Page 30 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Twenty-Seven

BECKETT

I step away from Luna, leaving her perched on the velvet bench, a study in elegant submission—back straight, hands folded, eyes lowered. The perfect picture of obedience, even as I feel her curiosity burning holes in my back.

Sebastian's expression is grim as I approach, his usual diplomatic mask slipping just enough to show genuine concern. Graham stands beside him, drink in hand, watching our surroundings with the practiced vigilance of someone who's spent years in rooms where walls have ears.

"This better be important," I say, keeping my voice low.

Sebastian doesn't waste time. "The Collectors know about her."

My body goes still. "What exactly do they know?"

"That you walked out with a woman who wasn't wearing an anklet." Graham leans in, his beard nearly brushing my shoulder. "And they're asking why you didn't follow protocol."

"Protocol," I repeat, the word bitter on my tongue .

Sebastian nods. "More specifically, they know it was Genevieve Laurent's invitation that was used to get in. They're connecting dots, Beck. Fast."

I resist the urge to look back at Luna. "How much time do we have?"

"Days. Maybe hours." Sebastian's eyes flick toward the main floor, then back to me. "Baine's been asking questions. Direct ones."

"Fuck." The word escapes before I can catch it.

Graham takes a sip of his whiskey, the ice clinking against the crystal. "You could just give her up, you know. Save yourself the trouble. The girl's pretty, but is she worth?—"

My hand moves before my brain catches up, fingers curling into Graham's lapel. I don't slam him against the wall, but it's a near thing. Sebastian's hand appears on my arm, firm but cautious.

"Easy," he murmurs. "He doesn't understand."

Graham's eyes widen, not with fear but with surprise. "What the hell's gotten into you, Beckett? It's just a girl."

I release him slowly, smoothing his jacket with deliberate control. "She's not just anything."

Graham raises an eyebrow, looking between Sebastian and me. "Shit. It's like that?"

Sebastian steps between us. "The point is, the Collectors are making inquiries. Official ones. They're going to want to know why you claimed a woman who wasn't officially initiated. Why you didn't report the breach of protocol."

I exhale slowly, pulling my focus back to the immediate problem. "You said Baine specifically is asking questions?"

"Anthony Baine," Sebastian confirms. "He's been particularly interested. Seemed surprised when he heard it was Luna Laurent who showed up instead of her sister. "

That's interesting. Specific. Targeted. Not just about protocol then.

"Thanks for the heads up," I say, decision made. "I'll handle it."

"How exactly do you plan to handle Anthony Baine?" Graham asks, skepticism clear in his voice. "The man's a Collector for a reason."

"I have my methods."

Sebastian gives me a knowing look. "Just be careful. The Club upholds their rules at all costs. Breaking them has consequences. Even for you."

I nod once, grateful for the warning but already calculating next steps. "Keep me posted if you hear anything else."

I turn to head back to Luna, but freeze mid-step. There, across the room, standing near one of the private lounges, is a familiar figure—tall, impeccably dressed in charcoal gray, his silver mask catching the red light. Anthony Baine. One of the Collectors. Watching.

Our eyes lock across the distance, a silent acknowledgment passing between us. He raises his glass slightly—not a toast, but a promise. A signal that the game has already begun.

I hold his gaze for a moment longer than necessary, making sure he understands that I'm not backing down. Then I turn my back on him deliberately and walk toward Luna.

Her eyes are wide as I approach, questions written across her face that she's too disciplined to ask aloud. I extend my hand to her, and she takes it without hesitation, rising to her feet with graceful precision.

"Everything okay?" she asks quietly as I guide her deeper into the club.

"It will be," I promise, my hand firm against the small of her back. My eyes scan the crowd, looking for threats, for watchers, for anyone who might be too interested in the woman beside me.

The stakes have just risen considerably, and I need to make sure everyone in this club understands one critical fact. Luna Laurent belongs to me. And I protect what's mine.

The weight of eyes follows us as I guide Luna through the club toward the exit. I can feel Baine's stare burning into my back, cataloging, calculating. Let him watch. Let them all watch. She wears my collar, and that's all they need to know.

My hand stays firm against her lower back, my stride unhurried but deliberate. This is a message to everyone in the room—we leave on our terms, not theirs.

We're almost to the exit when I feel her change beneath my touch.

It's instantaneous—the sudden rigidity in her spine, the slight hitch in her breathing, the subtle tremor that cascades through her body like electricity. Every instinct I possess goes on high alert.

"What is it?" I ask, my voice pitched low. Not a question so much as a demand.

She doesn't answer. Doesn't move. Just freezes completely, her face draining of color as her eyes fix on a point near the entrance.

I follow her gaze, scanning the crowd with calculated precision until I see him—a man standing by the exit. Tall, broad-shouldered, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit that speaks of old money and careful attention to detail.

Unlike everyone else in the club, his face is bare. No mask. A deliberate choice that feels like a statement. Or a challenge.

I don't recognize him, but I memorize him instantly—the confident stance, the square jaw, the way he carries himself like someone who's never had to ask permission for anything in his life. His eyes are locked on Luna with an intensity that makes my blood run cold.

And then he smiles.

It's not the polite acknowledgment of a stranger or the warm greeting of an acquaintance. It's the smile of a man who sees something he believes belongs to him in the hands of someone else.

The possessiveness in that smile tells me everything I need to know.

This isn't a random encounter. This is history. This is a ghost from her past that she thought she'd left behind.

I say nothing, but my arm tightens fractionally around her waist—a silent claim, a wordless promise of protection. I keep my expression neutral, giving nothing away, even as I log every detail about this man for later.

His height. His build. The exact cut of his suit. The way he looks at Luna like she's a possession that's been temporarily misplaced rather than a woman who's chosen to be with someone else.

Most importantly, I catalog her reaction. The fear that's made her rigid against me. The way her pulse hammers beneath my fingertips where they rest against her wrist. The slight tremor in her breath.

Whoever this man is, he's important. Dangerous. A threat to what's mine.

And I will find out exactly who he is and what he means to her. After I get her safely away from here.

"We're leaving," I say, voice deliberately even, controlled. Not for her benefit, but for my own. To keep the rage building inside me firmly caged until I can unleash it properly.

I guide her toward the exit, my pace unhurried but purposeful. We have to pass him to leave, and I feel her tension increase with each step closer to him.

The man doesn't move to intercept us, doesn't try to speak to her. He simply watches, that possessive smile never leaving his face, his eyes never leaving hers.

As we pass, I meet his gaze directly, a silent message passing between us.

You may know her past, but I control her present.