Page 56 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Fifty-Two

BECKETT

"You look tired, Sinclair," he says, attempting a casual tone like we're old friends meeting for drinks instead of what we really are—predator and prey in the final moments of a hunt.

I tilt my head, studying him. The tremble in his hands he can't quite control. The shallow, rapid rise and fall of his chest. The sweat collecting at his collar despite the cold air slicing through the broken windows.

I'm not tired.

I'm more alive than I've been in years. Every sense heightened. Every nerve ending raw and electric.

I stare him dead in the eye and let him see exactly what's coming for him.

"You look dead."

He laughs—a thin, weak sound full of the kind of bravado men only affect when they've already lost everything .

"You came all this way just to bleed?" he asks, taking a small step backward despite his words.

"No," I reply, my voice flat and certain. "I came to collect."

I unclip the holster at my back and drop the gun at my feet. The sound of it hitting concrete echoes in the empty space.

His brow lifts, genuine confusion replacing his fear for a moment.

"No bullets?" he asks.

"I want you to feel it."

I draw the knife from my hip—the blade catching what little light filters through the broken windows, gleaming with anticipation.

He turns to run. It's instinct by now, the cornered animal's last desperate attempt at survival.

I let him get two steps.

Just two.

Then I slam into him from behind with enough force to send us both crashing to the ground.

He tries to fight, of course. Throws a wild punch that glances off my jaw. Grabs a metal pipe from the debris on the floor. Swings it like a man who's never had to earn his victories because they've always been handed to him on silver platters stained with others' blood.

I let him get one good hit in. Feel my lip split. Feel a rib crack under the impact.

And then?

I bury the knife in his thigh, driving it deep into the muscle with a single, vicious thrust.

He screams—a high, desperate sound that bounces off the warehouse walls.

"That's for her wrists," I growl, twisting the blade before yanking it free .

Blood fountains from the wound, soaking through his expensive slacks. I don't give him time to recover.

I drive the knife into his side next, angling it upward beneath his ribs, and twist.

"That's for her throat."

His body convulses as he tries to crawl away, one hand outstretched on the concrete. I grab it—his fingers still clawing for escape—and pin it to the floor.

The knife comes down through his palm, piercing flesh and bone and driving straight into the concrete beneath.

He howls, a broken animal sound that doesn't even sound human anymore.

"And that," I snarl, leaning close enough to see the tears streaming down his face, "is for every fucking second you thought she was yours."

He's coughing blood now, red bubbling at the corners of his mouth as he tries to speak.

"You can't fix her," he chokes out, blood spilling over his lips. "She's... broken now."

I crouch beside him, close enough that he can't miss a single word.

"She doesn't need fixing," I whisper, my voice almost gentle in its certainty. "She needs to be loved. Truly, completely, without the need to own her. And I'm the only man alive who knows how."

I reach into my pocket and pull it free—burgundy ribbon, still warm from her skin. His last twisted act of possession. His version of a collar.

He tries to move, fear evident in his eyes as I loop the ribbon around his neck—tight, snug, just like he fastened it around her. My fingers knot it with precision, pulling until the velvet digs into his skin.

"No," his voice hoarse from the pain of his injuries.

"A gift returned," I whisper, letting the ends hang like a noose.

Only then do I lift the blade again and finish it the way he deserves. I drag the knife across his neck—slow, clean, precise. Just as I've been trained. Just as I've planned since the moment I found her missing.

He gurgles, eyes wide with disbelief. His body twitches, the final involuntary spasms of a system shutting down. The ribbon darkens as it absorbs his blood—his sins soaking into the threads, turning his legacy to rot.

And finally—he goes still.

I stay there.

Kneeling in his blood.

For just a second longer.

Then I reach down, grabbing him by the jaw, lifting his face to mine one last time.

"Touch her again," I whisper to dead ears. "I fucking dare you."

I drop his head, letting it thud against the concrete like the worthless thing it is.

I wipe the blade clean on his ruined suit.

Then I rise, the blood soaking into my clothes, my skin, beneath my fingernails. I don't care. All that matters now is her.

I turn away from Christopher's body without a backward glance. He doesn't deserve even that much acknowledgment. He's nothing now. Less than nothing.

I cross the warehouse floor with measured steps, returning to where Luna still hangs, arms stretched painfully above her head. Her eyes follow me—still distant, still protected by whatever sanctuary her mind has created, but aware .

"It's over," I tell her, my voice gentler than I thought possible after what I've just done. "He'll never hurt you again."

I reach up, using the knife to cut through the ropes binding her wrists. I catch her as she falls, supporting her weight against my chest. Her body is cold, trembling slightly against mine as her arms finally lower after being suspended for so long.

"I've got you," I murmur, one hand cradling the back of her head. "You're safe now."

She doesn't speak. Doesn't need to. I can feel her heartbeat against my chest, the steady rhythm of survival, of endurance.

I slip off my suit jacket, the fabric still warm from my body, and wrap it around her shoulders, covering the tattered remains of her dress. She's shivering now, delayed shock setting in as the adrenaline begins to fade.

"We're leaving," I tell her, my voice low and steady. "We're going home."

I lift her into my arms, cradling her against my chest, one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back. She feels impossibly light, her head resting against my shoulder as I carry her through the darkness toward the exit.

The night air hits us as we emerge from the warehouse, crisp and clean compared to the stale, blood-soaked atmosphere inside. I tighten my grip, keeping her close against the chill, and walk steadily toward where my car waits.

"I should have protected you better," I say, the words rough with emotion I don't try to hide. "I should have been there. I should have known."

Her fingers curl weakly into the fabric of my shirt—the first voluntary movement she's made since I found her. Not forgiveness, not absolution, but acknowledgment. Connection .

I open the passenger door with one hand, still supporting her weight, and lower her gently onto the seat. Her eyes find mine in the dim light, still traumatized but present now. Seeing me.

I kneel beside the open door, keeping my movements slow and deliberate, and brush a strand of hair from her face with careful fingers.

"He's gone," I tell her, needing her to understand completely. "Forever. You're safe now. No one will ever touch you like that again."

A single tear slips down her cheek, and I catch it with my thumb, gently wiping it away.

"We're going home," I repeat, the promise hanging between us. "And then we'll rebuild. Together."

I press a gentle kiss to her forehead before closing her door and circling to the driver's side. As the engine roars to life, I glance over at her—bruised, broken, but undefeated. Still breathing. Still fighting. Still Luna.

And as we drive away from the warehouse, leaving behind the body of the man who thought he could own her, I make a silent vow. She will never know fear like this again. Not while I live. Not while I breathe.

Because she isn't mine to possess.

She's mine to protect.

And I will burn the world to ashes before I fail her again.