Page 55 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Fifty-One

BECKETT

By the time I reach the entrance, the commotion has already spiraled into chaos.

Anthony Baine stands there, disheveled and wild-eyed, his usually immaculate appearance a wreck.

His tie hangs loose, his hair sticks up at odd angles, and the stench of expensive whiskey radiates from him like heat from pavement.

Security guards flank him on either side, their hands firmly gripping his arms as he continues to shout, red-faced and spittle flying.

"You think you're so clever, Sinclair!" he slurs, struggling against the guards' hold. "You set me up! You destroyed everything!"

The gallery has gone eerily quiet, guests frozen in place, champagne flutes suspended mid-air, conversations halted as all eyes turn toward the spectacle. I maintain my composure despite the rage building inside me—rage not at his accusations, but at the disruption of Luna's night.

"Get him out of here," I tell the security team, my voice calm but carrying enough authority that they immediately begin moving toward the exit.

"The feds seized everything!" Anthony continues to shout, his voice breaking with desperation. "My accounts! My files! I was just released on bail, and they're still coming for me!"

I simply watch, expression neutral, as the security team drags him toward the door. He must have called in every last favor to make bail, then come straight here in this pathetic state.

"You did this!" he screams, as they pull him through the entrance. "You destroyed me!"

No one moves to help him. No one speaks in his defense. They just watch, wide-eyed and whispering, as the once-powerful Anthony Baine is reduced to a drunken, raving mess.

I scan the crowd, noting the reactions—shock, embarrassment, and in some cases, poorly concealed amusement.

My eyes land on Preston, standing near the back wall.

Our gazes lock for a brief moment before he gives me a nearly imperceptible nod and quietly slips out a side exit.

Message received. Association disavowed.

"Mr. Sinclair," one of the security guards approaches. "We have him secured outside. Would you like us to call the police?"

"No," I reply. "Just make sure he doesn't return."

The guard nods and retreats, and gradually the hum of conversation begins to resume around me. The crisis apparently averted, the crowd returns to their champagne and art discussions, though with a new undercurrent of excitement. Nothing like a bit of drama to make an opening memorable.

I turn back toward the main gallery space, searching for Luna. She must have witnessed at least part of that debacle, and I need to make sure she's alright, to reassure her that Anthony is no threat to us, that everything is?—

My blood runs cold as I spot Sebastian pushing through the crowd toward me, his expression tight with barely controlled panic.

"Where is she?" I demand before he can speak, already knowing the answer won't be one I want to hear.

"She's gone," Sebastian says, voice low and urgent. "I tried to move her to safety when Baine showed up, but she fought me. Ran off. Then she just... disappeared."

The world narrows to a pinpoint focus, every sound in the gallery fading to white noise. "What do you mean, disappeared?"

"One minute she was heading toward the commotion, the next—gone." Sebastian's eyes are grim. "I searched everywhere. She's not in the building."

I'm already pulling out my phone, accessing the security system I had installed in the choker I gave her—the one she wears like a talisman now rather than a claim. The tracking interface loads, showing her location as a pulsing red dot.

She's moving. Quickly. Away from the gallery.

"Five minutes from here," I say, memorizing the coordinates. "An abandoned warehouse complex."

The implications crash through me like a physical blow. Christopher. It has to be. He wasn't at the entrance with Anthony—he was waiting, using the distraction to take what he thought was his.

"I'm calling Graham," Sebastian says, already pulling out his phone. "We need backup."

"No time," I reply, already moving toward the rear exit. "Security team only. Tell Graham to clean up here, make sure the guests think everything' s fine."

Sebastian grabs my arm, stopping me momentarily. "Beckett, think. Going in alone is exactly what he wants."

"I don't care what he wants," I say, my voice dropping to a dangerous register. "He has her. That's all that matters."

"At least wait for?—"

"Every second we waste is another second she's with him," I cut him off, pulling free from his grip. "I'm not waiting."

The look Sebastian gives me is resigned but understanding. "I'll have the team follow your coordinates. Five minutes behind you."

I nod once, then push through the exit door into the cool night air. My car is waiting exactly where I left it, sleek and deadly as a weapon.

Which is exactly what it needs to be right now.

I slide behind the wheel, the engine roaring to life. The GPS coordinates from Luna's choker pulse on my phone screen. She's still moving, but slower now. They've reached their destination.

Five minutes away at most. But still, that could be enough time for him to?—

I cut off the thought before it can fully form. I can't afford to think about what might be happening to her right now. I can only focus on what I'm going to do to the man who took her.

The warehouse district appears ahead, abandoned buildings looming like ancient ruins against the night sky. The tracking signal grows stronger as I approach, confirming her location in the largest structure at the far end.

I park a safe distance away, killing the headlights. My security detail will be minutes behind me, but I'm not waiting. Not when she's in there. Not when he has her.

The knife at my hip and the gun holstered against my lower back provide cold comfort as I approach the warehouse. This isn't about weapons. This isn't about strategy or contingency plans.

This is about blood. About vengeance. About ending, once and for all, the threat that Christopher Finch poses to what's mine.

I enter through a side door, moving silently through shadows as my eyes adjust to the darkness.

The warehouse is massive, with rusted metal beams overhead and broken machinery scattered across the concrete floor.

The air hangs thick with dust and decay and something metallic that makes my jaw clench.

Blood.

And then I see her.

Her body is suspended—arms stretched painfully above her head, wrists bound and raw from fighting. Her shoulders tremble, but her spine remains straight, refusing to bow even now. That dress, the one that made the entire fucking gallery stop breathing when she walked in, is in shreds.

One strap torn completely away. The entire left side ripped open like a wound. The delicate satin hangs limp and useless, barely covering her body.

There's a bruise blooming on her cheek—sharp, purple, cruel. His handprint. She's marked. She's bleeding.

And around her neck, replacing the elegant choker I'd given her—the one that marked her as mine, as protected—is a burgundy ribbon. Tied too tight, already chafing her delicate skin. A crude, vicious parody of my claim. His way of telling me he's taken what was mine and replaced my mark with his.

And I've never felt closer to becoming the monster they always whisper I am. I pull it from her skin gently, tucking it into my pocket .

Her eyes are open, but there's nothing behind them. Just emptiness. Shutdown. The defense mechanism of a soul that's retreated to safer ground.

Not until I speak her name. "Luna."

Her name cuts through the silence like a blade, slicing through whatever fog has claimed her.

She stirs—barely. A twitch in her shoulders.

And then he steps out from the shadows.

Christopher fucking Finch.

A dead man walking.