Page 42 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Thirty-Nine

LUNA

Beckett carries me through the woods, cradled against his chest like something precious instead of something claimed. I don't speak. Neither does he. The only sounds are our breathing, his measured footsteps on the forest floor, and the occasional rustle of leaves overhead.

My mind is still reeling from everything that just happened. Not just the physical connection—though my body still thrums with the memory of it—but the words. The admissions. The walls that came crumbling down between us, leaving us both exposed in ways I never anticipated.

I need you. All of you.

His words echo in my head, too enormous to fully comprehend. Beckett Sinclair—the man who owns everything, who controls everything, who never shows weakness—admitted he needs me. Not as a possession. Not as a conquest. But as a person. As myself.

And I admitted I needed him too.

The house comes into view, its stark brutalist lines somehow less forbidding now. Less like a prison and more like a fortress built to protect what's inside. He carries me through the door without breaking stride, his arms never wavering despite the distance we've traveled.

He brings me straight to the master bathroom—a cavernous space of stone and glass that I've never entered before now.

The shower is massive, with multiple shower heads and walls of transparent glass.

He sets me down gently on my feet, his hands lingering at my waist as if reluctant to break contact.

"Let me take care of you," he says, his voice low and rough with an emotion I'm still learning to recognize.

I nod, unable to find words that feel adequate for this moment.

He undresses me slowly, reverently—so different from the desperate, hungry way he's stripped me in the past. Each article of clothing is removed with careful attention, his fingertips ghosting over newly exposed skin with something like wonder.

When I stand naked before him, he looks at me not with hunger but with appreciation, like he's seeing me for the first time.

I reach for his shirt, wanting to return the favor, and he allows it—another small surrender from a man who never yields control.

I undress him with the same deliberate care, revealing the body I know so well yet somehow don't know at all.

The scars I've never asked about. The tension he always carries in his shoulders.

The vulnerability he keeps hidden beneath tailored suits and cold authority.

When we're both naked, he leads me into the shower, turns on the water, and adjusts the temperature with practiced precision. The spray hits us from multiple angles, warm and soothing against skin still flushed from our encounter in the woods.

Beckett reaches for soap, lathers it between his hands, and begins to wash me—starting with my shoulders, moving down my arms, across my collarbone. His touch is gentle, almost reverent. There's nothing sexual in it now, just pure care and attention.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs, more to himself than to me.

I close my eyes, leaning into his touch, allowing myself to be tended to in a way I've never experienced before.

He washes every inch of me, careful with the places where bark or moss left marks on my skin, thorough but never invasive.

When he kneels to wash my legs, I find myself resting a hand on his shoulder for balance, and the simple domesticity of the gesture nearly brings tears to my eyes.

When he's finished, I take the soap from him and repeat the process—washing his broad shoulders, the strong planes of his chest, the taut muscles of his abdomen. I feel him trembling slightly under my touch, a vulnerability he's never shown before.

"No one's ever done this for you before, have they?" I ask softly.

He shakes his head once, a barely perceptible movement. "No one's ever wanted to."

The admission breaks something open in my chest. I continue washing him, paying special attention to the tension in his neck and shoulders, working the soap into a lather against his skin.

When we're both clean, he shuts off the water and reaches for towels—large, plush ones that feel like clouds against my damp skin. He dries me first, then himself, and without a word, leads me to the bedroom.

It's exactly what I would have expected from Beckett Sinclair—minimalist, elegant, dominated by a massive bed with charcoal sheets and a black headboard. The windows here are floor-to-ceiling, offering a view of the forest stretching out beneath the night sky.

He pulls back the covers and gestures for me to get in. I hesitate only briefly before sliding between the sheets, the cool fabric a stark contrast to my still-warm skin.

What surprises me is when he follows, slipping into bed beside me without a word of explanation. Not just for sex. Not just to prove a point. But to sleep. To rest. To simply be with me.

It feels strange. New. But also undeniably right.

I turn to face him, our bodies close but not touching, the space between us charged with everything that's changed between us.

"What were you doing this week?" I ask, breaking the silence. "While I was here alone."

His eyes, so dark in the dim light of the bedroom, study my face for a long moment. "Eliminating threats," he says finally.

"Like...killing people?" I ask, only half-joking.

The corner of his mouth quirks up. "No. But I would if it meant keeping you safe."

"Why is that strangely attractive?" I murmur, surprising myself with my honesty.

He chuckles, the sound vibrating through the small space between us. "Because you know I mean it."

I shift closer, drawn to his warmth, to the safety his body represents. "Tell me about the threats. What were you protecting me from? "

"The Collectors, for one," he says, his arm coming around me naturally, as if we've lain like this a thousand times before. "They were angry about the Hunt. About you using your sister's invitation."

"I didn't steal it," I correct him, nestling against his chest. "She gave it to me."

"I know," he murmurs against my hair. "But they were still... displeased."

I take a deep breath, knowing it's time for the truth. All of it. "I was trying to escape something. Someone."

"Christopher," he says, and I stiffen slightly.

"You know about him?"

"I know enough," Beckett replies, his voice hardening slightly at the name. "I know what he did to you. What he tried to do."

I pull back enough to see his face, to gauge his expression. "You don't know everything."

His eyes narrow slightly, concern replacing the contentment that was there moments before. "What don't I know, Luna?"