Page 47 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Forty-Four

LUNA

I've never painted like this before.

It's as though a dam has broken inside me, releasing not just the familiar torrent of anger and pain, but something deeper, richer, more nuanced.

My art has changed—not less emotional, not less raw, but somehow more complete.

As if I've finally found the missing colors in a palette I didn't know was incomplete.

For the last two weeks now, Beckett and I have lived in this strange, suspended reality at the upstate house.

The gallery construction continues in our absence, but here, in this remote fortress, time feels different.

Measured not in hours or days, but in canvases completed.

In truths revealed. In barriers dismantled between us.

Beckett hasn't left me alone since he returned. He takes calls occasionally, disappears into his office for an hour or two when necessary, but always returns. Always finds his way back to me, to this studio that has become the heart of the house .

Today, though, is different. He's been here since morning, sitting silently in the leather recliner, watching me work with an intensity that would be unnerving if it came from anyone else.

He isn't scrolling through his phone. Isn't making notes or taking calls.

He's just... present. Completely. His eyes following every stroke of my brush, every movement of my body as I transform blank canvas into something living.

The painting before me is unlike anything I've created before—a storm breaking over water, golden light piercing through clouds so dark they're almost black. It's violence and peace existing simultaneously. Chaos yielding to clarity. The moment of transition when one reality gives way to another.

I step back, assessing the balance, feeling the need for something more. Something that will bridge the final gap between what I see in my mind and what exists on the canvas.

"Come here," I say, my voice a command rather than a request.

Beckett's eyebrow lifts slightly, surprise flickering across his features at my boldness, but he comes to me without hesitation. Closer. Closer still. Until we're standing toe to toe, his breath mingling with mine, the heat radiating from his body like tension seeking somewhere to land.

"What is it?" he asks, his voice low and rough, edges catching like fabric on barbed wire.

I look up at him, holding his gaze without wavering.

"Take off your shirt."

His eyes darken, a question forming. "Why?"

My answer is to reach for the paint—gold, still wet, still warm from the sunlight streaming through the windows.

"So I can make you mine," I reply simply.

He stares at me like I've cracked open the sky to reveal something no one was meant to see. His movements are slow, controlled, every motion saturated with the restraint that defines him. Buttons yield to his fingers one by one until the fabric parts, revealing what lies beneath.

And then he stands before me, bare-chested and magnificent.

Golden skin stretched over tightly coiled muscle. Black ink etched into flesh like a language few are privileged to understand. Chaos somehow tamed into deadly control.

The tattoos catch the light first—sharp, deliberate lines forming patterns that speak of meaning rather than mere decoration.

One particular design wraps along his ribs, curving beneath his chest like it was meant to stay hidden until someone earned the right to see it.

Not art for vanity. Marks of precision. Of control. Of deeper purpose.

I step forward, brush in hand, and let my eyes drift across the phrase inked in bold, elegant script just above his ribs.

"Memento mori," I murmur, the Latin rolling off my tongue.

He watches me in silence for a beat, then his voice drops, low and certain as he translates.

"Remember, you will die."

His eyes never leave mine as he continues, "A reminder that nothing is permanent. That power fades. Pain fades. Pleasure too. But the choices we make..." He pauses, the words heavy with meaning I'm only beginning to understand. "That's what lingers."

His gaze locks with mine, challenging me to comprehend what he's never spoken aloud before this moment.

"It's not about death," he finishes quietly. "It's about what you do with the life you have left."

I exhale slowly, the words cracking something open inside me that I've kept sealed for too long .

Without speaking, I dip my brush into the gold paint and bring it to his skin. The bristles drag across the tattooed letters, bright gilded strokes layering over somber black—my color claiming his meaning, intertwining our stories.

"Then maybe this," I whisper as I paint, "is my reminder."

He remains silent, watching my hands move across his skin.

"That even if they tried to erase me..." I continue, each word falling between us like a confession, "even if they gave me away like I was nothing... I still get to choose what I become before I'm gone."

My hand trembles slightly now, but I don't stop.

"And I choose this."

One final stroke of gold curves around the edge of his ribs—not covering his tattoo, but claiming it. Transforming it. Making it ours rather than just his.

When I meet his eyes again, the tension between us has shifted into something new—no longer chaos, no longer fear or uncertainty.

Just heat. Just truth. Just us.

I step back, not because I'm finished, but because I recognize the magnitude of what this moment means for both of us. Without another word, I turn away from him, pick up my brush again, and face the canvas I'd been working on.

The painting waits, incomplete but honest—just like me.

And for the first time, I understand exactly what needs to be added next.