Page 2 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

One

LUNA LAURENT

This is the most brilliant mistake I've ever made... or the kind that gets me buried.

Possibly both.

But it's too late to care now. The mask is already strapped to my face, too tight along my jaw, too unfamiliar against my skin.

My best friend Avery's hands move with that same reckless precision she uses for everything—fast, fearless, like if she hesitates even for a second, the whole thing will fall apart.

She's probably right.

"You sure about this?" Her voice isn't teasing anymore. It's soft, uneasy, like she already knows I'm going to say yes, and she's trying to forgive me ahead of time.

I don't answer right away. Instead, I stare at my reflection in the gold-rimmed mirror above her dresser, trying to recognize the girl looking back.

The nude dress clings like smoke and sin, and the designer heels aren't my size.

The silver mask draws attention to every lie etched into the lines of my body .

I look like a girl who wants to be chosen.

That isn't the truth. But it's what they're supposed to think.

"This is your last chance to walk away," Avery says behind me, quiet but sharp. "You can still back out. You don't have to do this. We can figure something else out."

Maybe I don't. But two hundred fifty thousand dollars buys a lot of freedom.

"I stole the invitation, Avery," my voice sounds steadier than I feel. "I'm already in."

And I'm not going back. Not to the manicured cage my parents try to lock me in. Not to the man with cold hands and a smile that promises to ruin me. Not to the life that is written in ink before I ever had a chance to hold the pen.

Not to Christopher. The thought of his name alone makes my skin crawl.

My parents—wannabe New York high society—couldn't be more thrilled about the match.

The Finches and the Laurents, two elite families finally united.

What they don't see, or choose not to see, is how his fingers dig too hard into my arm when no one's watching.

How his eyes follow me with a hunger that isn't love.

How he's tried to put his hands on me more than once before we're even married.

My grandmother's words echo in my mind. "Men don't get better in marriage, Luna.

They get worse." She was the only one who ever really saw me—not as an asset to be traded, but as a person with dreams. Before she passed, she'd sit with me for hours as I sketched, praising the landscapes and portraits that now hide under my bed.

"This is your gift," she'd say. "Don't let them take it from you. "

This is it. One night. One hunt. Make it through uncaught, collect the prize money, and disappear. My last desperate gambit .

"Do you even know what this is?" Avery asks, her voice dropping to a whisper as she adjusts the strap of my mask again. "The Hunt isn't just some rich-people costume party."

I nod. Of course I know. Everyone who runs in these circles has heard of The Hunt, the annual event thrown by the Owner's Club—that exclusive club of elite men selected for their wealth, power, and lineage.

What most people don't know are the details, the hierarchy, the rules that turn women into prizes.

At the top of their food chain sit the Collectors, just three men who've been part of the Owner's Club longer than most members have been alive.

Men who've claimed in so many Hunts that their collections are legendary.

Beneath them are the Hunters, those who've earned the right to chase and claim.

And at the bottom, the Patrons—men with money but no status yet, watching from the sidelines, waiting for their turn to join the game.

The women—specifically selected, carefully cataloged before the night begins—are known simply as Pieces. Until they're caught. Then they become Possessions. We all wear the same outfit, this damnable sheer dress that leaves nothing to the imagination and marks us as potential prizes.

The rules are simple enough. An Owner may claim as many Pieces as he wishes, but he must care for and provide for all of them. Some demand little of their Possessions, content with the thrill of ownership itself. Others demand... everything.

"You know you're allowed to say no if you're caught," Avery reminds me, her brow furrowed with worry. "You can refuse to live under his rules, whatever they are. Give up being a Possession and go back to your life."

"I know." What I don't tell her is that it doesn't matter. No Piece has ever refused once claimed. The allure of being Chosen is too strong for most. But I'm not here to be chosen. I'm here for the money. Evade capture until dawn, and $250,000 is mine—no strings, no expectations, no ownership.

And with that money, I can finally escape.

Not just from Christopher, but from all of it—the galas, the fake smiles, the endless parade of people who see me as nothing more than a decorative piece for their collections.

I can leave New York behind entirely. Find a small place somewhere, maybe even a crappy studio apartment.

I don't care. I can make a living with my art—paintings, sketches, commissions, whatever it takes.

My fingers itch just thinking about it. Freedom. Real freedom.

The mask shifts slightly as I adjust the strap again. It doesn't fit quite right—too wide across the bridge of my nose, too loose at the corners—but it's close enough.

I stole my sister's invitation, her name, her place. They won't know the difference, as we look similar enough. Not unless I give them a reason to look too closely.

"You're insane," Avery mutters. "The odds of making it through uncaught?—"

"I don't need odds," I whisper back. "I just need to be faster than the others.

One night of running, and I get $250k." For the first time all night, I smile.

Not the practiced one I use at family dinners.

Not the frozen one I wear through years of being told to smile more, be less.

This one's real. Determined. "With that money, I can disappear for good. "

A car pulls to a stop outside the estate and my pulse picks up. The driver says nothing, just glides to the door with that perfectly blank expression all these people wear—trained neutrality, controlled silence. The door opens, and I hesitate.

Just for a second.

Long enough to feel the weight of everything pressing down on my ribs like it wants to crack me open. The mask sits uncomfortably on my face. The dress clings too tight. My heart pounds like it knows something I don't.

But beneath the fear is a cold calculation. Every woman who makes it through the night uncaptured gets a prize that could change everything. The odds are terrible—the men outnumber the women by design. But I'm not here to be caught. I'm here to win.

"You've got this, Luna. You can do it. I expect to see you when the sun rises."

I nod, inhale, and push it all down.

Then step out.