Page 33 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Thirty

BECKETT

The apartment is too still when I open my eyes. Morning light spills across the sheets at an angle that immediately feels wrong, the silence humming too loudly around the edges of the bed.

I'd been angry last night, and didn't trust myself not to do something stupid. So instead, I jumped on my motorcycle and rode around for hours before exhaustion settled in my bones and I knew she'd be asleep.

So I climbed into bed like a thief in the night, beside my own little thief and despite my displeasure, had to do everything I could to not pull her against me. Over the last few weeks I'd grown so used to having her fall asleep in my arms, it was unsettling to lie there with her back toward me.

And now, waking up, she's not here. The side where Luna slept is smooth, cold, barely touched.

I sit up and run a hand over my jaw, exhaling slowly in an attempt to settle the coil still wound tight in my chest from last night.

It doesn't work. The image of her face when she spotted him across the gallery persists—that moment of recognition, of fear.

And the way he looked at her in return, like some part of her still belonged to him.

I move through the apartment with controlled strides, not pacing but almost, until I reach my office. The door hisses closed behind me as the monitors flicker to life. I drop into my chair, spine straight, and begin scanning the network logs without hesitation.

The timestamp flickers as static clears on the security footage from the club last night. There he is, dressed in black, his posture relaxed, face carefully composed. Then he turns his head, and his eyes find her across the room.

The screen isn't high resolution, but it doesn't need to be. His stare says everything I need to know. He doesn't blink. Doesn't smile. Doesn't move. He simply watches with the patient focus of a predator who's spotted familiar prey.

I lean forward, elbows on the desk. "That wasn't discovery," I mutter to myself. "That was possession."

He wasn't surprised to see Luna there. That calm, controlled reaction wasn't shock—it was acknowledgment. He was making sure I knew he hadn't forgotten her.

And Luna—she froze the moment he turned. Her entire body going rigid, breath stalling in her chest. No words needed when her silence said everything.

I rewind the footage and watch it again. And again. Each viewing revealing more detail—the way his eyes trace the shape of her body, how still she becomes when she realizes he's seen her. The tension in her shoulders. The barely contained panic beneath her skin.

Yet he remains motionless. Because he doesn't have to move. Because whatever he came for, in his mind, already belongs to him.

And that, is not something I can allow.

My monitors illuminate the room with a blue glow as information floods the screens. Club logs. Security footage. Criminal databases I shouldn't have access to but do anyway.

My hand shifts to the keyboard as I begin digging deeper. His name isn't difficult to find through facial recognition, not with my access levels.

Christopher Finch.

I dig deeper, bypassing standard security protocols, searching for anything that might explain that look of recognition. The reaction was too visceral, too immediate, and I need to know why.

What I find makes my jaw clench tight enough to ache.

Christopher Finch. Thirty-four. Born to the prominent Finch family of North Carolina—old money, old power, old influence that spans generations.

A sealed criminal record appears on my screen—three counts of assault against two different women.

Charges mysteriously dropped. Evidence that vanished.

Witnesses who suddenly couldn't remember what they saw.

"Family connections," I mutter, scrolling through redacted police reports and settlement agreements that never saw daylight.

Then, about two years ago, he moves to New York. A fresh start engineered by his family's connections. Not rehabilitation—just relocation. A dangerous man transplanted to new hunting grounds where nobody knew his history.

I pull up more recent data, cross-referencing his movements in the city.

Business ties, social appearances, real estate holdings—and there it is.

A connection to the Laurent family that began approximately eighteen months ago.

His family company initiated negotiations with Laurent Holdings on a merger proposal.

Photos from social events show him standing too close to Luna at charity galas, business dinners, social functions. Nothing overt, nothing that would raise immediate alarm, but to my eye, the predatory focus is unmistakable.

Digging further, I find communications between the Finch family and the Laurents dating back over a year. A pattern emerges—Christopher had been positioning himself, insinuating himself into their circles, getting closer to Luna through family connections and business arrangements.

Her family had welcomed him in, blind to or perhaps willfully ignoring the danger he represented. I wonder if they knew his history. If they cared. Or if the allure of Finch money and influence was enough to overlook the risk to their daughter.

I stare at the screen, feeling the prickle at the back of my neck that comes only when something truly twisted has been uncovered. This wasn't a random encounter. He'd been hunting Luna for months, methodically moving pieces into position.

I grind my teeth as anger blossoms in my chest.

Her family failed to protect her when it mattered most.

I rise from my chair, walking to the window where the city sprawls beneath me like it's waiting for orders. But I don't issue commands yet. What I need now isn't reaction—it's precision.

Christopher looked at her like she still belonged to him, and perhaps once he believed she did. Maybe he had his hands on her. Maybe she kept quiet because silence was her only survival strategy.

But that ends now. Because while Luna was learning to hide, I was perfecting the art of breaking anything that tried to take what was mine.

I pause at that thought, catching myself in the reflection of the glass. Mine. The word sits uncomfortably in my chest, a weight I hadn't intended to carry. I tell myself it's just the possession that matters—the principle of it. My collar, my claim, my rules. That's all this is.

The excuse sounds hollow even to my own ears.

This isn't about the possession anymore. It's about her. About Luna. But acknowledging that means admitting this runs deeper than I'm prepared to accept.

So instead, I focus on the threat. That's simpler. Cleaner. More familiar territory.

I understand how this game works. Power answers only to power. If I want him to back off, protecting her isn't enough—I need to make her untouchable. Not by hiding her or making her small, but by making her mine in a way no one would dare question.

Because regardless of what Christopher believes, Luna was never his.

And I refuse to examine too closely why that matters to me so much.