Page 19 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Eighteen

LUNA

I wake to silence.

The kind that doesn't hum or whisper or stir.

The sheets beside me are warm but empty.

Beckett's not here. Of course he isn't.

The memory of him fills the room in his absence and his scent clings to the pillows. The air feels heavier here, the walls closer. Like the whole penthouse somehow knows I'm not supposed to be here.

My legs ache when I shift. My core throbs when I stretch. Everything hurts in a way that feels like a brand, like ownership.

I sit up slowly, dragging the sheet with me—more for illusion than modesty. My thighs are marked with bruises that bloom like watercolors. My body still bears fingerprints that only I can see. Evidence of last night that can't be washed away.

I scan the room, expecting to find him lurking in some corner, watching me with that predatory stillness that makes my skin prickle. But the bathroom is empty. The closet dark.

Still, I rise. No point in delaying the inevitable.

The floor is cool beneath my bare feet, smooth and polished and expensive in that way that says money was spent without care for the cost. I cross to his closet and pause, hesitating only a second before stepping inside.

It's exactly what I expected—all sharp cuts and muted colors. Charcoal, black, navy. Tailored edges. Nothing soft. Nothing that doesn't scream control. The wardrobe of a man who never shows weakness, not even in his clothing choices.

I reach for the only thing that feels like it might belong to someone human.

A white T-shirt, worn at the edges.

It smells like him. Sandalwood and something darker, something uniquely Beckett.

I pull it over my head, the fabric falling low over my thighs, the sleeves a little too long. It brushes my skin like something I don't deserve but can't resist taking.

Still, I wear it. Small rebellions are all I have left.

And then I step out into a home that isn't mine. Into a life that isn't mine. Into a world I may not walk away from.

At first, I think he's gone completely. Fled his own penthouse just to avoid dealing with the aftermath of last night. The thought both relieves and unsettles me.

The space is too quiet. No footsteps. No doors. No rustle of movement or low, clipped commands. Just silence that stretches like a trap.

For a moment, I stand in the middle of his pristine living room, unsure if I feel relieved or abandoned.

Then I hear it .

A low, mechanical hum—steady, rhythmic, like something alive and breathing just beneath the surface of this carefully curated world. The sound doesn't belong among all this polished perfection, which makes me curious enough to follow it.

I pad barefoot through the sleek kitchen, my fingers trailing over marble counters and chrome fixtures as I pass. The hum leads me to a narrow hallway just off the main room, where a single door sits slightly ajar.

The sound deepens as I reach it—more layered now. Screens. Fans. A faint clicking of keys.

When I push the door open, I find him.

Beckett Sinclair.

He sits at a desk surrounded by curved monitors, backlit keys glowing soft blue beneath his hands. The room is cold and dark, the only light coming from rows of data spilling across screens and the low flicker of movement on one of the larger displays.

He's wearing pajama pants—dark gray, hanging low on his hips—and nothing else.

His chest is bare, muscles carved in stillness, shadows painting sharp lines down his ribs and over his abdomen. Tattoos peek along his body, intricate ink shifting with every subtle movement.

And he's wearing glasses.

Thin black frames. Sleek. Unexpected.

They make him look almost human.

Almost.

He doesn't flinch when I step inside. Doesn't straighten. Doesn't greet me. Just shifts his eyes toward me briefly, then returns them to the screen like my presence is noted but not worth reacting to .

But I don't hesitate. Not this morning. I'm rested. I'm recharged. And I still have my pride.

So I walk in—shoulders back, chin high, wearing nothing but his T-shirt and the bruises he left behind—and step right up to him.

He doesn't stop typing, even as I stand right beside him.

His fingers move fluidly across the keyboard, eyes flicking between screens, posture relaxed—like I didn't just slide out of his bed wearing nothing but his shirt and bruises.

Like he didn't fuck me into silence and leave me to find my way out alone.

"You know, it's rude to ignore someone standing two feet away from you," I say, voice steadier than I expected.

He continues typing for a moment, then without looking up, replies, "I'd ask how you slept, but the fact that you could walk in here suggests I wasn't rough enough."

I let out a dry laugh. "Always thinking about your performance. How predictably male."

That earns me the barest twitch of his mouth—not quite a smile, but close enough to know I've hit something.

"I want my own place," I say before I lose my nerve.

The keys keep clicking. No acknowledgment.

"I'll stay under your name, or whatever you need to make your little rules feel satisfied, but I'm not living in your penthouse."

No reaction.

"I'll need a studio—an actual one. Wherever you put me, I expect space to work. I'll furnish it myself."

Still nothing, not even a pause in his typing.

"I want full control over my schedule. My movement. My time." My voice gains strength with each demand. "You can have what you want—what you claimed—but I'm not going to be locked in a tower waiting to be summoned like some obedient little doll."

I pause. His typing finally slows, though he still doesn't look at me.

"You don't get to control everything," I continue, leaning closer. "Not my life. Not my body. Not all the time."

That's when he finally stops. He doesn't turn. Doesn't look at me right away. Just pauses with his fingers resting lightly on the keyboard, the blue glow casting shadows across the tendons in his hands.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he leans back in the chair. His head turns. His gaze drags over me—bare legs, bruised skin, wearing his shirt… again.

When his eyes meet mine, he smiles. Slow. Dark. Sardonic.

Like I just told him a bedtime story. Like I'm adorable for thinking this conversation is real and I actually have a choice in the matter. Like he's already heard what I said, filed it away, and plans to ignore all of it.

"You done?" he asks, voice soft, almost gentle. Not a warning. A courtesy.

I don't answer, but I hold his gaze, refusing to be the first to look away.

"You want your own place," he says, repeating my words back to me. "That's cute."

I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off with a slight raise of his hand.

"You think because I let you sleep in my bed and wear my shirt and walk through my home barefoot that you've earned the right to negotiate?" His voice remains perfectly controlled, but there's an edge to it now, something sharp beneath the velvet.

"You're not my partner, Luna. You're not my equal." He pauses, letting the words sink in. "You're not special. You're a Possession."

I flinch at the term, but force myself to stand straighter. "I'm a person. With needs and boundaries that don't disappear just because you put a collar around my throat."

He rises from his chair with fluid grace, towering over me without seeming to try.

"I'll give you space. I'll give you a studio.

Hell, I might even give you somewhere to put your art, if it suits me.

" His fingers brush a strand of hair from my face, the touch deceptively gentle.

"But don't mistake my generosity for a single ounce of freedom. "

He moves around me, circling like a predator assessing its prey. "You live where I say. You go where I say. You come when I say."

My breath catches, but I don't back down. "And if I don't?"

"Then you'll learn exactly how cruel I can be." He stops behind me, his breath warm against the nape of my neck. "And as for how much of you I get?"

He pauses, letting the question hang in the air. When he speaks again, his voice has dropped lower, intimate and absolute.

"My girl isn't something I get in pieces. Every piece is mine."

I turn to face him, refusing to let him intimidate me from behind. "You can't just lock me away like some medieval prize. I need space to breathe, to work, to be myself."

"You can have all the space you need," he says, surprising me. "Within parameters I set."

"That's not freedom, Beckett. That's just a longer leash."

His smile widens fractionally. "Freedom is an illusion, little thief. Nobody has it. Not really." He reaches out, trails a finger along the velvet collar still around my neck. I don't know why I haven't taken it off yet. "The most any of us can hope for is the right kind of cage."

"And you think you're offering me that? The right kind of cage?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

"I'm offering you protection. Resources. A life most would kill for." His hand drops away. "In exchange for obedience."

"You don't want obedience," I counter. "If you did, you would have chosen someone else at that ball. Someone trained to lower her eyes and say 'yes, sir' on command."

For a moment, something flickers across his face—surprise, perhaps. Or appreciation. It's gone before I can be sure.

"What I want," he says slowly, deliberately, "is for you to understand your place in this new world you've stumbled into. The sooner you accept what you are to me, the easier this will be."

"And what exactly am I to you?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

His eyes darken. "Mine. Nothing more. Nothing less."

The answer should infuriate me. It should make me want to slap him again, to scream, to run.

Instead, it settles in my stomach like a stone—heavy and permanent and undeniable.

"If I'm yours," I say carefully, "then shouldn't you want to take care of what belongs to you? Give it what it needs to thrive?"

His expression shifts subtly. "Clever girl. Trying to use my own possessiveness against me."

"Is it working?"

"Perhaps." He studies me for a long moment, then turns back to his desk. "You'll have your studio. Here. In my penthouse. Where I can see you. Where I can keep you safe. "

It's not what I asked for. Not even close. But it's something.

"And my schedule? My time?"

"You can paint whenever you wish. Go wherever I allow. See whomever I approve." He glances back at me. "But you sleep in my bed. You eat at my table. And when I want you, nothing else takes priority."

I want to argue more, but I recognize the iron beneath his words. This is as much ground as he's willing to cede—for now.

"So you're saying I should be grateful for the scraps of autonomy you're willing to toss my way?" I can't keep the bitterness from my voice.

He turns fully to face me again, and this time there's no smile, no mockery in his expression. Just cold, hard certainty.

"I'm saying," he speaks slowly, as if to a child, "that you belong to me now. And the sooner you accept that, the sooner we can move beyond these tedious negotiations."

"Maybe I'll never accept it."

His smile returns, thin and dangerous. "Then we'll have a very interesting time together, won't we? Because I can be patient, Luna. I can wait for you to break. To bend. To realize that fighting me only makes your cage smaller."

I stare at him for a long moment, weighing my options, calculating just how much defiance I can afford.

"Fine," I say at last. "A studio here. But I want supplies. Professional ones. And I want windows. Natural light."

"Done," he says without hesitation, as if he'd already decided this before I even asked. "Anything else?"

The simple acceptance throws me. "I... want to contact my friend. Avery. "

He considers this, head tilted slightly. "You may speak with her. With supervision."

"Supervision?" I scoff. "What, are you afraid I'll tell her I've been kidnapped by an arrogant asshole with control issues?"

His eyebrow raises slightly. "Haven't you?"

The question catches me off guard, and to my horror, I find myself fighting a smile. "Touché."

"You'll find I can be reasonable," he says, stepping closer until there's barely space between us. "As long as you remember one thing."

"And what's that?" I ask, my voice suddenly hoarse.

His hand slides into my hair, gripping firmly at the base of my skull, tilting my face up to his. "That at the end of the day, no matter what freedoms I allow, no matter what privileges I grant—" his lips brush against my ear, "—you are still… Mine."