Page 36 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Thirty-Three

BECKETT

I kill the phone display with a swipe of my thumb, slipping the device into my inner suit pocket.

Even across miles, the image of Luna pacing through the house remains burned into my vision.

I've watched her for hours on the security feed, tracking her methodical exploration of the property—her hand trailing over walls, her cautious approach to each room, the hesitant way she stepped into the art studio I'd prepared for her.

But she hasn't painted. Not a single brushstroke. Just stood there, arms wrapped around herself like armor, staring at the blank canvas as though it represented something she couldn't bring herself to face.

That concerns me more than her anger, more than the string of elegant curses she hurled at the security cameras before pointedly turning her back on them. Anger I understand. Anger I can work with .

This stillness, though. This silence. It suggests something breaking underneath that I can't yet see.

"Mr. Sinclair."

The voice pulls me from my thoughts. One of the Club's staff—perfectly pressed suit, neutral expression, eyes fixed respectfully just over my shoulder rather than meeting mine directly. "The Collectors will see you now."

I rise, buttoning my jacket with practiced precision. The weight of the gun beneath it shifts, then settles against my ribs, a silent reassurance I don't technically need but prefer to have anyway. Rules or no rules, I've never walked unarmed into a room where my control might be challenged.

I follow him down the corridor toward the chamber reserved exclusively for the Collectors' use. My footsteps are measured, unhurried despite the urgency clawing at my insides. Panic is for prey, not predators. And I refuse to be hunted in these halls.

The doors open before us, revealing a chamber that seems deliberately designed to intimidate.

The ceiling soars overhead, a dome of intricate latticework that filters light down in patterns that dance across polished obsidian floors.

The walls are lined with dark wood paneling, interrupted only by narrow windows and oil paintings of hunts throughout history—men pursuing deer through forests, falcons diving for rabbits, wolves circling wounded prey.

At the center stands a massive round table, carved from a single piece of black walnut.

The surface is polished to a high gleam, reflecting the crystal chandelier suspended above it like dark water under moonlight.

Three men occupy high-backed chairs around its circumference, leaving the fourth position conspicuously empty.

My seat .

Or what would be my seat, if I belonged at this table.

My gaze moves first to Anthony Baine—mid-fifties, lean as a whip with thinning silver-blond hair and the kind of aristocratic features that speak of generations of careful breeding.

His eyes are cold, calculating, tracking my every movement with the practiced assessment of a seasoned hunter.

He wears a navy suit so dark it's nearly black, a platinum signet ring adorning his left hand.

To his right sits Preston Wolfe—the silver fox of the group, with his salt-and-pepper hair artfully styled and beard meticulously trimmed.

He's in his mid-forties, and his physique suggests regular training, shoulders broad beneath his charcoal suit.

He's watching me with an expression of mild curiosity, as though I'm a specimen he hasn't quite decided how to classify.

The third man is Edgar Blackwood—oldest of the three, with deeply lined features that have settled into a permanent expression of stern disapproval.

His suit is traditional, almost old-fashioned, and the gold watch chain draped across his vest speaks to a preference for tradition over innovation.

His gnarled hands rest flat on the table, liver spots visible against pale skin.

I stop at the edge of the table, neither taking a seat nor asking permission to do so.

"Hunt what runs," I begin, speaking the ritual words that open all formal proceedings within the Club.

"Keep what's caught," they respond in unison.

"Control what's kept," we finish together, the ancient mantra hanging in the air between us.

"This is an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Sinclair," Anthony says, his voice cultured, precise, revealing nothing of his thoughts. "When we received your request for a formal audience, we were... intrigued. "

"I don't believe in allowing misunderstandings to fester," I reply, meeting his gaze directly. "I understand there are questions regarding my Possession."

Preston leans forward slightly, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Questions is perhaps too gentle a term. We've reviewed the footage from the Hunt. Your... acquisition... was not wearing an anklet."

"She was not a sanctioned participant," Edgar adds, his voice rough with age and judgment. "And yet you not only claimed her, but failed to report the breach of protocol."

I remain standing, deliberately maintaining the height advantage. "If I may clarify the situation."

Anthony gestures with elegant fingers. "Please do."

"The protocols you reference apply specifically to sanctioned Pieces within the Hunt," I begin, my voice level and confident. "However, as Luna Laurent entered using her sister's invitation, she technically entered as Genevieve Laurent—who was, in fact, a sanctioned participant."

Preston's eyebrow lifts slightly. "An interesting distinction."

"Furthermore," I continue, "the Club bylaws, Section 7, Paragraph 3, specifically state that during a Hunt, any unclaimed individual within the boundaries becomes fair game. She crossed the threshold willingly, entered the grounds willingly, and was claimed willingly."

"You're splitting hairs, Sinclair," Edgar growls.

"I'm adhering to the letter of our laws," I correct him. "Just as the Collectors have always done."

This earns me a thin smile from Anthony. "Even if we were to accept this... creative interpretation... it doesn't address the core issue. She was not properly vetted. She has no training, no background check, no understanding of our rules or traditions. She represents a security risk."

"Which is why you wish to have her removed and sequestered," I state flatly. "To ensure her silence."

"For her own protection," Preston adds smoothly. "And the protection of our membership."

I let silence hang for a moment, then play my next card. "I've ensured her silence already. She's currently secured at my private estate upstate. No contact with the outside world, no means of communication, no opportunity to compromise the Club's security."

Edgar scoffs. "And we're simply meant to take your word for this? Allow an unprecedented exception to our protocols because Beckett Sinclair says so?"

I reach into my jacket, noting how they all tense slightly, and remove a small black device. I place it on the table between us.

"This contains complete surveillance access to the property. You can monitor her at any time, verify her continued isolation, confirm my claim." I pause, letting the offer sink in. "I take full responsibility for her compliance and discretion."

What they don't know is that the security footage they're seeing is on a randomized loop, which I can turn off remotely or alter at any time. Because there's no way I would actually hand over security footage of Luna in my own estate.

Anthony studies me for a long moment, something calculating in his gaze. "And what do you gain from this arrangement, Mr. Sinclair? Why not simply relinquish her to our care?"

"Because she's mine," I say simply. "I claimed her. I collared her. And I do not surrender what belongs to me. "

The three men exchange glances, a silent communication passing between them.

"We are aware of your particular expertise in cybersecurity," Preston says carefully. "Talents that might prove... valuable to certain interests of the Club."

I hold his gaze steadily. "I'm always open to mutually beneficial arrangements," I reply, measuring each word. "Provided, of course, that the Club formally acknowledges my claim on Luna Laurent as my legitimate Possession and removes any challenges to her status."

"You presume to bargain with the Collectors?" Edgar's voice rises indignantly.

"I presume to offer a solution that benefits all parties," I counter, keeping my tone respectful but firm. "The Club gains access to specialized skills few can provide. I retain what is rightfully mine. And Luna remains secure, her silence guaranteed."

Anthony leans back in his chair, fingers drumming lightly against the polished wood. "Your reputation for... creative problem-solving... was not exaggerated, Mr. Sinclair."

"I prefer efficiency to conflict," I reply.

"Admirable," Preston murmurs, though the gleam in his eye suggests he's not entirely convinced.

"There may be certain matters requiring your particular expertise," Anthony adds, his tone deliberately casual. "Information acquisition that would be... difficult for others to facilitate."

"I'm sure we can come to an understanding," I respond, reading between the lines. "My skills are at the Club's disposal, within reasonable parameters."

Edgar scoffs. "And who defines what's reasonable?"

"We all have our boundaries, Mr. Blackwood," I say evenly. "I'm simply acknowledging mine exist."

"This is highly irregular," Edgar protests, but there's less force behind his objection now.

Anthony silences him with a slight gesture. "We will need to deliberate on your proposal, Mr. Sinclair. Such an exception to our established protocols cannot be decided hastily."

I incline my head slightly. "Of course. I merely ask that you consider the advantages of my solution compared to the disruption of forced removal."

"And if we decide against you?" Preston asks, curiosity evident in his tone.

My expression doesn't change, but something shifts in my posture—a subtle transformation from businessman to predator that doesn't go unnoticed by any of them.

"Then we would have a profound disagreement," I say softly. "Which would be... unfortunate for all involved."

The threat hangs in the air, unspoken but unmistakable.

Anthony's mouth curves in what might generously be called a smile. "You will have our decision within forty-eight hours."

I bow my head slightly. "I appreciate your consideration."

"Hunt what runs," Anthony intones, signaling the end of our meeting.

"Keep what's caught," I respond along with the others.

"Control what's kept," we finish in unison.

I turn and walk out without looking back, feeling their eyes on me until the doors swing shut behind me. In the corridor, I allow myself a single deep breath before my mask of perfect control slides back into place.

Forty-eight hours.

Time enough to ensure they make the right decision. Time enough to contact Genevieve Laurent. Time enough to secure the leverage I need.

Because Luna isn't leaving my protection. Not for the Collectors. Not for anyone.

She's mine. And I protect what's mine.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Another alert from the security system at the house. I pull it out, expecting to see Luna's continued pacing.

Instead, I find her in the art studio. Painting at last.

The canvas blooms with violent strokes of crimson and black, a storm of color and emotion that makes something in my chest tighten unexpectedly.

I stare at the image for a long moment, then slip the phone away.

Perhaps she's not breaking after all.

Perhaps she's merely finding her edges.