Page 23 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Twenty-Two

BECKETT

The phone buzzes again, insistent against the marble countertop.

I don't want to answer it. Not while her weight still lingers on my lap, not with the heat of her cunt still burning through my skin.

My cock remains half-hard from the way she moved for me—slow, controlled, like she thought she was still the one calling the shots.

The memory of her soft gasps echoes in my ears, threatening to pull me back into that moment before we were interrupted.

But I know Sebastian's name lighting up on my screen isn't a coincidence. He doesn't call unless something's coming—and whatever it is, it won't wait.

I answer on the third ring. "Yeah."

No greeting. No mask. Just the bare minimum.

"Don't hang up," he says, voice lower than usual, stripped of its usual casual arrogance. "You need to hear this."

I step away from the stool, away from the counter, and pace toward the far end of the room. My jaw clenches as I move. My bare feet are silent on the marble, but I can feel the tension building in my legs with every step I take.

"Talk."

"There's a problem."

"That's not new." I keep my voice level, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing my concern.

"This one is." Sebastian pauses, and that alone sets off alarms.

He doesn't rush.

Sebastian never rushes. So the fact that I can hear the tightness in his tone—that controlled urgency beneath the words—that's what makes my pulse quicken.

"The Collectors are angry," he continues. "There are rumors about someone sneaking in."

I stop moving, my body going still.

"They're reviewing the Hunt footage," he says, letting the implication hang in the air between us.

My fingers curl into a fist at my side.

I knew this, of course. Not only from Luna confirming it, but from the moment I saw her standing there in that dress, eyes wide, mouth set like a trap, I knew she didn't belong.

And I took her anyway. Consequences be damned.

"A woman," he confirms. "Name unknown. Face unregistered."

"Your girl wasn't wearing the anklet," Sebastian adds. "That's what tipped them off. It wasn't turned in at the end of the Hunt."

"And?"

"And you claimed her."

"Clearly it fell off in the woods somewhere. Maybe they should check out there."

"Maybe you know the rules and chose not to follow them."

"Maybe they should have checked better when validating her invitation. Seems like a 'them' problem. Not a 'me' problem."

"You know as well as I do that the guard responsible for letting her in will be punished accordingly. But they are still going to rectify the situation."

The silence between us stretches, taut as a wire. He doesn't fill it. Doesn't push. He knows me too well for that.

My jaw ticks once, slow and deliberate. "Who else knows?"

"Right now? Just the inner circle. They're not taking this lightly, Beck. Someone thinks this was intentional."

I don't respond immediately. I know how they think. I know how they handle problems. And this? This isn't a problem. It's a threat to their illusion of control. And they don't tolerate that.

Sebastian sighs into the phone. "What do you want me to tell Preston?"

I tap my fingers, considering. I can still hear her in the hallway—her footsteps, her breathing. I can feel the echo of her body in my hands—warm, responsive, dangerous.

I don't even know her last name.

"Tell him I'll handle it."

Another beat of silence.

"You sure?" The concern in his voice is unfamiliar territory.

"No," I say, honesty slipping through the cracks. "But I will."

I hang up before he can say anything else, my fingers flexing around the phone like they want to break it.

The world I built runs on precision. Clean lines. Absolute control. There are no variables. No surprises. And now I've brought one into the center of it .

I look toward the hallway. The bedroom door is still closed. I wonder if she's listening. I wonder if she knows the storm that's coming. I don't move for a moment, just stand there in the silence, the heat of my body still chasing the chill that settled the second Sebastian said those words.

Trying to figure out why I suddenly seem to… care. The idea alone unsettles me.

With a quick motion, I toss the phone onto the counter, pace once, then grab it again and hit a different contact.

My PI answers on the second ring.

"Mr. Sinclair."

"I want her name." My voice cuts through pleasantries like they never existed.

"Yes, sir. I have it." The efficient response.

This is why I pay him the obscene amount that I do. Because I rarely need to wait.

I brace my hand against the counter.

"Her name is Luna Laurent. Twenty-four. Daughter of Adam and Elise Laurent. Old money."

My spine stiffens. Laurent. The name carries weight even I can feel.

"Go on." My voice remains steady despite the revelation.

"She wasn't the one scheduled to attend. The invitation belonged to her sister—Genevieve Laurent. From what I gathered, the family had been preparing Genevieve for an arrangement. Possibly a placement with one of the Collectors."

I don't move. Not an inch. The pieces are slotting together in ways I hadn't anticipated.

It also makes sense why it took so long for someone to notice. Sisters tend to look alike. And with a mask…

"She took the invitation," the PI continues, clinical in his delivery. "Used it to enter the Hunt under false pretenses. "

"She planned it." The words taste different on my tongue—admiration mingling with something darker. Confirmation she was more clever than she let on when I'd asked her before.

"She executed it," he corrects. "I'd call that something more than a spontaneous mistake."

I say nothing, just listen to the slow rise and fall of each breath behind my chest.

"She's been off the radar for a while. After graduating from Rhode Island School of Design, she painted on the side while bartending at an upscale lounge near the college.

Odd for a child of such a wealthy family to keep a job.

For the past two months the family has been quietly trying to locate her.

It's clear that she's trying to disappear.

There are rumors swirling about an arranged marriage, but nothing's been announced publicly. "

Well that explains her demands for a studio and paints.

"Are her parents aware of what happened? That it was Luna who attended and not Genevieve?"

"I would imagine so, considering her parents would want to know which Collector possessed her."

He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is lower.

"Sir, her father is a member of the Club. A Patron. He never managed to rise to more than that, but he is well connected."

I hang up without answering, the implications sinking into my skin like a brand.

Luna Laurent.

Knowing what I know of her now, I'm not surprised that she'd walk into a room built to break her and look at every man like she could break them first.

And that alone is the reason I chose her.

I throw her name into a search engine in my phone, wanting to see what comes up.

At first glance, it looks like nothing. But I know better.

With a few more clicks and some more digging I find her name on a blog post from her college.

What I wasn't prepared for was the beautiful paintings displayed on my screen.

Each stroke a deep cut of emotion, each color a scream of her soul.

I lift my head and stare at the hallway again, jaw tight, body still humming from the way she felt grinding on my lap not ten minutes ago. I don't know if she came to the Hunt to be claimed to escape her arranged marriage or was foolish enough to think she could make it through the night.

I do know she's mine now.

And if her family wants her back to complete whatever engagement plans they have? Well, they're going to have to live with disappointment.

I make my way into the bedroom. Luna's sitting on the edge of my bed when I walk in. Bare legs crossed, spine straight, hands braced behind her like she's casually lounging—but her eyes? Her hazel eyes are locked on mine the moment I open the door.

She's not relaxed. She's waiting. And I hate how fucking well she reads me already.

I don't say anything at first. I move to the closet and pull clothes from the hangers, before getting dressed with my back to her. Slow. Controlled. Like nothing's wrong. Like I didn't just learn the girl in my bed has people trying to erase her existence.

Because that's exactly what they'll do. The Club exists in the shadows. Someone like her clearing the smoke? They won't allow it. Maybe they won't kill her, but she'd be moved to a far off country with no means of return. Not like I'd ever let that fucking happen.

Her voice cuts through the silence before I can stop her. "Are you leaving?"

I button the shirt methodically, one after another. "Yes."

"Where?" Her question hangs in the air, deceptively simple.

I glance over my shoulder, meeting her eyes. "Somewhere I need to be."

She tilts her head slightly, a gesture I'm already learning means she's assessing, calculating. "That's not an answer."

"And yet, it's all you're getting." I keep my voice level as I continue dressing.

She doesn't flinch at my terseness. Instead, her eyes narrow, searching my face.

"Something's changed," she says. "With that call."

I finish the last button, reach for the watch on the nightstand. "You're imagining things."

Her laugh is soft. Dry. Nothing like the breathless sounds she made against my chest earlier. "Right. Because I'm just here to be kept pretty and quiet."

"Pretty," I echo, allowing my gaze to drift over her. "Yes. Quiet?" I smirk faintly, remembering how she moaned when I touched her. "You haven't given me that once."

She rises from the bed as I slide the Patek Philippe onto my wrist.

"You're lying," she says simply, no accusation, just certainty.

I walk toward the door, pausing just before I cross the threshold. "Don't forget to eat. Another delivery should be here soon."

"Don't shut me out." Her voice follows me, insistent.

I look at her then. Really look. Her chest rising and falling with tight, deliberate breaths. Her jaw set. Her fists clenched. Not because she's afraid—but because she doesn't want me to know she's rattled.

And because I'm a bastard—I give her something else instead. Something unexpected.

"There's a room at the end of the hall. Use it for your art."

She blinks, momentarily thrown. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"You're giving me a studio?" Disbelief colors her voice.

"I'm giving you a space to keep your hands busy and your head quiet." I keep my tone neutral, matter-of-fact.

Her mouth opens, but I cut her off with a tilt of my head. "You said you wanted freedom. This is the only version of it you're going to get."

She's silent. And for the first time since she opened her mouth, she doesn't seem to know what to say. The surprise in her eyes is worth every dollar the supplies cost me.

I turn away before she can find the words. I don't look back. I don't let myself hesitate. But as I move through the hall, something gnaws at the edge of my thoughts—quiet, persistent, sharp.

The room I gave her? It's not just about keeping her busy.

It's about keeping her here. Because if she's painting, she's not running.

If she's focused, she's not slipping through the cracks.

And if she's creating something—something she loves, something that feels like hers—maybe she'll start to forget the fact that she was never supposed to belong in the first place.

Or maybe I'll forget this growing need to protect her.

The elevator doors close behind me, sealing the silence in like a coffin. I don't speak. Don't look at anyone as I walk through the garage—just head toward the back where the lights are low and the walls close in, a pocket of shadow I've always preferred .

The bike waits for me there, matte black and humming quiet power even before I press the ignition. I pull on my jacket without thinking, the movements muscle memory after years of practice. Gloves. Helmet. Grip. Each item another layer of armor against whatever's waiting for me out there.

This is the only place I feel it—stillness inside the motion. The contradiction that somehow makes perfect sense.

I swing my leg over, shift my weight, fire the engine. The sound rips through the quiet like a blade, but it doesn't startle me. It never does. The vibration travels up my legs, my spine, settling somewhere behind my ribs—a reminder that control is physical as much as mental.

I take the exit fast. Merge without blinking. The morning traffic parts around me as I weave between cars, the only evidence of my passing a fleeting disturbance in the air.

And I head straight for the one place I know I'll get what I need.

The PI's office is across the river—tucked into a nondescript building between a shuttered nightclub and a parking garage no one uses anymore. No signage. No neighbors. The kind of place built for men who want information and never want to explain how they got it.

Her file will be waiting. I want to see it for myself. I want to hold it. Feel the weight of it in my hand. Her life. Her history. Everything she didn't say.

Luna Laurent.

She didn't lie about her name. She just didn't tell me the one that mattered.

She broke the rules. And now I have a feeling I'm about to break mine.