Page 28 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Twenty-Five

BECKETT

The elevator hums low and distant as I sit in the leather chair by the window, a glass of untouched scotch in my hand. The city stretches beneath my feet like something I conquered long ago, but my eyes aren't on the skyline. They're fixed on the front door, waiting for the sound of her return.

For the proof that she's back under my roof. Back where she belongs.

She left today—just for a few hours. A harmless outing with a friend.

I said yes. I gave her that small freedom, that brief taste of the world outside these walls.

And still, every cell in my body has been vibrating with the hollow ache of her absence.

The dissonance of knowing she's breathing somewhere else, smiling for someone who isn't me.

Every second she's been gone, I've been waiting for the world to realize what I already know. She doesn't belong to them .

The door clicks—soft, controlled, but not fast enough to hide the hesitation in her fingers as the lock gives way.

Good. Let her hesitate. Let her feel it. Let her wonder what it cost her, walking out of here like freedom doesn't come with a leash wrapped around my fist.

I don't turn to face her right away. I let her walk in, let her find me here—calm and still, as though I hadn't spent the last hour watching the footage from the rooftop camera. Her smile had been too easy there, her eyes too open, her skin too far from my touch.

She stops a few feet inside the room. I hear the faint catch of her breath. A small, involuntary reaction that tells me she's already calculating what comes next.

I still don't look at her. Instead, I speak in a voice low, smooth, carved from quiet rage, "Did you enjoy your sunlight, little thief?"

She doesn't answer right away. The silence stretches between us, weighted with all the things neither of us is saying.

I finally rise, slow and deliberate, setting the glass down without a sound. Then I turn to face her.

She's wearing one of my button-ups—the one I wore yesterday, still carrying my scent.

She's tucked it casually into jeans I bought her, sleeves rolled to her elbows in that effortless way that makes her look both delicate and defiant.

The shirt isn't just clothing anymore; she's wearing it like it's hers now, like my presence has soaked into every thread and she's claimed it.

I'm once again taken aback by her beauty, standing there with long auburn hair twisted atop her head and a timid expression. Her mask is off. Her guard is up. But her eyes—God, her eyes still flicker when they land on mine, like something inside her recognizes that the hunt never really ended .

"I let you go," I say softly, taking a measured step toward her. "I gave you a taste."

Her lips part slightly, but no words come out. We both know what this moment means—the reckoning after the reprieve.

"And now," I murmur, each step bringing me closer, my movements deliberately slow, predatory, silent, "I collect."

She doesn't speak when I stop in front of her. Doesn't ask what I'm thinking. Doesn't try to explain where she's been or what she said to her friend. She just stands there—silent, waiting, a storm contained in soft denim and borrowed cotton.

I notice everything about her—the way her jeans hang loose on her frame, already streaked with dried paint in pale tones I don't recognize.

Not from today. Not from her outing with Avery.

From some quiet moment in her studio I wasn't invited to witness.

She's been living in my house without me.

Wearing my shirt. Staining my gifts. Taming her fire in corners I didn't light for her.

And still—she walked back in like none of it meant anything.

"Did Avery have anything interesting to say?" I ask, circling her slowly.

"Nothing you'd find surprising," she replies, her voice steadier than I expected.

"Try me."

A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "She thinks I'm in over my head."

"Smart friend."

"She also thinks you're dangerous."

I allow myself a small smile. "She's right about that too."

My gaze drops—once, slowly—dragging over every inch of her like I'm cataloging what's mine. And I am .

I reach for the first button of my shirt that she's wearing. She stiffens immediately, her breath catching. I don't touch the button yet—just rest my fingers there, feeling the heat of her skin beneath the thin fabric.

"Is this how you apologize now?" I murmur. "Dressed like you missed me?"

Her chin lifts slightly. "It was on the hanger."

"That doesn't mean it was yours."

"It was clean."

"It wasn't," I say, watching her eyes widen slightly at the implication that I'd worn it. "I can still smell myself on it. And now you, too."

I tilt her chin up with my thumb, forcing her eyes to meet mine. Her pulse races visibly at her throat, just above where my fingers rest.

"You walked out of this house wearing my shirt like it was a choice," I say, voice dropping lower. "And now you're back, looking like a contradiction I'm supposed to forgive."

She swallows, the movement delicate against my palm. "I didn't realize I needed forgiveness for doing exactly what you allowed."

"Then you misunderstood the arrangement."

"Did I?" Her voice carries a challenge now. "You said I could go. You texted me 'Soon' when I was out. Not 'Come back now.' Not 'You've been gone too long.' Just 'Soon.'"

"And yet you knew exactly what it meant, didn't you?" I counter, watching her carefully. "You felt it. The countdown."

She doesn't deny it, which is its own kind of answer.

"You want forgiveness?" I ask, unfastening the first button of the shirt with deliberate slowness. "Take it off. Button by button. Let me see what's mine underneath all that borrowed defiance. "

Her breath stays shallow, lips parted, but her eyes don't leave mine as she reaches for the second button herself. Her fingers brush against mine, neither of us backing down. The fabric gives beneath our fingers like silk unraveling from tension. One slow release after another.

She doesn't speak until I slide the shirt from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor—soft, soundless, mine again.

"Why do you act like you're angry I went?" The words drop quiet. Honest. Not laced with bite or defiance. Just... raw.

I blink once, allowing the question to settle between us.

Her chest rises and falls beneath the thin cotton of her tee. She crosses her arms, not in defiance but something closer to self-consciousness, though her eyes remain steady on mine.

"You said I could go," she continues, voice softer now. "So why do you look at me like I broke something?"

I stare at her for a long moment, considering all the things I could say. The truths I could unveil. The possessiveness that burns through my veins like whiskey, scorching everything in its path.

"Because I did say yes." My gaze drops to her mouth, then climbs back up. "And you still left like it meant nothing."

She shifts her weight, fingers tightening against her arms. "It wasn't a betrayal."

"It doesn't have to be."

"Then what is it?"

"Uncomfortable," I admit, the word hanging between us.

A pause settles, heavy with implication.

I step closer, my chest brushing against hers. My hand lifts to her throat—not to grip, not yet, just to rest there against the delicate skin that flutters with her pulse. A reminder of what she wears when she's mine.

"You asked me why I act like I'm angry," I murmur, feeling her breath catch. "I'm not." I lean in, my voice brushing the shell of her ear, warm and intimate. "I'm possessive. That's different."

She shudders beneath my touch, and I feel it like a victory.

"I gave you space," I continue, "and you smiled like you forgot what it felt like to be claimed."

"I didn't," she whispers, her voice catching.

"You did." My fingers trace the line of her throat, following the path where her collar usually sits. "I was watching. The way you laughed. The way you moved. Like you were someone else. Someone who didn't belong to me."

I pull back just enough to meet her eyes, finding them wide and dark with something that isn't entirely fear.

"So now I'll remind you."

I cross the room with measured steps, moving to the polished wardrobe near the wall. I open the doors with deliberate calm. Inside, a single hanger, draped in black lace and nothing else. I lift it, watching her reflection in the mirror as understanding dawns in her expression.

She doesn't move as I return to her, dress in hand. The lace is sheer, barely-there, cut with delicacy and cruelty. It hides only what's absolutely necessary, revealing everything else. It says everything I don't have to put into words.

She stares at it, then at me, her throat working around a swallow.

"You want me to wear that?" Her voice is steady despite the flush creeping up her neck.

I nod once, watching her process what this means.

"For what?"

"For me," I say simply. Then, "For them."

Her eyebrows lift fractionally. "Them?"

"Tonight, you don't get to pretend you're invisible." I set the hanger carefully on the back of the couch and cup her chin between my fingers. "You're going to kneel for me in a room full of monsters. And you're going to make them wish they were me. That they had you instead."

Her breath hitches, pupils dilating at the implication.

"And when they ask who you are?" I lean in until our foreheads nearly touch, my voice dropping to something just above a whisper. "I'll say nothing."

"Because they already know," she finishes, understanding perfectly what tonight will mean.

"Because they already know," I confirm, satisfaction curling through me. "Now get dressed. We have somewhere to be."

Her fingers reach hesitantly for the dress, and I can already see her mapped out in black lace, pale skin against midnight silk, wearing my claim for everyone to witness.

"What's happening tonight?" she asks, her voice steadier than I expected.

I smile, slow and predatory. "Your introduction to the real world I inhabit, little thief. And their introduction to what happens when someone touches what's mine."