Page 57 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Fifty-Three

LUNA

The world comes back to me in fragments.

Soft sunlight filtering through unfamiliar curtains. The whisper of expensive sheets against raw skin. The distant sound of someone moving through rooms beyond the closed door. Pain throbbing in places I can't yet name.

I don't open my eyes immediately. Instead, I catalog what I know to be true. I am alive. I am in a bed. I am not in the warehouse.

Christopher is gone.

That last thought triggers a cascade of memories—his hands on me, the ribbon tight around my throat, the darkness closing in.

Then Beckett appearing like something ancient and vengeful.

The look in his eyes as he cut me down. The feeling of being carried away from that place of horror, wrapped in his jacket, his voice a steady anchor in the storm.

I open my eyes and discover I'm in a bedroom I don't recognize—not the upstate house, not Beckett's penthouse. The walls are a soft, muted blue-gray. The furniture is minimal but elegant. A glass of water sits on the nightstand beside a vase of fresh lilies.

When I try to sit up, pain shoots through my shoulders and wrists. I gasp, the sound escaping before I can catch it.

The door opens almost immediately.

"You're awake," Beckett says, his voice carefully neutral as he steps into the room. He looks different—dressed in a simple black t-shirt and dark jeans instead of his usual impeccable suits. There's a small cut on his lower lip, a bruise darkening along his jaw.

I try to speak, but my throat is too dry. He crosses to the nightstand without being asked, helping me sit up with a gentle hand behind my back, then offering the glass of water. His movements are deliberate, telegraphed, as if he's worried about startling me.

"Where are we?" I manage after taking a sip, my voice a rough whisper.

"Safe house," he replies. "One that no one knows about. Except Sebastian and Graham."

I take another sip of water, studying him over the rim of the glass. There are shadows beneath his eyes, tension in the set of his shoulders. He hasn't slept.

"How long?" I ask.

"Two days." He takes the empty glass, setting it back on the nightstand. "The doctor said you needed rest."

Doctor. I glance down at my wrists, now wrapped in clean bandages. The bruises on my ribs have been treated, covered with some kind of salve that numbs the pain. Someone has tended to me while I slept .

"You should lie back down," Beckett says, not touching me but clearly wanting to. "You need more rest."

"I need a shower." The words come out stronger than I expected. The need to wash away what remains of that night suddenly overwhelming.

Something like understanding flickers across his face. "Of course."

He helps me stand, his hands steady under my elbows when my legs threaten to give out. I'm wearing one of his shirts, the fabric swimming on my smaller frame. I don't ask who undressed me or how I got into this. Some questions are better left unasked.

The bathroom is attached to the bedroom—a sleek, modern space with a walk-in shower enclosed in clear glass. Beckett turns on the water, adjusting the temperature with practiced precision.

"Can you..." I begin, uncertain how to ask for what I need.

"I'll be right outside the door," he says, already understanding. "Call if you need anything."

The door closes behind him with a soft click, and I'm left alone with my reflection in the mirror. A stranger stares back at me—pale, haunted, bruised along one cheekbone where Christopher's hand connected. My neck still bears the faint red line where the ribbon had been.

I look away, unable to face what I see there.

The shower is hot, almost scalding, but I welcome the heat as it pounds against sore muscles. I scrub every inch of skin until it's raw and pink, as if I could wash away more than just the physical reminders. The bandages on my wrists get soaked, but I don't care. I'll ask for new ones later.

I don't know how long I stand there, letting the water pummel me, before a soft knock comes at the door .

"Luna?" Beckett's voice, edged with concern. "Are you alright?"

I turn off the shower, suddenly aware of how much time must have passed. "Yes," I call back, surprised to find I mean it. "I'll be out in a minute."

Clean clothes wait for me on the counter—soft gray leggings and a loose sweater that looks new. Things bought specifically for me. I dress slowly, careful of my bruised ribs, and step back into the bedroom to find Beckett waiting, expression carefully controlled.

"Better?" he asks.

I nod, not trusting my voice. The simple question contains too much—concern, guilt, a desperate need to make things right that I don't know how to address.

"You should eat something," he says, gesturing toward the door. "I've made soup."

The thought of eating turns my stomach, but I follow him anyway, through a short hallway into an open-plan living area. Floor-to-ceiling windows look out over a wooded landscape I don't recognize. The kitchen gleams with stainless steel and white marble.

And on the counter, a steaming bowl of soup waits beside fresh bread.

"You cooked?" I ask, unable to hide my surprise.

The corner of his mouth lifts in what might be the ghost of a smile. "I contain multitudes."

I sit at the counter, picking up the spoon more to please him than from any real hunger. The soup is simple but good—chicken and vegetables in a clear broth. I manage a few spoonfuls before setting it aside.

"Thank you," I say, the words inadequate for what I mean .

He nods once, accepting what I can offer. "How are you feeling? Truthfully."

I consider lying, offering reassurance that neither of us would believe. But the events of the past months—of the past days—have burned away any possibility of pretense between us.

"I don't know," I admit. "I feel... disconnected. Like I'm watching myself from somewhere far away."

"That's normal," he says, his voice gentle in a way I've never heard from him before. "It's your mind protecting you."

"When does it stop?" I ask, hating the vulnerability in the question.

He doesn't offer false comfort or empty platitudes. "When you're ready for it to stop. Not before."

The honesty in his answer makes something in my chest loosen slightly. I look up to find him watching me, his eyes dark with an emotion I can't name.

"I killed him," he says, the words falling into the silence between us. Not a confession. A fact. One he wants me to understand fully.

"I know."

"He'll never touch you again. Never come near you. Never even think about you."

I swallow, feeling the ghost of that burgundy ribbon around my throat. "Thank you."

Beckett moves then, crossing the kitchen to stand before me, not touching but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.

"I failed you," he says, the words rough with self-recrimination. "I promised to keep you safe, and I let him take you."

"You found me," I counter, needing him to understand that this isn't on him. "You came for me. "

"I will always come for you," he says, the intensity in his voice making me believe it down to my bones. "Always."

The silence stretches between us, heavy with things unsaid. Then he steps back, giving me space.

"There's a studio," he says, gesturing toward a door off the main living area. "If you want it."

I blink, surprised by the offer. "You brought my supplies?"

"Not yours," he corrects. "But everything you might need is there. Canvases. Paints. Brushes."

"Why?" I ask, genuinely curious.

His expression softens, just slightly. "Because you need to create more than you need to breathe. And right now, you need both."

The understanding in his words—the recognition of what art means to me—brings unexpected tears to my eyes. I blink them away, nodding once.

"Thank you," I say again, the words becoming a refrain between us.

The days that follow settle into a strange, suspended routine. Beckett works remotely, making calls from a study down the hall, handling whatever aftermath came from Christopher's death. I don't ask for details. Some things are better left in darkness.

At first, I spend most of my time sleeping, my body demanding rest to heal what's been broken.

Beckett is always nearby, a constant presence that should feel suffocating but somehow doesn't. He checks on me regularly, brings me food, changes the bandages on my wrists with careful, clinical precision.

We don't talk about what happened in the warehouse. We don't need to. The knowledge sits between us, a shared secret that binds us closer than any collar ever could .

By the fourth day, I find myself drawn to the studio.

The room is smaller than the one at the Dutchess estate, but flooded with natural light.

Canvases of various sizes lean against one wall.

A table holds every shade of paint I could possibly need, brushes arranged by size, palettes stacked neatly.

I approach cautiously, as if the supplies might disappear if I move too quickly. My fingers trace the edge of a canvas, feeling the taut fabric beneath them. The sensation grounds me, connects me to something real.

I don't paint that day. But I stay in the studio, sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by potential.

The next day, I pick up a brush.

The first strokes are tentative, uncertain. I haven't planned what to paint, haven't thought about composition or color theory or any of the technical aspects I usually consider. I just let the brush move, let the colors blend and flow, let my body remember what it feels like to create.

What emerges is chaos—dark reds and blacks swirling together, jagged lines cutting through softer curves. It's ugly and raw and honest in a way that makes my chest ache. When I step back to look at the finished piece, I see nothing but pain given form.

I don't show it to Beckett. I turn it to face the wall and start again the next day.

The second painting is different—still dark, still chaotic, but with a thin line of gold threading through the center. A path through shadows. A possibility.

I paint every day after that, each canvas capturing a fragment of what I'm feeling—fear, anger, confusion, grief. But also, gradually, hope. Resilience. A determination to reclaim what was taken.

Beckett never intrudes on my time in the studio. He seems to understand that this space is sacred, that the work I'm doing there is necessary for healing. But sometimes I catch him watching from the doorway, his expression unreadable as he studies whatever has emerged on the canvas that day.

"Does it help?" he asks one evening, finding me cleaning brushes at the sink.

I consider the question, wanting to give him a true answer. "It makes it real," I say finally. "And if it's real, I can face it."

He nods once, understanding without needing further explanation. That's another change between us—this new ability to communicate in half-finished sentences, in silences, in the space between words.

"The gallery is still yours," he says after a moment. "Whenever you're ready."

I look up, surprised. "After everything that happened?"

"Especially after everything that happened." His voice is firm, unyielding. "Your art deserves to be seen, Luna. Your voice deserves to be heard. When you're ready."

It's not a command. Not an expectation. Just a statement of possibility, an option I can take or leave as I choose.

Freedom. Real freedom, not just the absence of constraint.

That night, I paint him.

Not the powerful, dangerous Beckett who stalks boardrooms and commands empires. Not the predatory Beckett who hunted me through forests. Not even the vengeful Beckett who killed for me in that warehouse.

I paint the Beckett who changes my bandages with gentle hands. Who cooks soup because I need to eat. Who gives me space to heal and time to create and never, not once, asks for anything in return.

The painting isn't finished when exhaustion finally claims me. I fall asleep on the studio floor, brush still in hand, colors drying on the palette beside me.

I wake to the sensation of being carried—strong arms beneath my knees and back, my head resting against a solid chest. Beckett. I should be afraid, should panic at being restrained, at being moved without my consent.

But I'm not afraid. I feel safe.

I keep my eyes closed, pretending to sleep as he carries me to the bedroom and lays me gently on the bed. The mattress dips as he pulls the blankets over me, and then he begins to move away.

Without thinking, I reach out, catching his wrist. "Stay," I whisper, the word barely audible.

He goes still, and I can feel the tension radiating from him. "Luna?—"

"Please." I open my eyes, finding his in the darkness. "I don't want to be alone."

For a moment, I think he might refuse, might give me some logical reason why it's a bad idea. Then he nods once and moves to the other side of the bed, lying down on top of the covers, a careful distance between us.

I close my eyes again, listening to the sound of his breathing in the darkness. It's steady, controlled, a counterpoint to the erratic rhythm of my own heartbeat.

Slowly, hesitantly, I shift closer, breaching the gap between us until my head rests against his shoulder. His arm comes around me carefully, giving me every opportunity to pull away if I want to.

I don't.

Instead, I let myself relax against him, feeling the solid warmth of his body beside mine. Not constraining. Not possessing. Just present. Just real .

"I've got you," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble I can feel through his chest. "Always."

And for the first time since that night in the warehouse, I believe it. Believe that I'm safe. That the darkness can't reach me here. That whatever comes next, I won't face it alone.

I fall asleep in Beckett's arms, and for once, there are no nightmares waiting.