Page 52 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Forty-Eight

BECKETT

The gallery pulses with energy—champagne flutes clinking, hushed conversations about technique and meaning, the occasional burst of laughter rising above the ambient music. But I see none of it. I see only her.

Luna moves through the crowd with a grace I've never witnessed before, her black dress flowing around her like liquid shadow, gold accessories catching the light with every gesture.

She's radiant. Commanding. Completely in her element as she discusses her work with critics, collectors, and admirers who have no idea they're in the presence of something extraordinary.

Someone extraordinary.

Her paintings dominate the space—twenty-three canvases, each more arresting than the last. The collection tells a story of transformation, of darkness yielding to light, of captivity giving way to freedom.

And they're selling. Fast. Three red dots already mark pieces as sold, and I've seen at least four more serious inquiries in the last hour alone.

I had nothing to do with it. That was my gift to her—not just the gallery, but the chance to succeed or fail on her own merit.

The invitations went out under the gallery's name, not mine.

The guests tonight have no idea that Beckett Sinclair is involved.

They're here for the art, for the artist, not for connections to power or influence.

And Luna is flourishing in a way that makes my chest ache with something dangerously close to pride. No—not pride. Something deeper. Something I still can't fully name.

She catches my eye across the room, a small private smile curving her lips before she turns back to the curator from MoMA who's been monopolizing her attention for the past fifteen minutes.

The look lasts barely a second, but it's enough to send heat coursing through me, to remind me of exactly what I plan to do to her when we're finally alone.

I want to take her to one of the many private corners of this place and fuck her senseless against the wall, her dress hiked up around her waist, my name on her lips. I want to taste the victory on her skin, to feel her shudder against me as she comes undone.

But that will come soon enough. Tonight is hers. Her moment. Her triumph.

I haven't seen Christopher yet, but security knows to alert me as soon as he's seen anywhere on the property.

"Well, well, well," a familiar voice drawls from behind me. "The mighty Beckett Sinclair, lurking in the shadows while his woman steals the spotlight."

I turn to find Sebastian and Graham approaching, both impeccably dressed in tailored suits that cost more than most people's monthly rent. Graham is grinning like he's caught me in some embarrassing act, while Sebastian maintains his usual air of aristocratic amusement.

"I'm not lurking," I reply, accepting the glass of whiskey Sebastian offers me. "I'm observing."

"Obsessing, more like," Graham counters, clapping me on the shoulder. "You haven't taken your eyes off her all night."

"Can you blame him?" Sebastian asks, his gaze drifting to where Luna stands. "She's magnificent."

"She is," I agree simply.

Graham whistles low. "Damn, you've got it bad. The great Beckett Sinclair, completely whipped by a woman who was supposed to be just another possession."

I arch an eyebrow. "Careful, Graham."

"Oh, lighten up," he laughs, completely unintimidated. "It's nice to see you actually care about someone besides yourself for once."

"What Graham is trying to say," Sebastian cuts in smoothly, "is that we're happy for you. Both of you."

I nod once, accepting the sentiment for what it is—genuine, if surprising.

"The pieces are remarkable," Sebastian continues, gesturing to the nearest canvas—a storm breaking over water, golden light cutting through darkness. "She's extraordinarily talented."

"Yes," I agree. "She is."

"And already selling," Graham adds, eyeing the red dots with professional interest. "At these prices? Impressive for a debut."

Before I can respond, a new presence joins our circle—Preston Wolfe, silver fox of the Collectors, immaculate in a charcoal suit with a subtle silver tie that matches his perfectly styled hair.

"Gentlemen," he greets us, his voice carrying that distinctive authority that comes from generations of wealth and power.

"Preston," I acknowledge with a slight nod. "I didn't expect to see you here tonight."

His smile is enigmatic. "I always make time for promising new talent." His gaze scans the room, landing briefly on Luna before returning to me. "You've uncovered quite a find, Sinclair. My congratulations."

"Thank you," I reply, noting the careful phrasing. Uncovered, not claimed. Not possessed.

"I've heard some rather unfortunate things happened to Anthony recently," Preston continues, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. "Quite the scandal brewing."

I take a measured sip of my whiskey. "The hazards of overreaching, I suppose."

"Indeed." His smile takes on a knowing edge. "Some ventures carry more risk than reward."

"It probably works out well for everyone in the end," I offer, watching his reaction carefully. "Some members tend to use the Club for their own personal benefit rather than for the benefit of the Club."

Preston's eyes gleam with what might be approval. "Precisely. Balance must be maintained. Rules must be respected." He inclines his head slightly. "The Collectors will be discussing a replacement soon. Someone with a better understanding of... boundaries."

The message is clear—Baine's fall has been noted, and not entirely mourned. And somehow, I've managed to rise rather than fall in Preston's estimation.

"I look forward to hearing the outcome," I reply, matching his diplomatic tone.

"I'm sure you do." Preston glances once more at Luna, who is now discussing one of her larger pieces with an elderly collector. "She's quite special. I can see why you were so determined to keep her."

Before I can respond, he adds, "Enjoy your evening, gentlemen. And Sinclair—well played."

With that, he moves away, seamlessly inserting himself into a conversation with a group of art critics near the bar.

"What the actual fuck did you do?" Graham asks the moment Preston is out of earshot, his expression a mixture of awe and concern.

Sebastian looks equally intrigued, though more restrained in showing it. "I'm also curious what exactly 'well played' refers to."

I open my mouth to deliver a suitably vague response when a commotion near the entrance catches my attention. Voices raised. A woman's startled exclamation. The sound of something—or someone—hitting the floor.

My body tenses instantly, every sense on high alert as I scan the crowd for Luna. She's still by her painting, seemingly unaware of the disturbance, safe for the moment.

"Stay with her," I tell Sebastian without taking my eyes off the entrance. "Don't let her out of your sight."

I don't wait for his acknowledgment before moving through the crowd toward the source of the commotion, Graham falling into step beside me. The guests part before us, conversations faltering as they sense the shift in atmosphere.

And then I see him—Anthony Baine, stumbling slightly as he pushes past the security guard at the door, his eyes wild as they scan the room, looking for one person only.

Looking for me.