Page 5 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Four

LUN A

He's coming for me.

That same presence from before—hot and cold all at once, scraping down my spine like claws dipped in silk. My chest pulls tight, my breath stalls, and I hate myself for it.

Because I don't scare easy.

But whatever he is? He doesn't need to growl or speak or even look at me for my body to register him as a threat.

I don't move. I don't flinch. But I feel it—like a storm building behind me, slow and inevitable.

And then I see him.

He cuts through the ballroom like a sharpened knife. Everyone shifts around him without even realizing it, like they know better than to stand in his path.

He's tall. Sharp. All tailored composure and quiet menace, with a black mask that only hides what he wants to keep secret.

Everything else is on display. His hands, smooth and sure, tucked into the pockets of a midnight-black suit. That jaw, razor sharp beneath just the barest trace of stubble.

And those eyes.

Cold. Silver. Searing.

Locked on me.

Fuck.

He's coming for me.

And everyone in this room can feel it.

One of the other girls shifts uncomfortably beside me. Another glances my way, like she's trying to figure out what I did to make this stranger seek me out.

The answer is nothing.

And also everything.

Because I shouldn't be here. I'm not supposed to be chosen.

But he's walking straight toward me like he knew I'd be here all along.

I square my shoulders, roll them back, and plant my feet a little wider.

If he's going to make a scene, I'm not going to make it easy.

The $250,000 waiting for women who escape the Hunt hangs in my mind like a lifeline.

My entire reason for being here—my way out, my fresh start.

My freedom from Christopher and my parents.

If this man claims me now, that chance vanishes.

When he stops before me, the silence thickens until it's almost suffocating. His gaze moves over me deliberately, assessing rather than admiring, cataloging rather than coveting. He looks at me like I'm a puzzle with missing pieces, or perhaps a prize he's already calculated how to claim.

"Keep walking," I say, keeping my voice steady despite the tension coiling tight in my stomach .

His lips quirk at the corner. "And deny myself the pleasure of your company? I think not."

"I don't recall offering my company," I counter.

He leans in close and I fight the urge to pull back. "You offered the moment you walked in wearing a lie," he says, voice pitched for my ears alone. "Bold move, coming to a place like this without an invitation."

I maintain my dignity, though my heart thrums against my ribs. "I don't know what you're talking about. I handed my invitation over at the door."

"You're not wearing the anklet," he observes, his voice refined and controlled. No accusation, just calm certainty, as though he's already decided what happens next.

"Neither are you," I respond, holding his gaze.

A smile curves his mouth, lacking warmth but not appreciation. "You're clever. I like that."

"I'm not here for your approval."

"No," he agrees, maintaining that maddening composure. "You're here under someone else's name. In someone else's place. Wearing someone else's mask." His gaze drops momentarily to my lips before rising again. "Which means you don't belong to anyone yet."

"Your observational skills are remarkable," I say, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Do you use them often, or save them for special occasions?"

Something darkens in his expression—not anger, but interest. "Only when something catches my attention. You'd be surprised how rarely that happens."

"Perhaps you're easily bored."

"Or perhaps," he murmurs, leaning slightly closer, "I've just been waiting for someone worth watching."

Heat crawls up the back of my neck, spreading across my skin in a wave I can't suppress. I hate that my body betrays me—not just with fear, but with something hungrier, something that waits for his next words even as I brace against them.

"I don't belong to anyone, period," I lift my chin.

His gaze meets mine again, and something sparks behind his eyes—interest, challenge, decision. "I disagree."

"Your disagreement doesn't change facts."

"Doesn't it? In my experience, few things are more malleable than facts... except perhaps beautiful women who pretend they're not afraid."

"I'm not afraid of you."

"No? Then why is your pulse racing at your throat? Excitement, perhaps?"

With smooth precision, he withdraws a small velvet box from his pocket, opening it with one hand to reveal a choker of thin black velvet.

At its center lies a silver charm, intricately designed with a symbol I don't recognize.

The reaction around us is immediate—conversations halt, heads turn, breath catches.

This is no ordinary favor. This is an Owner's collar, the most direct claim possible before the Hunt begins, a tradition so rarely invoked that even longtime members seem startled by its appearance.

He holds it between his fingers, an offering that looks deceptively like a choice.

"No," I say, the word quiet but firm.

He hears what lies beneath—not defiance, but warning.

His expression softens into amusement. "You don't have a choice."

"You think I'm going to let you collar me like a fucking pet?" I respond, the laugh that follows dry and disbelieving.

"Such language," he chides, though his eyes brighten with appreciation. "And here I thought you were trying to blend in. "

"I'd have to care what these people think to blend in."

"And yet you cared enough to steal your way through the door." The amusement fades, replaced by something more serious. "No. I think you're going to let me protect you before someone else decides to take what I've already claimed."

"I didn't realize I had 'Property of Arrogant Stranger' stamped on my forehead," I retort. "How convenient that you've saved me the trouble of choice."

"Choice is overrated when the options include being devoured alive," he says, his calm at odds with the threat underlying his words. "You're in the wolf den now, little thief. And trust me when I say, I'm the least hungry wolf in the room."

He doesn't phrase it as a threat. He states it as fact, as inevitability, which somehow makes it more unsettling than any overt display of force.

"Why me?" I ask, voicing the question that's been burning since he first locked eyes with me. "There are plenty of willing women here."

"Willing isn't interesting," he says simply. "I prefer defiant."

My spine remains straight, my expression guarded as he moves behind me. The room grows so still I can hear my heartbeat echoing in my ears—a frantic rhythm against the dignified silence. This moment holds more weight than I realized when I stole my way in.

When a woman accepts the collar, she doesn't become untouchable. She becomes a target. It's not protection—it's a challenge. A signal that someone intends to claim her. But in the Hunt, nothing is guaranteed.

The collar is a warning. Not a promise.

I should resist. I should object. I should expose myself rather than become someone's prisoner.

Instead, my body is frozen as he brushes my hair gently over one shoulder, his fingers grazing my skin with unexpected delicacy. He fastens the velvet around my throat with practiced ease, though something in his touch suggests he's never done this quite the same way before.

When the clasp clicks shut, the atmosphere shifts perceptibly.

I've been marked. The rules of engagement have changed.

His breath warms my ear as he leans closer. "You should've never come here, little thief."

"Then take it off," I demand through gritted teeth.

"No."

"I don't want it."

"Liar," he whispers, the word a caress against my skin. "Your body betrays you. Your breath. Your pulse. The way you didn't run when you should have. You came here to be claimed—you just didn't know who would do the claiming."

"You're presumptuous."

His voice drops to a whisper, intimate and certain. "And you're mine now. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be for both of us."

"I don't do easy."

I feel rather than see his smile. "Good. Neither do I."