Page 35 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Thirty-Two

LUN A

The car carries us silently through the morning air, an intimate bubble of tension suspended between highways and history.

Beckett hasn't spoken since we left the house, and neither have I.

But silence with him doesn't just feel quiet—it feels like waiting. Like something under pressure building so slowly, so deliberately, that you can feel it pressing against your spine.

He sits beside me in the back seat, dressed in black from head to toe, as though the tension emanating from him demanded a uniform to match. His hand braces against his jaw, legs stretched out like the world should make room for him without question. Maybe it should.

I try not to stare at him, at the profile I've memorized without meaning to.

But I fail. Miserably.

Everything about him radiates control—his measured breathing, the stillness of his hands, the way his eyes track the passing landscape. But after yesterday, after that kiss in the studio, I know better.

It wasn't like the others. Not the bruising, possessive kind that came tangled with desperate hands and broken moans in dark corners.

This was something else entirely—raw, unfiltered need.

The way his mouth claimed mine like he didn't know how not to.

The way his hand curved behind my neck, so carefully, like I might shatter beneath his fingertips.

The way he pulled back slowly, reluctantly, as though letting go physically hurt him.

My heart hasn't stopped racing since.

I look down, picking at a loose thread on my jeans, suddenly aware of how little I actually know about the man who has somehow become the center of my existence.

"Where are you taking me?" The question leaves my mouth before I can reconsider.

Beckett doesn't turn toward me, but the slight shift in his shoulders tells me he heard. The silence stretches until I think he might not answer.

"Dutchess County," he finally says, the words clipped and almost reluctant.

I make a face. "Where even is that?"

"Upstate. Away from the city."

"Why?"

His jaw tightens fractionally. "To keep you safe."

"Safe from what?" I press, unable to stop myself from seeking more.

This time he turns, just enough to let me see the edge of his expression—sharp, calculating, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

"From anyone who might try to claim what' s mine."

The words silence me completely. Not because I don't believe him—but because I do.

"So you're just going to hide me away?" I ask, my voice rising slightly.

"I'm going to protect you," he corrects, his tone brooking no argument. "Everything you need will be provided for you while you're there."

Something cold settles in my stomach. "While I'm there? What about you?"

His gaze rests on me for a beat too long, and something in his expression shifts, becomes more intense.

"I have business to attend to," he says, the words careful, measured. "Things that need to be dealt with."

"You can't just lock me up in some house and keep me prisoner," I say, my hands curling into fists in my lap.

Beckett turns his head deliberately, eyes finding mine with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away.

"I can," he says, each word measured and precise. "And I will. Until I'm certain no one else can touch you."

The car slows as we turn off the paved road, and the world outside my window transforms completely—manicured edges and power lines giving way to winding gravel and the slow, creeping hush of ancient trees.

The forest grows denser with every mile, tall pines and bare-limbed oaks rising like silent sentinels on either side, their trunks darkened by rain and time.

The canopy overhead is thick enough to swallow the sunlight, casting the road in a shadowed green that makes midmorning feel like approaching dusk.

I press my fingertips to the cool glass, watching as the trees seem to watch us back, sentient and waiting.

The air smells different here—not like the city with its concrete and steel, not like the penthouse with its expensive neutrality.

This place smells of moss and cold stone and earth that hasn't been disturbed in years.

Beckett hasn't spoken since our brief exchange, his attention fixed forward, one arm draped casually across the back of the seat.

His fingers tap once against the leather, almost imperceptibly, as though he's keeping time with a rhythm only he can hear.

Even here, surrounded by wilderness, he's measuring the world, deciding whether to preserve or break its flow.

The gates appear suddenly before us, looking as though they've stood longer than the trees themselves—iron and twisted metal, quietly rusted in places that speak of deliberate neglect rather than carelessness.

They part without sound as we approach, sliding wide to admit us as though the property itself recognizes its master.

The drive curves deeper into the property, gravel crunching beneath the tires. The trees gradually thin until the estate reveals itself in a clearing that seems carved from the wilderness by sheer force of will.

And it's breathtaking—not in the way of traditional mansions with their welcoming facades and warm lighting. This isn't a home. It's a fortress.

A brutalist sculpture hewn from dark stone and glass, all sharp edges and stark lines that cut into the sky like a warning.

The roof slopes at severe angles. The windows stretch tall and narrow, like archer's slits in medieval battlements.

The massive front door—matte black and flanked by imposing stone columns—looks designed to repel invaders or welcome warriors.

The car pulls to a stop at the entrance. Neither of us moves immediately. My fingers curl tighter around the strap of my bag as I take in the structure before us.

This place doesn't just keep people out—it keeps things in .

When the driver opens Beckett's door and then mine, the air that greets me is colder than I expected. It wraps around my bare arms, carrying the scent of pine and something metallic—like old nails or blood long dried against stone.

I should be nervous. Maybe I am. But there's something else stirring beneath my skin—something sharp and electric and primordial. As though my body remembers what it felt like to run through darkness before I ever learned how.

Beckett steps out beside me without a word. And as we walk through that imposing front door—into a world of stone floors and vaulted ceilings and windows that don't let light in so much as trap it—one certainty settles into my bones.

Whatever I thought was happening between us has already changed.

The moment I cross the threshold, I feel it—not fear, not safety, but something that exists in the uncertain space between.

The entryway rises cavernously around us, stone floors beneath my boots, walls of shadowed concrete soaring upward to meet an angular ceiling that seems designed to make those beneath it feel small.

A staircase curves away to the left, while a hallway stretches into shadows on the right.

I didn't know what to expect when Beckett said we were leaving, but it wasn't this—a fortress that feels less like a retreat and more like a final destination. This house doesn't feel like a place you visit. It feels like a place you never leave.

Beckett moves past me without speaking, takes my bag from my shoulder with casual authority, and disappears down the hallway. Left alone, I remain where I stand, my gaze sweeping over shadowed corners and walls that absorb sound rather than reflecting it.

The silence here isn't just quiet—it's intentional. As though the entire structure was built to hold perfectly still until someone decides it should move.

When Beckett returns moments later, his expression is carefully neutral as he hands me a small electronic keycard.

"This will give you access to most areas of the house," he says. "The kitchen is fully stocked. The security system is state of the art. No one gets in without my permission."

I look at him incredulously. "You're really going to just turn around and leave me in the woods?!"

His eyes meet mine, and for just a moment, I see something like regret flicker there before it's gone, replaced by a smirk I've come to know too well.

"Seems fitting, considering how we met."

"You can't do this," I say, my voice rising. "You can't just lock me away like some possession you're tired of looking at."

"I'm not tired of looking at you," he says, his voice dropping lower. "That's part of the problem."

He steps closer, and despite my anger, my body responds to his proximity like it always does—heart racing, skin warming, breath catching in my throat.

"Stay here," he says, not a request but a command. "Be safe. Behave."

"And if I don't?" I challenge, lifting my chin.

Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. "Then you'll find the consequences... educational."

He turns toward the door, and panic rises in my chest.

"Beckett, don't you dare walk out that door," I warn, following him. "You can't just?—"

But he's already moving, steps measured and deliberate as he reaches the entrance.

"This is for your protection," he says without turning. "Everything you need is here. "

"I don't need things!" My voice cracks with frustration. "I need?—"

I cut myself off before I can finish that thought, before I can admit what I really need.

He pauses at the threshold, and for one breathless moment, I think he might change his mind. But then his shoulders straighten, resolve hardening his spine.

"I'll be back," he says. "When it's safe."

The door closes behind him with a heavy finality, and I hear the locks engage—electronic, mechanical, multiple layers of security sealing me inside this stone prison.

"You bastard!" I shout, knowing he can still hear me through the door. "You can't do this! You can't just lock me away!"

I slam my palm against the door, the impact reverberating up my arm.

"Goddamn it, Beckett! Open this door!"

But there's no response, just the fading sound of footsteps and then silence—absolute, crushing silence that tells me he's already walking away, leaving me trapped in this fortress with nothing but my anger and the uncomfortable realization that what I really need might be him.