Page 34 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Thirty-One

BECKETT

She doesn't hear me approach her studio.

The door is barely open, just enough for me to glimpse her through the crack.

She's lost in her own world—one bare foot tucked beneath the other, a streak of deep red paint across her wrist, her hair twisted up carelessly like she's forgotten anyone else exists.

I remain motionless in the doorway, watching her work like I do so often now.

The brush moves with thoughtless precision between her fingers, dragging deep blues and stark blacks across the canvas in strokes that aren't careful or controlled, but messy and forceful.

Wild. She's bleeding out everything she doesn't know how to say—every scream she buried, every truth she wasn't allowed to speak.

The colors clash rather than blend, dark layered over darker, forming angles that shouldn't work but somehow do.

This isn't just a painting. It's a confession she doesn't even realize she's making .

And it's fucking beautiful. Unsettling. Raw.

I allow myself another moment of watching before I turn away, pulling my phone from my pocket as I move down the hall. It rings once before Sebastian answers.

"Beck." His voice is low, alert—he already knows this isn't a social call.

"I'm gonna need your help," I say, keeping my voice steady.

A beat of silence passes between us before he exhales heavily.

"Tell me when."

"Soon," I say. "I'll send details tomorrow. Make sure everything's in place."

"Are we talking security or something more?"

"Both. The usual team, plus additional measures." I pause, glancing back toward her studio. "And Sebastian? Complete discretion."

"Have I ever given you less?" He chuckles softly, but there's an edge to it. He understands the gravity without me spelling it out.

I end the call but remain in the hallway, listening to the faint scrape of her brush adding another layer to the painting.

Sebastian didn't ask questions beyond the basics—he never does.

He knows the difference between my tones, between chaos and calculation.

He knows I only ask for help when I'm already building something I don't want interrupted.

And this isn't just about protection. This is about precision.

She's still painting when I tuck the phone away, still lost in her work, still unaware of what's shifting beneath her feet. That's good. She needs the space, but she also needs to be moved—not just physically, but mentally and emotionally.

I've watched her settle into this place like it's safe, like I won't burn it to the ground the second it stops serving her.

She doesn't know I've decided to take her away from here—not because she's in danger, but because I want her away from anything that might try to convince her she's anything but mine.

The property is already secured—north of the city, remote, expansive, surrounded by woods. Private. The light there will be perfect for her painting. The quiet will give her mind space to breathe. The studio overlooking the trees will give her somewhere to put all this emotion she's been carrying.

I'll let her think it's about peace, about recovery. I'll let her settle into the illusion that this is just another act of generosity. But we both know better.

I don't give people things. I place them where they need to be.

Chess pieces on a board.

When I finally decide to make my presence known, I stand quietly in the doorway. She glances over her shoulder, brush still poised in midair, eyes guarded but curious. I don't step inside—I don't need to. She already feels it—the shift beneath the surface of my calm, something coiled and waiting.

"How far along is that one?" I ask, nodding toward the canvas.

She blinks, as if surprised by such a mundane question. "Almost done."

I nod once, studying the chaotic arrangement of colors. "You'll finish it when we get there."

Her head tilts slightly, wariness creeping into her expression. "Get where?"

I move closer then, just a single step, but it's enough to make her spine straighten—enough to remind her what I am when I want something .

"We're leaving in two days," I say, my voice betraying none of the anticipation building beneath my skin.

The brush lowers slowly as she processes my words. "Leaving?"

"Temporary. Quiet." I hold her gaze. "Somewhere no one can reach us."

Her brows draw together, eyes narrowing. "Why?"

I maintain the steady calm that's become my trademark with her. "Because you need it. Because I want it." A pause. "Because I said so."

She laughs then, but there's no real humor in it. "And if I say no?"

I don't answer with words. Instead, I close the distance between us, taking the brush from her hand and setting it down with deliberate care. Then I reach for her waist, my fingers curling around her with gentle but unmistakable possession, drawing her toward me.

Her breath stutters. "Beckett?—"

"Pack light," I murmur against her skin, my lips close enough to her ear that I can feel the shiver that runs through her. "You won't need much where we're going."

I don't let go right away. She remains standing in front of me, her body warm under my hand, her breath catching like she doesn't know what to do with it. Maybe I don't either.

Her eyes search mine—questioning, uncertain, edges sharp with something like anxiety, as if she's bracing for something worse than what I'm about to give her.

Asking me if I'm still upset with her. If I see her any differently... If I still want her.

But I don't move back. I move forward.

My fingers reach up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, lingering just beneath her jaw afterward. The touch is softer than I intended, more uncertain than I'd ever let anyone else see.

Her lips part, and something shifts between us—a gravitational pull neither of us seems prepared for.

I don't plan to kiss her. It's not a decision my brain consciously makes. It just happens—a collision of heat and restraint that snaps like a wire finally giving out after too much tension.

My mouth covers hers, and the world goes still. She doesn't fight it. She melts into it, and for one impossible second, I feel like she's not just letting me have her—she's kissing me back.

It's slow, deeper than it should be, like something that's been waiting in both of us finally surfaced and neither of us knows how to push it back down.

Her hand brushes against my chest, trying to steady herself.

She gasps and I blink, confused. We both look down at the deep blue smear blooming across the front of my shirt.

The silence hangs between us for a heartbeat.

Then she laughs—quiet, breathless, but real. The sound startles me. Not because she's laughing, but because it's beautiful—because it's the first genuine moment of lightness I've seen from her since bringing her home from that estate.

I glance back down at the stain, then at her. "You just ruined my favorite shirt."

"You ruined it first," she says, a grin tugging at her lips. The teasing note in her voice catches me off guard.

I stare at her—this messy, wild, beautiful half-stained woman in front of me who doesn't realize she's still pressed against my chest, who's showing me glimpses of who she is beneath all that trauma and fear.

And I swear to God, if I don't step back now, I won't. So I release her carefully, like she's something fragile. Like I'm not the one who might break if I hold on too long.

She watches me as I withdraw, her eyes searching my face like she's trying to figure out what just changed between us.

So am I.

"Two days," I say, backing away before I give in to the urge to pull her close again.

Then I turn and walk out—paint-smeared, pulse wrecked, and wondering what the hell that kiss just did to me.