Page 31 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Twenty-Eight

BECKETT

The car is too quiet.

Not in the way silence usually feels around Luna now—comfortable, heavy with promise, like the aftermath of something we've both surrendered to.

This is different. This silence has sharp edges, brittle and dangerous, as if the air between us might crack like thin ice if either of us dares to exhale too loudly.

She sits beside me, still wearing the lace from the gallery, body curved inward as if trying to make herself smaller.

Her eyes remain fixed forward but unfocused, fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of her dress—a last desperate attempt to maintain whatever control she still believes she has.

I can read every subtle shift in her posture, every tightening of her jaw.

She hasn't been this closed off since I found her in the woods during the Hunt.

I haven't spoken since we left. Not because I don't want to, but because I'm not certain I can trust what might come out if I do.

This feeling is unfamiliar—this burn behind my ribs, this sharp, unrelenting pressure crawling down my spine and wrapping tight around the base of my skull. It whispers accusations I don't want to hear.

You missed something.

And worse?

She didn't tell you.

The man who'd walked in at the club hadn't said a word.

He didn't need to. His expression said everything.

That wasn't simple recognition crossing his features when he spotted Luna.

That was familiarity. That wasn't surprise.

That was possession—the look of a man who believes something belongs to him, something I now claim as mine.

And Luna felt it. I felt her feel it—the way she tensed, her body freezing as if he'd reached through the crowd and dug his fingers into a wound I hadn't discovered yet.

Then she looked away. No explanation. No panic. Just a quiet, gut-level fear I haven't seen on her face since the night she walked into the Hunt like a woman with nothing to lose but everything to escape.

But that man, he smiled. Not politely. Not nervously. Cruelly. Like he already knew the ending to this story and was simply watching me fumble through the first act of something he'd read to completion.

The car pulls up to the building, the soft crunch of tires on pavement breaking the fragile silence. The driver steps out and opens the door with practiced efficiency. Luna doesn't move. Neither do I.

After a moment, my hand finds the small of her back—a steady, deliberate touch.

"Come," I say simply, guiding her out of the car.

My voice is calm, my movements measured. Because even if the fire in my chest threatens to consume everything in its path, I still control the pace. I always do.

We step into the elevator together. Her shoulders remain rigid under my touch, but she doesn't pull away. If anything, she leans into me. Looking for some part of my protection.

And I can't lie and say it doesn't lessen some of the sting.

The ascent is silent, the soft hum of machinery the only sound between us. When we reach the penthouse, she follows me inside without hesitation, but there's a new distance in her eyes—a place she's retreated to where I can't follow.

The door shuts behind us with the soft finality that should feel satisfying. It doesn't.

I shrug off my jacket with deliberate movements, tossing it across the arm of the couch before undoing the top button of my shirt. Then I turn to face her.

She's still standing near the entrance, as if unsure whether she's allowed further into a space she's lived in for weeks. Her uncertainty would be amusing if it didn't make something cold twist in my chest.

I don't move toward her. Instead, I ask the question that's been burning since we left the gallery.

"You knew him."

No inflection. No accusation. Just truth, sitting in the center of the room like an uninvited guest.

She flinches—a small, involuntary motion that confirms everything I need to know.

But she doesn't speak. And that silence? That's the first time I feel my grip slip.

"Are you going to make me ask again?" I say after a long moment. My voice remains even, controlled, but there's an edge to it now that wasn't there before.

Her gaze finally lifts to meet mine, and I see everything she's trying to hide. The panic she's buried. The fear she's still holding. But it's not fear of the man who smiled at her across the gallery—it's fear of me. Of what I'll think when I learn the truth.

She's afraid I'll look at her and see the fingerprints someone else left behind. Afraid I'll see her as claimed, as touched, as marked by something I didn't approve of. And perhaps worst of all—that I won't want her the same way after I know.

"Beckett, I—" she begins, then stops, the words dying in her throat.

I step closer, each movement slow and deliberate, like a predator approaching wounded prey. "Don't," I say quietly. "Don't start with excuses."

Her back meets the wall before she realizes she's retreating. I don't touch her, but I move close enough that she feels how quiet I've gone. How calm. How fucking dangerous that silence really is.

"Who is he?" I ask, my voice dropping lower.

Her lips part, but no sound emerges.

My hand lifts—not to hurt, not to claim—just to brush the back of my knuckles down the center of her throat, soft enough to feel the shiver that ripples underneath her skin.

"You froze," I observe. "I've never seen you look at anyone that way."

Which was another red flag considering she was ready to cause bodily harm to me, or anyone else who dared touch her during the Hunt. She was also so fierce. Seeing her cower called to a piece of me I'd buried a long, long time ago .

Another breath escapes her—staggered this time. Her fingers curl at her sides, nails digging into her palms.

"Why, Luna?"

When she finally speaks, her voice is barely audible. "It's complicated."

"Then uncomplicate it," I counter, not unkindly but with enough firmness to make clear this isn't a negotiation.

Her gaze drops again, and I see it then—all of it. The weight she's been carrying.

I pull back slightly, giving her room to breathe. Letting the air between us thin.

"I need a drink," I say finally, turning away and walking to the bar.

I know if I keep standing this close, I'll press the truth out of her with more than words. And despite everything, despite the anger coiling inside me, I won't break her that way. Not her. Not us.

The scotch bottle is cool in my hand as I pour exactly two fingers—never more. Any more would mean losing control, and control is all I have right now.

I take a measured sip, letting the burn sear down my throat like punishment for something I didn't see coming.

When I turn back, she's still near the door. Still watching. Still waiting for me to decide what comes next.

"I can see you calculating what to tell me," I say, studying the amber liquid in my glass. "Don't bother. Either tell me everything, or tell me nothing. But don't lie to me, Luna. Not about this."

She straightens slightly, shoulders squaring as if preparing for a blow. "I wasn't going to lie."

"Omission is still deception," I reply. "And you've been omitting something significant since the moment I met you."

The silence stretches between us again, taut as a wire.

I finish my drink in one swift motion and set the glass down with deliberate care.

My decision is made.

"Don't hide anything from me again." My voice doesn't rise or break—it cuts, clean and cold like a blade through silk. "I won't ask you a third time."

I turn away, crossing the room with measured steps.

"Silence won't save you from me, Luna," I add quietly. "Nothing will."

Then I walk away. No slammed doors. No fury in my stride. Just the sound of power shifting back into place and the unspoken promise that hangs in the air between us.

The next time she cowers in another man's presence like that, someone's going to bleed for it.