Page 3 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Two

LUNA

The estate rises in front of me like a myth built from stone. Towering spires, black marble, steel bones beneath all that wealth. It doesn't feel like a house. It feels like a warning.

As I approach the entrance, I notice the symbols etched into the stone archway above—subtle designs carrying weight for those initiated into the society. I've heard whispers about these markings, how they represent the original Collectors who founded the Club centuries ago.

Women regal enough to be Possessions.

Because what else would a group of men who call themselves 'Collectors' and 'Owners' call the women they sponsor?

The women who are caught are claimed by the Owners and considered their Possession to do with what they please.

But there is an expectation that these women will be cared for their entire life.

But those who outrun them, who make it until dawn without being caught—they earn their prize. Their freedom. Their escape.

I can see how the idea of having someone take care of you for the rest of your life could be appealing. I've even heard that some Owners are kind and don't ask for much.

But there is no way in Hell I'm jumping from one gilded cage to another.

A man in a black suit waits at the door, motionless behind his blank mask, gloved hands held out to receive my invitation.

My fingers don't shake as I pass it over.

But inside? Everything is already unraveling.

Genevieve Laurent.

The name isn't mine, but the mask makes everything a lie, anyway. He studies it for a beat too long. His gaze lifts to mine, unreadable beneath the mask, but I meet it without flinching, daring him to look closer, daring him to call me what I am—an imposter in borrowed skin.

He doesn't. He simply steps aside, and I force my shoulders to relax.

I'm in. Step one complete.

I walk through the door before either of us changes our mind, and that's when the weight of it hits me.

Inside, the air is heavier, warmer, perfumed with money and power. Every breath I take drags it deeper into my lungs, settling behind my ribs, pressing against my spine like it belongs there.

The corridor stretches out before me, lined with mirrors that soften edges and blur reflections. Still, I look. The girl in the glass is not the one who left Avery's condo. She's something sharper, wilder, wrapped in sheer fabric and mystery, her body a contradiction of elegance and defiance.

The dress clings like a second skin, slipping over the curve of my hips and the dip of my waist. It leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.

The cool night air slides easily through the fabric, pebbling my nipples noticeably.

Under normal circumstances, I would feel embarrassed, but every one of us is wearing this dress and right now, all I want is to blend in, even if that means I have to expose myself to do it.

My heels click with every step, the red soles flashing behind me like a promise. Or a warning.

The corridor opens into a room too quiet to be real. Women stand scattered throughout the space, some poised with grace that only comes from bloodlines and training.

Each one of us wears the same sheer gowns, identical masks, bodysuits tailored to the Club's standards.

But there's one detail I missed. Each woman wears a thin silver anklet just above the bone, a glint of light that catches with every movement.

And I don't have one. It's only a matter of time before someone notices.

Shit. How did I miss that? There wasn't one in the box that'd been delivered containing the invitation, dress, shoes, and mask.

A man appears, gesturing with a single hand. We move as one—no hesitation, no sound but the soft rustle of fabric and the hum of music from the next room. The double doors swing open, and the world changes.

I clench my fist at my side, trying to calm my nerves. I just need to make it through the night. After that, I'm free.

The ballroom isn't a room and if it wasn't for the tightness in my chest, it would completely mesmerize me.

It's a cathedral, dripping in gold and candlelight. The men line the edges of the room like shadows in designer suits, each wearing a mask, each watching with heavy gazes.

I walk with the others in a perfect line. The music throbs beneath my feet, a slow rhythm that coils around my spine. We're not guests. We're offerings.

But I'm not here to be offered. I'm here to run. To escape. To win money that will buy me a new life.

I keep my head up, my stride even. The men study us. Some smile behind their masks, some glance and look away, others stare as if they're already stripping us apart.

I feel him before I see him. It moves through me like cold lightning—sharp and sudden. My skin prickles, my pulse stutters. When my eyes find him across the room, I almost stumble.

He stands tall, his broad shoulders draped in a perfectly tailored black suit that seems to absorb the light. His mask is matte black with silver detailing at the temple, leaving exposed a jaw so sharp it could cut glass. And those piercing blue eyes don't just look—they dissect.

He doesn't look away. He doesn't blink.

He sees me. Not the dress. Not the mask. Me.

The girl with no anklet. The lie stitched into lace. And worse? I feel it in the pit of my stomach—he knows I don't belong.

I don't run, even though my instincts scream. I hold my head higher and walk straighter. But it doesn't matter. Because the moment I stepped into this room, he saw me.

The line slows at the center of the room. The men step closer. We stand in silence, breathing in candlelight and expectation. My chin stays high, but my insides are unraveling.

I calculate my odds. Count the men, count the exits, imagine the forest waiting beyond the walls. If I'm fast enough, smart enough, maybe I can do what no one has ever managed—stay uncaught until dawn. Claim my prize. Disappear for good.

I came here to run. To escape. To win .

But as those piercing blue eyes hold mine from across the room, I know that tonight, winning might be the most dangerous game of all.