Page 16 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Fifteen

BECKETT

The elevator ascends silently, carrying us away from the forest, the Hunt, the eyes that followed our exit.

Luna stands beside me, barefoot and silent. She doesn't lean into me, but she doesn't pull away either—like she's suspended in some liminal space between resistance and surrender.

Her eyes remain fixed on the glowing numbers above the door, watching each floor pass with rigid attention, as if counting the seconds until she can breathe again. The soft mechanical hum fills the space between us, a buffer against words neither of us seem ready to speak.

I study her profile in the dim light—the slight tremble in her hands, the pulse still fluttering beneath her jaw, the wild tangle of her hair falling across shoulders marked with shadows of my touch.

Her body bears the evidence of what happened in those woods, and something primal in me feels satisfied by the sight .

When the doors finally slide open to reveal my penthouse, she steps out without hesitation, moving into the space like she's already mapped every exit.

The automatic lights respond to our presence, bathing the room in cold white illumination that catches on black marble, steel, and glass.

The space was designed to intimidate as much as impress.

"Subtle," she murmurs as she walks barefoot across the polished floor.

"I don't do subtle," I reply, moving past her to toss my keys onto the kitchen island with practiced nonchalance.

She crosses her arms, surveying the open floor plan with critical eyes. "You live alone?" she asks without turning, her voice carrying a hint of something I can't quite place.

"Would've been awkward if I didn't."

A soft sound escapes her—almost a laugh, but hollower, edged with exhaustion. "Right. Wouldn't want to explain the girl standing here in your shirt."

"Wouldn't need to explain," I correct her. "What's mine is mine."

She turns then, finally facing me, one eyebrow raised in challenge despite the fatigue evident in every line of her body. "Do you usually hunt down women in the forest and then bring them home?"

"I never bring anyone home." The admission hangs between us for a moment before I continue, "So, I definitely wasn't supposed to bring you home."

"And yet," she counters, eyes never leaving mine.

"And yet," I agree, letting the implication settle.

She shifts her weight, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at what must be tender skin. I notice the way she tries to hide it, the stubborn pride that keeps her spine straight despite everything .

"You hungry?" I ask, surprising myself with the question.

Her brow furrows slightly, lips parting in confusion. "That's the first question you ask me?"

"No," I remind her, "the first was your name."

"And you didn't even care about the answer. I could have been anyone," she says quietly.

She fought me all night—stubborn and sharp, impossible to ignore from the second we locked eyes.

But now? Seeing her hesitate, a flicker of uncertainty in those wild eyes…

it stirred something deeper. Something I wasn't ready for.

"Your name never mattered. You were mine, regardless of who you are. "

The silence stretches between us, taut with unspoken questions.

I lean back against the counter, taking her in, studying her.

Her beauty had caught my attention from the beginning, but now she seemed ethereal.

Like something not meant to exist in this world.

Bruised and marked, yet still holding herself with that quiet, unshakable grace.

It only made her more impossible. More breathtaking.

The kind of beauty that didn't falter under pressure—it sharpened. Fierce and delicate, like a painting made of bruises and fire. And fuck, I couldn't stop staring. I didn't want to.

"I have no clothes for you," I say finally. "No toothbrush. No closet space. I wasn't prepared for this."

"So what now?" she asks. "You make the rules and I play along? Is that how this works?"

"Yes."

She doesn't flinch, doesn't back down. Instead, she lifts her chin slightly, a silent challenge that makes something in me stir with anticipation.

"Here's how this goes," I continue, keeping my voice smooth and controlled. "You stay here. You follow the rules. You don't lie to me again. "

"And if I do?" The question carries no fear, only curiosity.

"Then I show you exactly what it means to be owned." The words fall between us like stones into still water, creating ripples of tension.

Her arms tighten across her chest—not retreating, but bracing. "And what if I don't follow your rules? What happens then?"

I close the distance between us in two measured steps, bringing us close enough that she can feel the heat radiating from my body. "Then I fuck the disobedience out of you."

Her breath catches, the slight hitch betraying what her expression tries to hide. She recovers quickly, lips curving into a sardonic smile. "You make it sound so generous. Do I get a treat if I sit when you say? A pat on the head for good behavior?"

"You get to come," I answer simply, watching her pupils dilate slightly at my words. "That's the reward for obedience."

"You like breaking things?" she asks, something vulnerable flickering behind her eyes before disappearing.

"No." I reach out, tracing the line of her jaw with my fingertips. "I like watching them realize they want to be broken for me. There's a difference."

The slight tremble in her throat, the quickening of her pulse beneath my touch—these small tells reveal what she tries so hard to hide. Still, she doesn't yield, doesn't look away.

"And if I say no?" The question hangs in the air between us, a final test of resolve.

My hand drifts down to the hem of the shirt—my shirt—that barely covers her. I brush my knuckles deliberately up the inside of her thigh, feeling the heat of her skin. "Say no."

Her lips part, words forming and dying in the same breath.

"You can leave at anytime."

"With nothing. "

"Exactly," I pause. "So say no."

Her eyes hold mine, conflicted and dark with something that isn't fear. After a moment of silence, she closes her mouth without speaking.

"Didn't think so," I murmur, satisfaction curling through me.

She breaks the contact first, brushing past me with a deliberate casualness that doesn't mask the tension in her movements. She moves through my space as if she belongs here.

"You don't know where the shower is," I call after her as she disappears down the hallway.

"I'll find it," she replies without looking back, voice stripped of emotion.

I follow her at a measured pace, watching the way she navigates my home—skin flushed, steps determined, hair wild around her shoulders. Even broken, she wants to win. Even claimed, she refuses to submit completely.

The contradiction is intoxicating.

She pauses before an open doorway, taking in the black marble, the chrome fixtures, the glass shower enclosure designed to intimidate as much as function.

For a moment, she simply stands there, as if weighing her options, deciding whether to cross another threshold in a night full of boundaries broken.

"I need to get clean," she says finally, the words directed at the wall rather than me.

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed over my chest. "Then do it."

She doesn't wait for further permission.

With deliberate movements, she steps into the center of the bathroom, standing beneath the overhead light like an actress taking center stage.

Her shoulders straighten, her chin lifts, and without ceremony, she grasps the hem of my shirt and begins to pull it upward.

The fabric rises slowly—not a tease, not a performance—but the methodical removal of a layer she seems desperate to shed. It's the act of someone trying to reclaim control, to distance herself from what's happened by removing the physical evidence.

What she doesn't understand is that the shirt is merely the surface. What's beneath—her body, her skin, the marks I've left—those belong to me now, too.

The shirt continues its journey, revealing the bruised curve of her thighs, the slight jut of her hipbones, the smooth plane of her stomach. Her back arches unconsciously as she pulls it higher, over her ribs, past her breasts, finally freeing her arms from the sleeves.

The garment falls to the floor in a heap of fabric, discarded like it never mattered.

She stands naked before me—scraped, bruised, beautiful in her defiance.

Red marks bloom along her hips where my fingers dug into her flesh.

Darker bruises pattern her inner thighs.

A thin sheen of sweat and forest dirt still clings to her skin like a reminder.

She doesn't cover herself, doesn't shrink from my gaze. Instead, she turns to face me fully, allowing me to look my fill. Her silence carries more weight than any words could.

I remain motionless, cataloging every inch of her with deliberate attention. The swell of her breasts, the curve of her waist, the soft triangle between her thighs… Mine. All of it.

I step closer, movements slow and deliberate, giving her time to retreat if she chooses. She doesn't. "Let me see what I ruined."

Something shifts in her posture—a small flinch, a momentary hesitation—but she holds her ground, allowing my scrutiny without attempting to hide the evidence of what I've done to her.

"You didn't ruin me," she whispers, her voice carrying a tremor that undermines her words.

I smile, not with warmth but with certainty. "Not all the way, no."

Her eyes flash, something dangerous flickering behind them. "Is that the plan? To ruin me completely?"

"No," I correct her. "That's the promise."

She turns away then, as if my words have struck deeper than my hands ever could. Without further comment, she steps to the shower, turns the handles with practiced efficiency, and steps inside as steam fills the space.

Water cascades over her body—down her shoulders, along the curve of her spine, over the perfect roundness of her ass, between thighs that I would live between if I could. The heat draws the scent of forest and sex from her skin, replacing it with something cleaner but no less intoxicating.

She doesn't close the glass shower door, doesn't ask for privacy. I remain where I am, watching as she tilts her face into the spray, hands braced against the wall as if she needs the support to remain standing.

"You're not watching me shower," she says after a moment, not turning to face me.

"I'm not asking permission," I reply, voice even.

She exhales sharply through her nose. "You're standing there like a statue."

"Better than the alternative," I tell her, my voice dropping lower.

Now she glances over her shoulder, water slicking her hair to her scalp, droplets clinging to her lashes. "What's that?"

"Coming in there and fucking you again. "

Her breath catches audibly, her body going still beneath the shower's spray. I see the conflict playing across her features—defiance warring with desire, pride with need.

"You come near me again," she warns, voice surprisingly steady despite the flush spreading across her skin, "I'll bite."

I make my way to the door, but then I turn back. My smile spreads slowly, anticipation curling through me like smoke. "Promise?"