctively toward his touch as my breath catches and my thighs part just enough to invite him closer.

"You don't get to do this," I whisper, my voice a desperate, breathless plea even to my own ears.

His palm spreads against my inner thigh, holding me open. "Don't I?"

I dig my nails into the soft earth, grinding my teeth against the sounds threatening to escape.

"I'm not yours."

"You didn't run," he counters smoothly.

"I did."

"Not fast enough."

I try to turn my head away, not wanting to admit exactly what I know is true.

"You're soaked," he whispers, his breath warm against my cheek.

I clench my fists until my nails bite into my palms. "Shut up."

"Why?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Are you ashamed?"

I shake my head sharply. "You're not supposed to win."

His hand slides beneath the fabric without hesitation. "I already did."

My back arches as he begins to push two fingers inside me. My hips press back into his hand, thighs falling wider, while a whimper catches at the back of my throat that I can't fully suppress.

His fingers move with maddening precision—slow, deep, controlled. One push, then two.

"Say stop," he challenges, his voice harder now. "Say it and I walk away."

But I don't. I can't. Whatever this is—this heat, this shame, this crackling electric hatred wrapped in desperate desire—has become inescapable. And I can't see anything past it.

I've lost myself completely.

His touch grows more insistent—testing at first, then deeper, rougher, crueler.

Every thrust of his fingers draws an involuntary reaction from me.

A gasp. A tremble. Sounds that taste like shame and surrender on my tongue.

My face burns and my skin prickles as my knees dig deeper into the ground, legs spread too wide to hold anything back.

"Feel that?" he murmurs, his voice unhurried and smooth as silk. "That's your pussy begging me to ruin it."

My mouth falls open as a whimper escapes. "I hate you."

He curls his fingers inside me, and I cry out—the sound sharp and raw in the quiet forest.

"A little thief and a little liar," he says, satisfaction clear in every syllable.

His free hand slides up my back where my dress has torn open, tracing my spine as though memorizing every inch. I shudder helplessly.

"Say you want me to stop," he demands, each word punctuated by the movement of his fingers.

I remain silent.

"Say this isn't what you came for."

I can't bring myself to lie.

Without warning, he withdraws his fingers—wet and glistening in the dim light—and pushes them into my mouth before I can protest.

"Suck."

I should scream or bite down, but instead, I close my lips around them as though I've done this countless times before, tasting myself on his skin .

His breath falters momentarily—just enough to reveal he's not as unmoved as he pretends to be.

"I bet you taste like sin," he breathes, watching intently as I suck harder. "Messy, filthy little thing. I should put you on your knees and keep you there until you forget how to fight."

My thighs press together instinctively, seeking pressure, relief—something to ease the ache building between them. I can't rationalize how much I hate him, yet how desperately I want his hand back between my legs.

And that's the most devastating part—I've already lost something far more important than the Hunt. I've lost the freedom I came here to claim.

When he pulls his fingers from my mouth, he drags them slowly across my cheek, marking me with my own desire.

"You don't need to say it," he murmurs knowingly. "I can feel it as your body surrenders, every time you forget you're supposed to be fighting."

His hand moves back between my thighs, and I whimper shamefully at the contact.

"See?" he whispers against my ear. "You're desperate for my touch."

His fingers resume their torment, and I hate what I've become in his hands. Not because my reactions aren't genuine, but because they are—and that terrifies me to my core.

I'm soaked and panting, grinding mindlessly against his hand like it's all that matters, and he knows exactly what he's doing to me.

"Good girl," he breathes, the words so tenderly cruel that I flinch as though slapped.

"Don't," I whisper desperately.

"Don't what?" His fingers move faster, harder. "Don't praise you for being the perfect little pet you are? "

A choked moan escapes before I can stop it.

He laughs softly, the sound dark and dangerous.

"You can pretend all you want. You can fight and cry and curse and claim this isn't what you want.

" Suddenly, he's flipped me so that I'm on my knees, his other hand knotting in my hair, yanking my head back until my spine arches painfully, my mouth falling open against the chilly night air. "But you're dripping for me."

I try to shake my head in denial, but his grip only tightens, holding me immobile.

"Say it," he growls. "Say you like it when I make you dirty."

My breath catches in my throat.

"Say you like being on your knees with my fingers buried in your cunt."

"No," I breathe, though the protest sounds pathetically weak even to my own ears.

He yanks my hair harder. "Words, little thief. I want your words."

When I remain silent, he delivers a sharp, open-handed slap to my thigh that cracks through the trees like lightning. I whimper at the sting, heat blooming across my skin.

"You don't get to lie to me." His voice has grown deeper, thicker with a need that mirrors my own. "I'm the only one who sees you. The real you. The one who wants to be ruined. Who wants to be owned."

His fingers thrust harder, and a scream tears from my throat before I can suppress it.

"Say it."

"Fuck you," I choke out.

He leans closer, lips ghosting over my jaw, the bone mask still grinning silently against my skin.

"Wrong answer."

He withdraws his fingers completely before driving them back in—deeper, harder, crueler than before—and I collapse forward onto my elbows, my entire body trembling.

"You'll beg before I'm done," he promises softly. "And I'll still make you say please."

I don't understand how I'm still fighting him when every part of me burns with desire and exhaustion.

My knees sting from the rough ground, my thighs shake uncontrollably, and my mouth feels raw from biting back sounds I refuse to let him hear.

I'm desperately trying to hold onto something—anything—that feels like control.

But he's relentless, still touching me, still speaking in that quiet, merciless voice that seems to exist inside my head and under my skin and between my ribs.

He wants me to admit it, to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging that everything he's done to me has worked perfectly. And perhaps it has, but I refuse to surrender that last piece of myself.

I can't.

With one last burst of defiance, I twist suddenly—throwing my elbow back and trying to jerk away, attempting to bite whatever part of him I can reach.

But he's faster, as though he's been waiting for precisely this moment, as though he knew I had one last fight left in me and wanted to feel it before taking that away too.

His hand snaps around my jaw with bruising force, yanking my head back against his shoulder, my body trapped between his solid warmth and the cold, unyielding earth.

"Still got teeth?" he murmurs, satisfaction evident in every syllable. "Good. You'll need them."

I snarl up at him. "I'm not yours."

He grinds his hips against my ass, and I feel the unmistakable hardness of his cock straining against rough denim.

"You were mine the second you didn't scream."