Page 39 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Thirty-Six

BECKETT

The sound of my fingerprints being scanned echoes in the empty hallway as I input the security sequence to my private server room. Three days. Three days of meticulous planning, false leads, and carefully laid traps. Three days away from Luna.

But now everything is in place.

The server room hums with quiet efficiency as I take a seat at the main terminal. The last piece needs to be set before I can return to her. I pull up the secured communication channel—one that can't be traced, can't be monitored, can't be used as evidence against me later.

Anthony Baine's number appears on the screen.

"Sinclair," he answers on the second ring, voice smooth as aged whiskey. "I trust you have good news."

"It's done," I reply, keeping my voice neutral despite the satisfaction curling in my gut. "The access point is established. You'll receive the encryption key in a separate transmission within the hour."

"Excellent." The pleasure in his voice is palpable. "I knew you would see reason."

What he doesn't know—what I've made sure he can't know—is that the "access point" I've created is nothing more than an elaborate honeypot, designed to look like Nexus Dynamics' main server architecture while actually being an isolated system filled with carefully crafted false data.

The moment Baine or his people attempt to access the quantum encryption algorithms, not only will they find themselves downloading worthless gibberish, but the attempted breach will be automatically reported to both federal authorities and Nexus Dynamics' CEO.

With Baine's digital fingerprints all over it.

"The Collectors are pleased with your cooperation," Baine continues. "Luna Laurent is formally recognized as your Possession."

"As she should have been from the start," I reply, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

Baine chuckles. "Perhaps. But rules exist for a reason, Sinclair. Even for men like us."

Especially for men like us. The thought remains unspoken.

"Is that all?" I ask, already mentally moving to the next phase of my plan.

"For now," Baine confirms. "Hunt what runs, Sinclair."

"Keep what's caught," I respond automatically.

"Control what's kept," he finishes before the line disconnects.

I sit back, a grim smile spreading across my face. One problem solved. One threat neutralized. But there's still Christopher Finch to deal with .

I pull up the dossier I've compiled on him over the past week. Old money. Family connections that have kept him from facing consequences for a string of violence against women. A man who believes his privilege entitles him to whatever—or whoever—he desires.

A man who believes Luna should be his.

The invitation I've had created appears on the screen.

Elegant black card stock, embossed with silver lettering.

An exclusive gathering at my newest construction—a modernist mansion overlooking the Hudson.

The sort of event Christopher Finch wouldn't dare miss, especially when the guest list includes names that could further his family's interests.

Names that have no idea they've been included. Names that won't actually be there.

Because the only people who will be there are Christopher and the team I've assembled to ensure he never threatens Luna again.

I schedule the invitation to be delivered tomorrow, then shut down the terminal. With both Baine and Finch handled, I can finally return to Luna.

The thought brings an unexpected warmth to my chest that I quickly suppress. This isn't about warmth. This isn't about feelings. This is about possession. Protection. Control.

At least, that's what I tell myself as I head to the garage where my car waits.

The drive upstate passes in a blur of asphalt and anticipation. I check the security feed twice during the journey—Luna pacing the house like a caged tiger, her frustration evident in every step. She's painted three more canvases since I left. All of them dark. Turbulent. Beautiful in their chaos.

When I finally pull up to the gates, the sun is setting, casting long shadows across the property. The house looms ahead, brutalist and imposing against the darkening sky. For a moment, I wonder how it looks through her eyes. A prison? A sanctuary? Something in between?

I enter silently, disabling security protocols with practiced efficiency. The house is quiet, but I can feel her presence within it—a disruption in the air, a subtle shift in the atmosphere that tells me exactly where she is.

The art studio.

I make my way there without hurry, footsteps deliberately audible against the stone floors. No point in startling her, though part of me is curious what she'd do if cornered. Luna Laurent has proven to be anything but predictable.

She stands before an easel, back to the door, brush moving in short, angry strokes across the canvas.

She's wearing one of my shirts—white, too large for her frame, sleeves rolled up to keep them from the paint.

Her hair is piled atop her head in a messy knot, exposing the nape of her neck where a smudge of cobalt blue mars her skin.

I pause in the doorway, allowing myself a moment to simply watch her. To appreciate the fierce concentration in her posture, the way her body sways slightly with each stroke, the tension in her shoulders that speaks of days of contained fury.

"You're back," she says without turning, voice flat. She heard me coming, then. Waited for me to make the first move.

"I am," I confirm, stepping fully into the room.

She continues painting, deliberately ignoring me. The silent treatment. It's almost endearing, this small act of defiance.

I move closer, examining the canvas. Another storm of color and shadow, this one more abstract than the portrait she painted of me. But no less powerful for its lack of definition .

"You've been busy," I observe, gesturing to the other finished canvases stacked against the wall.

Nothing. Not even a glance in my direction.

That's cute.

"The silent treatment won't work, Luna," I tell her, circling around to stand in her peripheral vision. "And it won't change anything."

Her jaw tightens, but she continues painting, each stroke more aggressive than the last. I wait, curious to see how long she can maintain this resistance.

Ten minutes pass. Twenty. I remain still, patient, watching as she finishes the painting with a final vindictive slash of crimson across the center. Only then does she turn to face me, eyes burning with barely contained rage.

"Are you done imprisoning me now?" she demands. "Or is this just a visit to make sure your property is still intact?"

There's the fire I've been waiting for.

"If you were merely property," I reply calmly, "I wouldn't have gone to such lengths to protect you."

"Protect me?" She laughs, the sound brittle and sharp. "Is that what you call locking me up without explanation? Without contact? Without so much as a fucking phone to call for help?"

"Yes," I say simply.

Her eyes narrow dangerously. "You're insane."

"Perhaps." I step closer, close enough to catch the scent of her—paint and turpentine and something uniquely Luna beneath it all. "But I'm also effective."

"At what? Being a controlling asshole?"

I allow myself a small smile. "At keeping you safe."

"I never asked for your protection," she fires back.

"No," I agree. "But you wear my collar. The protection comes with it."

She flinches slightly at that, memory flashing behind her eyes. The night at the masquerade. The moment she chose to be claimed rather than run.

"I want to leave," she says, her voice quieter now but no less determined.

I study her for a long moment, considering. The threats against her have been neutralized—or soon will be. The Collectors have acknowledged my claim. Christopher Finch is about to discover the consequences of wanting what's mine.

She could leave. I could let her go.

The thought makes something cold and unfamiliar twist in my chest.

"If you really want a chance to escape," I say slowly, the words forming a plan as I speak them, "I'll give you one."

Suspicion flashes across her face. "What does that mean?"

"Another Hunt," I explain. "Just you and me. If you can evade me until sunrise, you're free. I'll provide for you for the rest of your life, ensure your safety, never ask anything of you again."

Her eyes widen slightly. "And if I'm caught?"

I step closer, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "Then you are mine," I say, my voice dropping lower. "Completely. Without reservation or resistance. Mine in every way that matters."

Her breath catches, pupils dilating despite her obvious attempt to appear unmoved.

"Do you accept these terms?" I ask, offering choice while knowing precisely what she'll choose. Luna Laurent has never backed down from a challenge. Especially not one issued by me .

She straightens her spine, chin lifting defiantly. "Yes."

I let my smile widen, predatory and satisfied. "Good."

Stepping back, I glance at the windows where twilight is deepening to true darkness. Perfect timing.

"You have a ten-second head start," I tell her, my voice a promise rather than a threat.

She blinks, momentarily frozen in place.

"Ten," I begin counting, watching as understanding dawns on her face.

"Nine."

She bolts, bare feet silent against the stone floors as she disappears into the darkened hallway.

"Eight."

I remain where I stand, listening to her rapid footsteps fade into the vastness of the house.

"Seven."

This is what we both need, I realize. This game of predator and prey. This chance to break the tension that's been building between us since the moment I claimed her.

"Six."

She thinks she wants freedom. Thinks she wants escape.

"Five."

But what she really wants—what we both want—is this chase. This inevitable collision course.

"Four."

I can already hear her in my head, moving through the house, seeking exit points, planning her strategy.

"Three."

I step into the hallway, every sense heightened, tracking the lingering scent of her perfume mixed with paint.

"Two."

My blood thrums with anticipation. The hunt begins .

"One."

I move silently into the darkness, following her trail, already knowing how this will end.

She thinks she's running from captivity.

But she's running straight into my arms.