Page 26 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

"I've painted more in the last few weeks than I have in months," I admit. "The light is perfect. The supplies are... everything I could want."

"Great," she says flatly. "So you're still in a tower, but now it comes with art supplies. Very 'Disney Rapunzel, but make it Stockholm syndrome.'"

"It's not like that," I protest, though the metaphor hits uncomfortably close.

"Oh, sweetie." Her voice softens with genuine concern. "It is exactly like that. You just can't see it because you're standing too close to the painting."

I pause, pressing the rim of my glass to my lips, the cold biting at the heat blooming in my chest. I know how it sounds. I know what she's thinking. But she wasn't there. She didn't feel what I felt. Didn't see what I saw.

"It's not... bad," I say finally, struggling to articulate something I barely understand myself. "He has rules, but he doesn't enforce them unless I push. I'm not locked up. I can move around. I can breathe."

"Can you leave?" she asks pointedly.

The question hangs between us, sharp and unavoidable.

I remain silent.

Avery leans back slowly, something like understanding and sadness crossing her face. "That's what I thought."

"I don't want to leave," I say quietly, surprising myself with the truth of it.

"Bullshit," she fires back instantly.

"I don't?—"

"Bull. Shit." She sets her glass down hard enough that the ice clinks and nearby diners glance our way again.

"You told me you were doing this to escape.

To survive. That you needed freedom. And now you're sitting here with a collar around your neck trying to convince me that captivity just looks better in velvet. "

"I'm not captive," I insist, an edge creeping into my voice.

"Then what are you?" she challenges, leaning forward. "What exactly would you call this arrangement?"

I open my mouth, but the words don't come. I don't have the right ones. I don't have the ones that make sense.

Because I don't know anymore.

I was so sure when I walked into that ballroom that I'd make it through the hunt unscathed.

That being an Owner's Possession would be awful.

So certain this would feel wrong, oppressive, claustrophobic.

But Beckett leaves me alone during the day.

He gives me space to breathe, to think, to create.

And at night, when he takes control, it's not cruel or painful.

It's... consuming. Like being swallowed by a tide I didn't see coming. And maybe that's what scares me more than anything—that I'm not fighting against the current anymore. I'm swimming with it. Embracing it. Enjoying it.

It's not love. It's not even affection. It's gravity.

And I keep falling.

"I'm not in love with him," I say suddenly, needing her to understand at least that much.

Avery raises both brows, surprised by the declaration. "Did I ask that?"

"No."

"Because I wasn't going to. It's been like three weeks, Luna. If you said the L word right now, I'd have to drown you in that glass." She gestures to my drink. "That would be basic best friend protocol."

I laugh, barely, but it's genuine.

She narrows her eyes, studying me intently. "So if it's not love... what is it?"

I glance down at the drink in my hand, watching condensation gather and slide down the glass. I swirl it once, then look back up, meeting her gaze with as much honesty as I can muster.

"I don't know," I whisper. "But I can't stop going back to him. I'm drawn to him in a way I can't explain. In a way I hate, but also, don't hate."

The silence between us stretches just long enough to become dangerous, filled with all the things neither of us knows how to say.

Avery hasn't touched her coffee in two minutes. That alone should qualify as a federal emergency in the hierarchy of our friendship. Her drink sits forgotten, ice melting into the coffee until it's more water than caffeine.

I shift in my seat and glance toward the rooftop bar's edge, where the wind kicks up just enough to brush my hair off my shoulders. I should feel free up here. Exposed sky above me, fresh air in my lungs, endless noise below.

But my fingers drift unconsciously to the velvet at my throat like it's still the one controlling my breath, like a part of me is tethered to him even now, even here.

"Are you scared of him?" she asks finally, dropping all pretense of casual conversation.

My gaze snaps back to hers.

Avery isn't playing anymore. This isn't banter or teasing. This is her looking for a red flag, a reason to pull fire alarms.

"No," I say, and I mean it. "I'm not afraid of him."

She tilts her head, studying me. "Should you be?"

I don't answer that one.

Because I don't know.

"He hasn't hurt me," I say instead, meeting her gaze steadily. "Not like that. Not in any way I didn't..."

I trail off, unwilling to finish that sentence. She doesn't need those details.

Her expression doesn't shift, but I can see it—the mental checklist flipping behind her eyes. She's looking for bruises, shadows, tension. She's always been better at reading what I don't say than what I do.

"And you're not in love with him," she repeats, more like a warning than a confirmation.

"I'm not," I say firmly.

"But?" she prompts, because she knows me too well to believe there isn't one.

I exhale slowly. "But I think about him more than I should. When he's not there, I..." I pause, struggling to find words for the emptiness that forms in his absence. "I wish he was."

Avery lets out a slow breath through her nose. "Do I need to start vetting safe houses? I've got connections from that weird phase when I dated the conspiracy theory guy."

"I'm not leaving," I say firmly.

"Okay, but just in case, do you want north-facing windows or city views? I'm partial to a good escape route myself, but you've always been more about aesthetics."

I laugh, this time for real, and shake my head as a server approaches our table.

We both order—something light, something overpriced, neither of us really hungry. The waiter nods and disappears, leaving us in a moment of false normalcy.

When he walks away, Avery doesn't miss a beat. Her expression shifts from concerned friend to something more serious, more focused.

"Now tell me about your family," she says, voice dropping lower.

I go still, napkin twisted between my fingers.

Her voice softens, but her eyes remain sharp. "Luna. What the hell happened with Genevieve?"

I swallow hard, the simple question reopening wounds I've been trying to ignore.

The sunlight feels too warm now. The wind too sharp against my skin. The sky too perfectly blue for what's about to come out of my mouth.

I meet her eyes across the table, steeling myself.

"You know I wasn't supposed to have that invitation," I begin, my voice steadier than I feel. "But there's more to that story than I told you."

"Oh, wonderful," Avery says, her voice dripping with sugar-laced venom. "And here I thought lunch was going to be boring."

I shift in my seat, avoiding her gaze. "You asked. "

"I did. I also assumed you wouldn't open with discussing felonies, but hey—what do I know?" She leans back, crossing her arms. "Though with you, I probably should have expected it."

I swirl my straw through the melting ice, watching the water patterns rather than facing her. "Genevieve gave me her invitation. She knew I needed to escape."

"That part I didn't figure," Avery says, lifting one perfectly arched brow. "But go on—I sense there's a lot more to this story than just borrowing an invitation."

My fingers tighten around the glass. "She didn't want to go to the Hunt. Said the whole thing was barbaric."

"Luna." The way she says my name—soft, stretched, curious—makes me feel like I'm being scrutinized.

"Our parents were thrilled she received the invitation," I continue, voice quieter now. "A perfect opportunity for someone her age. But Gen..." I pause, remembering her face when she handed it to me. "She knew what they were doing to me. With Christopher."

Avery leans forward, eyes widening slightly. "So she just gave you her ticket out?"

"She said no woman deserves to be 'claimed' and put on a leash," I explain, the memory still fresh. "But she also knew I needed to escape. That Christopher was getting worse."

Avery exhales slowly, taking this in. "And you went in her place."

"I did," I confirm. "I figured they wouldn't pick me anyway. I'm not what they want—obedient, elegant, or easy. I thought I could avoid being caught, win the money, and disappear for good."

"But instead, you caught the attention of Beckett Sinclair," Avery observes, drumming her fingers on the table. "The one man even Christopher would be afraid of."

I nod, unable to suppress the slight shiver that runs through me at the mention of Beckett's name. "I never expected him to notice me. To claim me before the Hunt even started."

"What about Genevieve now? Won't she be in trouble for missing the Hunt?"

"We had a story ready. That she'd fallen ill suddenly. No one questions a sick woman." I push my glass away, ice long melted.

Avery doesn't blink. Doesn't pretend to be surprised. "And Christopher?" she asks, his name landing between us like poison in a wine glass.

My fingers tighten involuntarily around my drink. "I could feel him," I whisper. "Even when he wasn't there. He had a way of… sticking to the air. Like smoke. Or rot."

"So you ran."

"I escaped," I correct her. "Genevieve gave me the chance, and I took it. I never thought I'd end up in Beckett Sinclair's world instead."

Avery leans back, studying me with that terrifying, all-knowing gaze she's perfected over the years.

"And then what? You crash-landed into the arms of a six-foot plus menace with a god complex and a jawline that could slice steel?"

I blink. "That… is disturbingly accurate."

She smirks. "I contain multitudes." Her tone drops then, just slightly. "So, what happened with Christopher, really?"

I hesitate. Because I wasn't sure I was ready to voice my scars yet.