Page 40 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Thirty-Seven

BECKETT

This house wasn't meant for peace. These woods weren't meant for quiet. They were built for this. For her. For me. For the moment I stop pretending I can wait and let go of my control completely.

The door clicks shut behind me as I step outside. The forest waits, patient and ancient, as I let the silence press in.

No movement. No sound. Just air thick with pine and distance.

I inhale—slow, deep, deliberate—and catch her scent. Faint, but unmistakable. Wild and sweet, still threaded with the clean soap she used before we left. She's out there, and she's trying not to be found.

I step into the trees without rushing, without announcing myself.

Every movement calculated, every footfall placed with intent.

The woods are damp beneath my boots, earth softened by last night's rain.

Moss clings to the base of the trees. Ferns stretch high along the pathless floor.

A crow calls in the distance, sharp and quick, then silence reigns again.

She thinks she has space. She thinks I won't follow too closely.

She's wrong.

I spot the first sign of her about twenty feet in—a divot in the dirt where her foot caught, a brush of torn leaves clinging to the undergrowth. She stumbled. Not enough to fall, but enough to know she's panicking.

I smile, not because she's scared, but because she ran from me. Because even now, she wants to be caught.

Further in, I slow again. I'm not just tracking her—I'm studying her.

Every broken branch, every shift in the wind, every moment of hesitation she leaves behind tells me a story.

She tried to turn left, then changed her mind.

Doubled back. Curved hard right. And then started walking. No more running. Trying to outsmart me.

Good. I like it when she tries.

A flicker of movement catches my eye—there, between two thick trunks, the hem of my shirt brushing against her thigh, the curve of her back as she presses herself to a tree and listens.

I can't see her face, but I know what it looks like.

Brows drawn. Breathing shallow. Lips parted in a whisper she won't speak aloud.

I can feel it from here—the ache in her legs, the throb in her chest, the heat building between her thighs. She's not running anymore. She's waiting.

Waiting for me to get closer. Waiting for me to speak. Waiting for me to give her permission to fall apart.

And I will. But not yet.

She's still crouched low behind a fallen trunk, her back pressed to bark, hands braced against her thighs like they're the only things holding her together. She hasn't moved in two minutes. But I can hear her breathing. Shallow. Hitched. Faint enough to fool anyone else.

But not me.

I take a step closer—still hidden, but close enough that my voice will reach her.

"You breathe too loud when you're scared," I say, keeping my voice low, as though I'm speaking directly into her ear.

The forest goes still, holding its breath with her.

"And you always hide on your left side when you're cornered," I continue, my words floating through the trees. "Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

I take another step forward, feeling her body tense, even from this distance. The smile that curves my lips is all predator, all hunger.

"Keep hiding, little thief." My voice curls through the trees, slow and warm and cruel. "I'll still find you. And when I do—I won't be gentle."

I circle wider, deliberately letting her lose track of me again.

Let her shift her weight, strain her ears, try to trace where I've gone.

She doesn't know I've already closed the distance.

She doesn't know she's making it worse—how every ragged breath, every shiver of anticipation just makes me want her more.

I pause behind the trunk of an old pine, shadowed and still, then lean forward and whisper low enough to slide under her skin.

"I can smell you, you know."

The silence trembles around us.

"I can smell how fucking wet you are for me."

Her breath catches—a stuttered inhale that betrays her.

There it is .

I step out from behind the trees, revealing myself, and the moment our eyes lock—she bolts.

She runs harder this time. No more hesitation, no more crouching in the dark—just pure instinct, legs pumping, breath sharp, hands pushing past limbs that drag at her like the trees want to keep her here for me.

Good.

Let her run. Let her think she's getting away.

I trail her steps, slower, steadier, not bothering to hide the sound of my boots crushing leaves and pine needles beneath them. I want her to hear me. I want her to know I'm getting closer.

"You run pretty fast for someone who wants to be caught," I call out, voice carrying through the trees.

A sharp gasp escapes her—barely audible, but I catch it.

"Is this the part where you beg me not to find you?" I ask, enjoying the game too much to rush it.

"You wish." She yells over her shoulder, veering left and crashing through the underbrush.

I keep going straight. I don't need to follow her path. I know where she'll circle back. She's panicking again, but it's not real fear—it's anticipation. It's excitement.

I catch a glimpse of her again—just the edge of her shoulder as she ducks behind a fallen tree. She's trembling, not from the cold, but from the ache building inside her.

"You're not hiding, baby," I call out, my voice low and smooth. "You're waiting."

No answer comes, but I know she's listening. I can almost see her holding her breath.

"You want me to take my time, don't you?" I continue, each word deliberate. "Drag it out a little longer? Make you so desperate you forget how to speak? "

Another gasp. Another shuffle of leaves as she tries to move without being heard. She's trying to stay silent, but her body is feeling everything. And I haven't even touched her yet.

I move silently until I'm only a few feet away, concealed behind a tree. She still doesn't see me, but I see everything—the curve of her hip as she shifts, the way her chest rises and falls with every breath, the clench of her thighs as her body betrays her.

"I can smell you again," I say, my voice dropping lower.

She stiffens, going completely still.

"You're soaking through those panties, aren't you?"

There's a beat of silence before her voice comes back—tight, breathless, but defiant.

"I'm not wearing any."

My body locks at her words. Heat punches low in my spine, spreading through me like wildfire. I step out from the shadows, and her eyes go wide when she realizes how close I've been all along.

"Then what exactly," I murmur, moving toward her with deliberate slowness, "do you think I'm going to do to you when I catch you?"

She stumbles backward, bumping into a tree, her pulse visibly racing at her throat. I stalk closer, each step measured and dangerous.

"Run, Luna," I tell her, a smile spreading across my face. "Because when I catch you this time? You don't get to walk away."

She does run—and this time, I don't wait.

I surge forward, grab a fistful of her hair, and wrench her back against me like I've been waiting to do it for hours. She slams into my chest with a breathless curse, fists flying. She fights like she means it—elbows, nails, a knee that comes dangerously close to my thigh.

"Let me go!" she demands, struggling against my grip. "I want my freedom!"

I don't let go. Instead, I drag her back three steps, spin her around, and slam her against the nearest tree—flat, hard, wild.

"Why?" I demand, something raw breaking open in my voice. "Why are you still fighting this?"

Her eyes blaze with fury and something else—something vulnerable and afraid. "Because I need to be free. I need?—"

"What?" I press, my grip tightening. "What do you need that I haven't given you?"

She struggles against me, but her resistance is weakening. "I need to build something that's mine. I need to feel safe. I need to create. I need?—"

"You have all of that with me," I cut in, my voice rough with an emotion I've never let myself feel before. "The studio. The gallery space I'm going to give you. The protection. Everything you want to build, you can build with me."

She stills at that, her eyes searching mine with desperate intensity. "A gallery?"

"Yes," I admit, the word dragged from somewhere deeper than I intended. "I was going to tell you. Your work deserves to be seen."

She shakes her head, confusion warring with something like hope in her expression. "Why would you do that? I'm just a possession to you."

"No," I say, the admission ripping me open. "You're not just anything to me. You never have been."

Her breath catches. "Then what am I?"

I press my forehead to hers, let her feel the tremor I can't quite control in my hands.

"I don't know," I confess, voice barely above a whisper.

"I don't have a name for what you are to me.

I just know that nothing makes sense without you.

That I've broken every rule I've ever set for myself since the moment I saw you. "

Her hands have stopped fighting, now resting against my chest—not pushing away, just feeling my heartbeat.

"You locked me away," she says, but the anger has bled out of her voice.

"To protect you," I explain. "From anyone who might try to take you from me."

"You can't own a person, Beckett."

"I know," I admit, surprising both of us. "But I can cherish one. Guard one. Build something with one."

Her eyes widen at my words, and I can see the moment she begins to understand what I've been too stubborn to admit even to myself.

"What are you saying?" she asks, voice barely audible.

I reach up, cup her face in my hands with a gentleness I didn't know I possessed. "I'm saying that whatever this is between us, it's more than collars and claims and contracts."

Her lips part slightly, trembling. "Then what is it?"

"I don't know," I answer honestly. "I just know that I need you. That there's something about you that breaks every defense I've built. That makes me want to give you everything instead of just taking."

A tear slips down her cheek, and I catch it with my thumb. "I thought you were going to hurt me," she whispers. "Like Christopher. Like everyone else who claimed to want me."

"Never," I vow, the intensity of my own emotion startling me. "I would burn down the world before I let anyone hurt you again. Including me. "

She takes a shuddering breath. "Why me? Why am I different?"

I shake my head, at a loss. "I don't know. I just know that you are. That from the moment I saw you across that room, nothing has been the same. Nothing has mattered the way you matter."

Her hand rises to touch my face, tentative but brave. "And if I choose to stay? If I choose you? What then?"

"Then you're mine," I tell her, my voice rough with promise. "Not as property. Not as a prize. As the woman who somehow broke through when no one else could. As the only person I've ever wanted to keep safe while setting free."

She trembles against me, and I can see her wrestling with herself—with what she wants versus what she's afraid to admit.

"I wanted to run," she confesses. "But every time I thought about escaping, I saw your face. I painted you when I should have been plotting against you. I dreamed of you when I should have been planning my freedom."

"Is it really freedom if you're running from the only place you fit?" I ask, the question as much for myself as for her.

Her fingers curl into my shirt, holding on. "I don't know if I can trust this. Trust you."

"You don't have to," I tell her. "Not yet. Just stay. Let me show you that whatever this is between us, it's real. It's more than games and power and control."

She looks up at me, eyes shining with unshed tears. "And if I still want to leave someday?"

The thought cuts through me like a blade, but I force myself to say the words I never thought I'd speak. "Then I'll let you go."

A sob breaks from her throat, and suddenly she's pulling me closer, her body melting into mine. "I don't want to go," she admits, her voice muffled against my chest. "I want to stay. I want you. I want this—whatever it is."

I wrap my arms around her, holding her against me like she might vanish if I loosen my grip. Relief and something deeper flood through me, making me light-headed with the force of it.

"Rule One," I murmur against her hair, "don't want anything you can't leash."

My hand fists in her hair gently, tilting her face up to mine. "Rule Two—don't touch what you can't walk away from."

I brush my lips against hers, feeling her breath hitch. "Rule Three... don't keep what you can't control."

There's a moment where neither of us moves. Her lashes flutter. Her body trembles against mine. And then I whisper the truth we both already know.

"I broke them all for you."