Page 24 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Twenty-Three

BECKETT

The door closes with a soft click behind Luna, and I remain motionless at my desk. The penthouse suddenly feels too large, too empty—a vacuum she's left behind that somehow roars louder than her presence.

She's gone to see Avery, and I agreed to it.

Not because I wanted to let her walk out that door, but because she asked.

She didn't beg or manipulate; she simply looked me in the eye and said she needed this—and some sadistic part of me needed her to remember that even this small freedom was mine to give.

Am I really worried she'd run? No, not really. There is nowhere she could go that I wouldn't find her.

But I wouldn't be happy if she tried.

I'm already unhappy when she turns away from me in the penthouse.

Luna always walks away quietly, but the silence she leaves never is. It scrapes at the inside of my skull, demanding attention, dragging my focus from everything I should be working on. I run a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly as I stare at the monitors before me.

This is why I've buried myself in work all week.

Surveillance. Strategy. Control. Every morning I've locked myself in this office under the guise of discipline over indulgence.

Every night I've watched her slip into bed while pretending I haven't been standing in the hallway for hours, watching her paint.

I tell myself I'm just keeping an eye on her. Just security.

But that's bullshit, and I know it.

The way she moves when she paints—careless yet focused, wild yet elegant—unravels something inside me I can't afford to lose. She's completely herself in those moments, unburdened by the weight of my gaze, my expectations, my ownership.

I wasn't supposed to want her like this.

I was supposed to own her. Use her. Master her.

But somehow, she's crawled under my skin in ways I haven't allowed in years, and it's making me fucking reckless.

So, I've done what I always do when something starts to matter too much—I started digging.

I built my empire on secrets. There's a public face to my business, of course.

High end cyber security. The Fortune 500 list is pretty much a comprehensive list of who my clients are.

But, that's not where my true talents lie, nor the true money.

That lies in backdoors, in covert hacks, in things most men are too dumb or scared to pull off.

But not me.

My monitors illuminate the room with a blue glow as information floods the screens. Her file. Club logs. Secure messages between Owners I've pulled through quiet backdoors and favors no one knows I'm still owed .

I'm looking for one thing specifically—who invited Genevieve Laurent to the Hunt in the first place.

The answer should be somewhere in these records, buried between encrypted files and redacted names.

My fingers move swiftly across the keyboard, breaking through layers of security that would keep others out for days.

And there it is.

The invitation was extended by Anthony Baine. One of the Collectors. Fifth generation. Old money. Quiet reputation, brutal record.

I sit back in my chair, jaw tightening as I stare at the name that keeps circling the outer edge of this mess like a shark waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

He was the one expecting Genevieve Laurent at the Hunt. Not officially—nothing written down—but the language was there between the lines. A personal invitation from a Collector isn't something that happens by accident. There had to be a reason he wanted her there.

But it wasn't Genevieve who showed up that night.

It was Luna.

No anklet. No posture. No conditioning.

And I was the one who put my mark on her before Anthony could blink.

Now I know whose plans I interfered with.

Now I know who's watching.

And what of Genevieve in all of this? Did she know that her sister stole her invitation? Was she complicit? Or is she still none the wiser that this was set up for her?

A knock interrupts my thoughts—two soft taps, quick and confident.

Only two people are allowed into my penthouse without needing permission, and only one has the decency to knock like he's pretending to wait. I don't bother calling out though, he'll enter anyway.

Sebastian strolls in, having shed his customary suit for black jeans and a henley pushed to his elbows. The Rolex on his wrist catches the light as he drags a chair from against the wall and drops into it with the ease of someone who's been here a thousand times before.

He doesn't speak at first, looks at me, one ankle resting casually over the opposite knee, like he's not sitting in the epicenter of a storm I haven't figured out how to contain.

"You look like shit," he finally says, breaking the silence.

I glance at him with a half-hearted smirk. "Good to see you, too."

"You sleep at all?"

"Define sleep."

Sebastian studies me, then flicks his gaze toward the surveillance feed looping on my monitor—Luna's studio frozen on screen, empty now, the canvas still wet from her last session.

His mouth twitches in that way it does when he knows exactly how deep the blade has gone. "You've got cameras on her at all times, a tracker in the damn necklace, and you still stand in the hallway to watch her paint."

"Don't make me regret divulging that small piece of information."

He leans forward slightly. "Call it what it is, Beck."

I don't flinch, because I've been waiting for someone to say it out loud.

"She's different," I admit quietly.

Sebastian snorts, leaning back in his chair. "No shit, she's different. She's not even supposed to be here. "

"I know that."

"She's not your type."

"I know that too."

"You've had a hundred women who would've begged for that collar."

I look him dead in the eye. "I didn't want them."

The words come too fast, too sharp, and Sebastian's expression shifts from amusement to something more calculating. He's trying to decide how much more truth I'm willing to bleed.

"You hear what's been happening at the Club?" he asks, voice dropping lower.

I turn back to the screen, muscles tightening along my jaw. "What?"

"The Collectors are talking about convening an arbitration panel." Sebastian watches me carefully for a reaction. "About you."

My eyes snap back to his. "On what grounds?"

"You didn't disclose that the woman you claimed was missing an anklet. They're calling it a betrayal of the code." He drums his fingers thoughtfully against the arm of his chair. "A violation of your duty to the Club."

"That's bullshit."

"Maybe. But they don't see it that way." Sebastian leans forward, arms braced on his knees, eyes locking with mine. The casual air is gone now, replaced with the kind of quiet intensity that says he's not here for pleasantries. He's here for blood, or truth—whichever I'm willing to give first.

"You need to think this through," he says, voice low but firm. "This isn't just about breaking rules, Beckett. It's about the principle."

"I'm not afraid of them."

"Maybe you should be. "

I meet his gaze head on. "I'm not afraid of anyone who has to hide behind procedure to get what they want."

Sebastian huffs out a breath—a twisted sound landing somewhere between admiration and disbelief. "Sure. Let me know how that plays in front of the panel."

I glance away, jaw tightening.

"She doesn't know," I say after a moment.

"Doesn't know she's at the center of what could be the biggest Club scandal in years?" Sebastian leans back, folding his arms across his chest. "So what happens when she does? When she realizes there might be consequences that not even you can stop?"

My fingers curl around the arm of my chair as I consider his words.

"She's not some pawn in their game," I say finally. "She's not a prize."

"No," Sebastian agrees, "she's not. But someone else thought she was."

I exhale, the sound sharp and low. "She wasn't marked. She wasn't trained. She didn't know the rules."

"And you knew exactly what it meant when you put that collar around her neck."

I say nothing, because there's nothing to say that doesn't sound like justification even to my own ears.

"Listen," Sebastian continues, his voice softer now but no less direct. "I'm only telling you this because the Collectors gave me a heads up and I thought I should warn you."

The silence stretches between us like a crack in concrete—long, thin, growing wider by the second.

"You better be damn sure she's worth it," he continues, watching me carefully. "Because if the Collectors decide you've violated the code, this doesn't end with bruised egos. It ends with reputation. Standing. Power."

I don't flinch, but the weight of his words lands anyway—heavy in my chest, cold where heat used to live. I reach for the glass I've left untouched throughout our conversation and tip it back, swallowing what remains in one burning gulp.

"Don't look at me like that," I murmur, setting the empty glass down with a soft clink.

He didn't need to ask if I would consider backing down. He already knew the answer.

Sebastian blows out a breath, a hint of his usual humor returning. “You are so fucked.”

I nod once, a ghost of a smile pulling at my mouth despite everything.

"Yeah," I agree quietly. “I am.”