Page 25 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Twenty-Four

LUNA

The elevator doors glide open with a soft hiss, and for the first time in over a few weeks, I step into the world beyond Beckett's carefully controlled domain.

Real air hits my face—cool and sharp, laced with car exhaust, perfume, and a hundred conversations I'm not a part of.

The New York street noise rushes in like a tide, overwhelming my senses after days of cushioned silence.

I take a moment to remember how to breathe in this reality, how to process the sensory overload of actual life.

The sun feels too bright against my skin.

The sidewalk too crowded with strangers brushing past. Everything vibrates just beneath the surface, as though the city knows I've been hiding and doesn't quite trust me anymore.

My fingers instinctively reach for the thin velvet band at my throat—for comfort?

Reassurance?—before I force them back to my side.

I pull in a deep breath and let it burn through my chest, a cleansing fire that reminds me I'm still here. Still me .

God, I missed this.

Not the chaos or the crowd pressing in from all sides. But the choice—the simple act of walking somewhere without calculated permission, of existing in a space that isn't governed by unspoken rules and watchful eyes.

Well, technically, I have a security detail following and I didn't pick the place.

Avery picked the cafe. It's one of those trendy little rooftop spots with overpriced coffee and food arranged more like modern art installations than actual sustenance.

Exposed brick, hanging plants, and the kind of chairs designed to look good on Instagram but are extremely uncomfortable to sit in.

But I'm not here for the ambiance or the twelve-dollar lattes.

I'm here for her.

She's already seated when I arrive, one leg crossed over the other in that casual-but-deliberate way she has about everything.

Her sunglasses are pushed up into her wild dark curls, and her lips are pressed into a line so sharp it could cut glass.

Her iced coffee sits half-melted beside her phone, which lies face-up on the table like a silent sentinel.

Her stare zeroes in on me the moment I step into view, and I see her entire body tense with recognition. There's relief there, but also something harder—the kind of anger that comes from genuine worry.

I barely get two steps in before she's rising from her chair and pulling me into a hug that's half bone-crushing, half you-better-explain-everything-right-now.

"You're alive," she mutters against my shoulder, fingers digging into my back. "I was two seconds from calling the FBI. Maybe the National Guard. Definitely my cousin who works for that sketchy security firm."

"I texted you," I manage, my voice muffled against her hair.

She pulls back, holding me at arm's length. "Barely. You ignored every one of my questions. And besides, 'I'm okay' is not a status report when you vanish after stealing your sister's invitation to a creepy rich-people sex party."

"I'm here now," I offer, giving her a half-smile that feels strange on my face, like I've forgotten how to wear it.

She studies me with narrowed eyes, hands still gripping my arms like she expects me to disappear if she lets go. Her gaze roams my face, searching for... what? Bruises? Fear? Stockholm syndrome?

"You look... good," she says finally, sounding almost disappointed. "You look like shit, but you look good. It's confusing me."

I laugh, and it feels rusty in my throat, unused. "Thanks, I think. That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"Sit," she commands, already dragging me toward the table with the same force of nature energy that's defined our friendship since college.

"Talk. Start from the beginning. Don't skip.

Don't lie." She points a warning finger at me.

"And if you say 'I'm fine,' I will flip this table in front of God and brunch. "

I sink into the chair across from her and wrap my hands around the chilled glass waiting for me—an iced vanilla latte, already made because she's Avery and, of course, she remembers all of my favorites.

The icy sweetness coats my tongue, grounding me in something familiar when everything else feels like it's been rewritten.

"I'm... here," I start lamely, knowing it's not enough but unsure how to distill the past couple of weeks into words that make sense. "I'm figuring it out. I don't know what I'm doing."

She stares at me flatly. "That's not a beginning, Luna. That's not even a middle. That's the kind of vague bullshit you text your mom when she asks how you're doing. "

"It's all I've got right now," I say, turning the glass in my hands. "I'm still processing."

Her eyes narrow, and she leans forward, voice dropping. "How bad was it?"

I pause, weighing my words carefully.

It's long enough for her to know it's complicated.

Long enough for the truth to stretch and twist and curl up in the back of my throat where it won't choke me.

I remember Beckett's hands, his voice, the way he made me feel simultaneously owned and freed—and how do I explain that without sounding like I've lost my mind?

"I was claimed," I say finally.

Her brows lift slowly, mouth parting.

And then I drop it.

By accident. On purpose. I don't know.

"By Beckett Sinclair."

Everything stops.

The city. The street. The sunlight. Even the wind seems to hold its breath.

Avery's eyes widen, and her coffee straw slips from between her fingers.

And then—like a switch being flipped?—

"BECKETT FUCKING SINCLAIR?"

Heads turn at nearby tables. A waiter nearly drops a tray. I wince and shrink into my seat.

"Avery—" I start, trying to shush her.

"No. Nope." She slices her hand through the air. "Try again. That man is a walking red flag with cheekbones. A Pinterest board of daddy issues wearing Tom Ford. You—" She points at me with her straw, droplets of coffee splattering the table. "You're joking. You have to be joking."

"I'm not," I say, meeting her gaze steadily .

"You disappeared and let me believe you'd been kidnapped and eaten by shadow men, and it turns out you've been shacked up with the literal devil in a suit?"

"I never mentioned a suit," I mutter, taking a long sip of my drink.

"You. Shh. It's Beckett Sinclair. He invented suits. Probably emerged from the womb wearing a three-piece Armani."

I try not to smile at the absurd image of him walking around in those soft gray pajama pants, shirtless. "He hasn't worn one in a while, actually."

Avery's jaw drops. Her eyes widen. She leans across the table so far I can see the gold flecks in her irises.

"Oh my God. You're sleeping with him."

"Avery."

"No. You are. You're sleeping with him. Like. More than just the Hunt." Her voice rises with each word. "What, does he have you on a leash now, too?"

I don't answer. My fingers unconsciously rise to the velvet at my throat.

And that's answer enough.

Her eyes widen further, following the movement of my hand.

"Oh my God. Luna." She breathes my name like a prayer for the damned. "What have you done?"

I shift in my seat, uncomfortable under the weight of her scrutiny. The collar feels tighter somehow, as if responding to her attention.

"I didn't plan this," I say quickly, quietly, voice low in case anyone at the neighboring tables is still eavesdropping after her outburst. "It just... happened."

She blinks at me like I've grown a second head.

"It just happened," she repeats, voice flat with disbelief.

"Because who doesn't accidentally get claimed by Beckett-fucking-Sinclair?

People trip and fall into coffee dates all the time, not the bed of the most terrifying billionaire in the northern hemisphere. "

"I didn't know it was him when it happened," I explain, though the words sound hollow even to my own ears. "The masks, remember?"

Her hand flies up dramatically. "Okay, back it up. Reverse. Go to the part where you were in a room full of masked, elite, power-hungry psychopaths and didn't recognize Beckett Sinclair. The man whose face is on the cover of every business magazine. The man whose name makes CEOs piss themselves."

"I wasn't exactly staring at faces," I mutter, remembering instead the pressure of his hands, the weight of his gaze, the certainty with which he claimed me before I even knew what was happening.

"You weren't exactly running either," she counters, eyes narrowing.

My fingers twist the napkin in my lap. "I was trying to! But he wouldn't let me go!"

Her mouth opens. Closes. Then opens again, but no sound comes out. She looks like a fish gasping for water.

"Oh my God," she whispers finally, slumping back in her chair.

I don't speak. There's nothing left to say that won't sound like a lie or an excuse.

My entire plan had failed miserably, and owning up to it on my own is one thing, but telling my best friend I royally fucked up is a totally different ballgame.

The silence stretches between us, filled with the ambient noise of the cafe and the unspoken questions hanging in the air. Finally, she leans forward again, eyes sharp but voice softer.

"Okay. Fine. You're not dead. You're not locked in a basement. You're clearly still functioning as a semi-normal human. So what's it like?"

"What?" I ask, thrown by the question.

"Living with him. Being with him. Whatever this is." She gestures vaguely at me, at the collar, at everything. "What's it like? How does he treat you? Is he... nice?" The word sounds strange in her mouth, as if she can't imagine Beckett Sinclair and 'nice' existing in the same universe.

I let out a breath, trying to find the right words. "He's not mean."

"That is not an answer," she says immediately. "That's like saying a tiger isn't actively mauling you at this exact moment."

"I mean, that's pretty accurate."

She gives me a look and I shrug. "He gives me space," I try again, more earnestly. "I have a studio."

Her brows shoot up at that. "A studio?"