Page 58 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Fifty-Four

BECKET T

Luna sleeps peacefully beside me, her breathing deep and even, one hand curled against my chest. The bruises on her face have faded to yellowish shadows, and the bandages on her wrists are gone now, revealing the healing skin beneath. Progress. Slow but undeniable.

I've spent every night for the past two weeks like this—lying beside her, barely sleeping, just watching her breathe. Making sure she's safe. Making sure the nightmares don't come.

When they do—and they still do, despite everything—I'm there to wake her gently, to remind her where she is, to ground her in the present until the panic subsides. It's a different kind of possession than what I initially claimed. Not ownership, but protection. Not control, but care.

My phone vibrates silently on the nightstand. I check the screen—Sebastian. Again. I slide out of bed carefully, making sure not to disturb Luna, and move to the hallway before accepting the call.

"This better be important," I say quietly, closing the bedroom door behind me.

"It is," Sebastian replies, his voice tense even through the phone. "The police have officially ruled Finch's death as self-defense during a kidnapping situation."

I exhale slowly, some of the tension easing from my shoulders. "Good."

"Your statement about finding him in the process of assaulting Luna, combined with the evidence of her injuries and the security footage from the gallery showing her being taken... It all checks out." There's a pause, then, "You got lucky, Beckett."

"Luck had nothing to do with it," I reply, moving toward the kitchen. "Evidence doesn't lie."

"Still, it's over. Officially. No charges."

No charges. No investigation. No consequences—at least not legal ones—for what I did to Christopher Finch in that warehouse. The relief I feel isn't for myself. It's for Luna. She won't have to relive that night in court testimony or police interviews. She can heal without that additional trauma.

"What about Baine?" I ask, changing the subject.

"Federal custody," Sebastian confirms. "The evidence was overwhelming. Corporate espionage, attempted theft of trade secrets... He's looking at fifteen years, minimum. No one at the Club is lifting a finger to help him."

"And Preston?"

"Acting as interim head of the Collectors until a formal vote. He's been asking about you. About Luna."

I pour myself a glass of water, considering the implications. Preston Wolfe has always been the most pragmatic of the Collectors—not overly bound by tradition, but still respectful of the Club's overall purpose. His interest could be benign or dangerous, depending on his motivations.

"What exactly does he want to know?" I ask.

"Officially? He wants to acknowledge Luna as your protected Possession within the Club. Complete immunity from any future claims or challenges."

That gets my attention. Such acknowledgments are rare—usually reserved for particularly valuable Possessions or ones with complicated histories. The fact that Preston is offering it suggests he knows more about Luna's situation than he should.

"And unofficially?"

Sebastian sighs. "I think he's trying to align himself with you. Baine's fall has created a power vacuum. Preston's smart enough to recognize that you were behind it, even if he can't prove it."

"Better to have me as an ally than an enemy," I muse.

"Exactly."

I consider the offer carefully. On one hand, official Club recognition would provide Luna with an additional layer of protection. No one would dare touch what had been formally acknowledged as mine. On the other hand, it reinforces the very possession I'm beginning to question.

"Tell him I'll consider it," I say finally. "But I want something in return."

"What?"

"Protection for Genevieve Laurent. The same immunity. No claims, no invitations, no Hunt."

There's a pause on the other end of the line. "That's... unprecedented. She's not a Possession. She's not even affiliated with the Club."

"Those are my terms," I reply, voice hardening. "Luna's sister remains untouchable, or there's no deal."

Sebastian is quiet for a moment, then says, "I'll pass it along. But Beckett... this is going to raise questions about why you care what happens to her sister."

"Let them question." I take a sip of water, unconcerned with Club politics at this point. Luna's safety—and by extension, her sister's—is all that matters.

"There's something else," Sebastian says, his tone shifting slightly. "Luna's parents have been looking for her. They've filed a missing persons report, claiming she disappeared the same night as Christopher."

My grip tightens on the glass. "They're lying."

"Obviously. But they're making a lot of noise. Press conferences, social media campaigns... They're painting themselves as concerned parents searching for their beloved daughter."

The thought of those people—the ones who handed Luna to a monster, who dismissed her pain, who valued connections over her safety—now pretending to care about her wellbeing makes something dark and dangerous stir in my chest.

"Let them look," I say coldly. "They won't find her unless she wants to be found."

"And if she does?" Sebastian asks carefully.

The question catches me off guard. I haven't considered the possibility that Luna might want to see her parents, might want to confront them or even—though it seems impossible—reconcile with them.

"Then that will be her choice," I say finally. "Not mine."

Sebastian makes a sound that might be surprise. "That's... not what I expected you to say."

Neither did I, if I'm being honest. But these past weeks with Luna have changed something fundamental in how I view our relationship. What began as possession has evolved into something I don't fully understand yet—something that makes her choices matter more than my control.

"There's one more thing," I add, changing the subject. "I need you to arrange a visit."

"For?"

"Genevieve Laurent and someone named Avery. Luna's friend from art school."

Another pause. "You want to bring outsiders to the safe house?"

"I want Luna to have support beyond just me," I correct him. "People she trusts. People who matter to her."

The admission costs me something—an acknowledgment that I alone might not be enough for her recovery, that she needs connections I can't provide. But her healing matters more than my pride.

"I'll need to vet them both thoroughly," Sebastian says, always practical. "Security protocols?—"

"Do whatever's necessary," I interrupt. "Just make it happen within the next few days."

After ending the call, I stand in the kitchen, watching the first hints of dawn paint the sky beyond the windows. The safe house is quiet, peaceful in these early hours—a sharp contrast to the chaos still threatening from outside.

I think about Luna, sleeping in the next room.

About the progress she's made in these past weeks.

The paintings accumulating in the studio, each one less dark than the last. The moments when she smiles—brief, rare, but genuine.

The way she reaches for me in the night when the nightmares come, trusting me to keep her safe.

This is about her. Just her. Luna herself—stubborn, talented, resilient, beautiful in ways that have nothing to do with physical appearance and everything to do with the strength of her spirit.

I want her to heal. I want her to create. I want her to be exactly who she is, without constraint or expectation.

I want her to be happy.

The realization should terrify me. Instead, it settles into my chest with the quiet certainty of truth. This isn't possession. This isn't even desire, though God knows I still want her with an intensity that burns through my veins.

This is something else entirely. Something I've never felt before. Something I've never even believed in.

But I believe in her.

The soft sound of bare feet on hardwood pulls me from my thoughts. Luna stands in the doorway, hair tousled from sleep, wearing one of my t-shirts that hangs to her thighs. The bruises on her face have faded enough that they're barely visible in the dim light.

"You're up early," she says, voice still rough with sleep.

"Business," I reply, gesturing vaguely with my phone. "I didn't want to wake you."

She nods, moving into the kitchen with a natural ease that wasn't there a week ago. The wariness that kept her movements tight and careful has gradually faded, replaced by something closer to comfort. She fills a glass with water, then leans against the counter, studying me.

"Is everything alright?" she asks.

I consider lying, offering a vague reassurance that everything is fine. But we've moved beyond that kind of pretense.

"Christopher's death has been ruled self-defense," I tell her. "No charges. No investigation."

Relief flickers across her face, followed quickly by something more complex. "Good," she says simply .

"Your parents have filed a missing persons report," I continue, watching her reaction carefully. "They're looking for you."

Her expression hardens, fingers tightening around her glass. "They're not my parents anymore," she says, the words flat and final. "Not after what they did."

I nod, accepting her decision without comment. "I've asked Sebastian to arrange a visit from Genevieve and your friend Avery. If you want to see them."

Surprise replaces the hardness in her expression. "You did?"

"You need more than just me," I say, the words coming easier than I expected. "People who care about you. People who understand parts of you that I don't."

She sets down her glass, moving closer until she's standing directly in front of me. "Thank you," she says quietly, looking up at me with an intensity that makes my chest tighten. "For understanding what I need."

Without thinking, I reach out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. She doesn't flinch at the contact—another sign of progress, of healing. "I'm trying," I admit.

Her hand comes up to cover mine, keeping it against her cheek. "I know," she says simply.

We stand like that for a long moment, connected by that single point of contact, as the sun continues to rise beyond the windows. Not possessor and possessed. Not hunter and prey. Not even protector and protected.

Just us. Just Luna and Beckett, finding our way toward something neither of us expected.

"I'm going to paint," she says finally, stepping back but keeping her eyes on mine. "Join me? When you're done with your calls? "

The invitation surprises me. She's never asked me into the studio before, has kept that space sacrosanct, private.

"If you want me there," I reply carefully.

A small smile touches her lips—one of those rare, genuine ones that make something in me lighten. "I do," she says, before turning and heading toward the studio.

I watch her go, the realization from earlier settling deeper, becoming more certain with each passing moment. This isn't possession. This is something far more dangerous, far more vulnerable.

This is love.

The knowledge should terrify me. Instead, it feels like coming home to a place I didn't know existed until now.

I pick up my phone again, sending a quick text to Sebastian: Make the arrangements for the visitors. And tell Preston I accept his offer, with my conditions.

Then I set the phone aside and follow Luna into the studio, ready to see whatever new creation is emerging from her healing.

Ready to be whatever she needs me to be.