Page 46 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Forty-Three

BECKETT

The Bentley glides through midday traffic, the city falling away behind us as we head north along the Hudson.

Luna sits beside me in the passenger seat, her gaze fixed on the passing scenery, fingers occasionally drumming against her thigh to a rhythm only she can hear.

She's wearing a long gown today—a simple black piece that somehow manages to make her look both elegant and untamed.

Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, still damp from our shower this morning.

I can't help but steal glances at her profile as I drive. Even after everything—the confessions, the gallery plans, last night in the studio—there's something almost surreal about her presence beside me. As if I've stepped into a reality I didn't design but somehow desperately needed.

My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket. I ignore it, knowing it's likely another confirmation that my plans are proceeding exactly as arranged.

Christopher had RSVP'd to the gallery opening invitation within hours of receiving it, his eagerness almost pathetic in its predictability.

He has no idea the trap that's been set—that the invitation was bait designed specifically for him, that the opening will be the beginning of his end.

As for Anthony Baine, that situation is already resolving itself with ruthless efficiency.

The CEO of Nexus Dynamics received my anonymous tip yesterday.

By now, the federal authorities have been notified, evidence secured.

Baine will be in handcuffs before he ever realizes it was me who orchestrated his downfall, his attempt to access the quantum encryption algorithms serving as the perfect noose.

Everything is in motion. Precise. Controlled. Just as I planned.

The other Collectors will likely maintain their distance once Baine falls.

The Club has always operated on a principle of plausible deniability—each member responsible for their own actions, their own failures.

They'll cut ties with Baine the moment his arrest becomes public, preserving their own positions rather than risking exposure.

"You're quiet," Luna observes, her voice pulling me from my thoughts.

I glance over, finding her watching me with that penetrating gaze that seems to see beneath my carefully constructed facades. I reach across the console, placing my hand on her thigh, feeling the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her dress.

"Everything is handled," I tell her, squeezing gently.

She covers my hand with hers, her thumb tracing small circles against my skin. "You know you can talk to me about stuff now. I'm not just some wallflower. I went to college, I'm educated."

I can't help the chuckle that escapes me. "I know that. "

"Do you?" she challenges, though her tone remains light. "Because sometimes it seems like you're still trying to shield me from everything."

"I will include you in things," I promise, threading our fingers together. "But nothing that could get you into trouble."

She tilts her head, considering this. "Okay, well, I guess that makes sense." There's reluctant acceptance in her voice, but also a note of appreciation for the honesty.

We fall into comfortable silence as I turn off the main road onto a private drive that winds through a corpse of trees.

The property reveals itself gradually—twenty acres of manicured grounds stretching down to the riverbank, crowned by a modernist structure of glass and steel that catches the afternoon light like a prism.

Luna's breath audibly catches as the building comes into full view. "Beckett, this is?—"

"Yours," I finish for her, unable to keep the satisfaction from my voice.

I park in front of the main entrance, turning off the engine and watching her face as she takes in the scale of the property. Her eyes are wide, lips slightly parted in an expression of stunned disbelief that I find oddly satisfying.

I step out and circle around to open her door, offering my hand. She takes it automatically, still distracted by the building before us.

"Do you like it?" I ask, though her expression already tells me everything I need to know.

She steps out of the car, her grip on my hand tightening almost imperceptibly. "Wait, this is going to be my gallery?"

"Looks like you've got a lot of art to make," I reply, unable to suppress the smile that breaks across my face at her reaction .

Luna stands motionless for a moment, taking in the sweeping lines of the structure, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the way the building seems to both command attention and blend seamlessly with its natural surroundings.

"You did this for me," she says softly, not quite a question.

"I did," I confirm, watching her carefully. "The renovations should be complete within three weeks. The opening is already scheduled."

I step closer, taking her face between my hands, needing her to understand. "Your art deserves to be seen. And I promised you both freedom and me. This is what that looks like."

She searches my face, perhaps looking for any sign of manipulation or ulterior motive. Finding none, she rises on her toes and presses her lips to mine in a kiss that feels like gratitude and promise combined.

When she pulls back, there's a new determination in her eyes. "Show me everything."

I take her hand and lead her toward the entrance, where the building's security system recognizes me immediately, doors sliding open to admit us.

The interior is still partially under construction—scaffolding in places, plastic sheeting protecting certain areas—but the bones of what it will become are clearly visible.

Soaring ceilings. Pristine white walls. Strategic lighting designed to showcase artwork from every angle. A central staircase leading to a second level that overlooks the main gallery space.

"The south wing will be the primary exhibition area," I explain as we walk. "The north wing includes a studio space for you to work on-site if you choose. There's also private gallery space for more exclusive showings. "

Luna moves through the space slowly, trailing her fingers along walls, stepping into pockets of natural light that stream through the windows. I can see her mind working, already envisioning her art hanging here, already planning what she'll create to fill these walls.

"And upstairs?" she asks, glancing toward the staircase.

"Office space. A small apartment if you need to stay overnight. And a private viewing room for potential buyers."

She turns to face me, her expression suddenly serious. "This is real. You're really giving me this."

"I am."

"What do you want in return?" The question isn't accusatory, just practical. Honest.

I step closer, resting my hands lightly on her waist. "I want you to create. I want you to thrive. I want you to be exactly who you are, without constraints."

"And that's enough for you?" she presses, still searching for the catch, the condition, the price.

"That's everything," I tell her, the truth of it surprising even me. "Seeing you like this—in your element, in your power—that's all I need."

She studies me for a long moment, then nods once, decision made. "When's the opening?"

"Three weeks from Saturday," I reply, not mentioning that Christopher has already confirmed his attendance, that the trap is already set.

"Then I better get to work," she says, a smile spreading across her face that carries none of the hesitation or fear I've seen there before. "I have a gallery to fill."

I pull her against me, overwhelmed by the fierce pride surging through my chest. She fits perfectly in my arms, strong and soft and completely her own.

"Yes," I agree, pressing a kiss to her temple. "You do."

And as we stand there in the empty gallery that will soon showcase her talent to the world, I allow myself to acknowledge what I've been avoiding—that in giving Luna her freedom, I've somehow found my own.