Page 6 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Five

LUNA

His hand doesn't leave my back as we move through the crowd, a warm pressure that feels more like a brand than a guide.

Conversations resume around us, but the tone has shifted—hushed whispers, curious glances, the occasional sharp intake of breath when someone recognizes the velvet band around my throat.

I'm hyper-aware of his proximity, the subtle cologne that clings to his skin, the effortless way he navigates the room while keeping me firmly within his orbit.

He doesn't grip or push—he doesn't need to.

His presence alone is enough to propel me forward, to keep me moving alongside him like we've practiced this a hundred times before.

And then—he stops. Looks at me for one weighted moment. And simply walks away.

Just like that.

No flourish. No smile. No warning. He steps back, blends into the crowd of masked men, and leaves me standing in the center of the ballroom with a black velvet band around my throat and the weight of a thousand eyes tracking every inch of my body.

I remain still, counting my breaths until I can trust myself to move without revealing how thoroughly he's unsettled me.

When I finally step forward, I make myself walk with measured grace, as though none of this phases me, as though I'm exactly who I pretended to be when I stepped into this estate.

But the ballroom feels different now. The music seems softer, conversations more hushed, gazes more intent. The men watch with newfound interest—not polite curiosity, but something hungrier. Because now I'm marked. And yet, some of them don't seem to care.

A man steps into my path as I pass the bar—not just any man, but a presence that commands attention.

Tall and impeccably styled, he carries himself with the kind of confidence that suggests he's rarely denied anything.

Sandy brown hair and brown eyes complement the silver mask adorned with a carved insignia at the temple, different from the one worn by the man who just claimed me.

"Unusual to see him move first," he says smoothly, voice rich with cultured amusement.

I don't answer. I don't have the context for his observation, and I've learned enough tonight to distrust the traps hidden behind velvet voices.

He steps closer, invading my space with practiced ease. "Or perhaps he's just getting sentimental in his old age."

"Do you always talk this much to women who didn't ask for it?" I respond, straightening my spine.

He laughs—soft and genuinely delighted, as though I've confirmed something he suspected. "I like you," he says, studying me with undisguised interest. "Which is inconvenient."

Before I can respond, he reaches into his jacket and withdraws a folded ribbon—deep green satin, gleaming under the golden lights. A favor, placed deliberately in my palm before I can object.

"Consider your options carefully," he murmurs, and then he's gone, disappearing into the crowd with practiced ease.

I stare at the ribbon resting in my hand, unsure what it represents but certain it carries significance beyond its appearance.

The air around me suddenly feels too thick, too warm, too heavy with expectation and eyes that don't blink. I need space. Air. Distance from this game I don't fully understand.

Following an instinct that feels dangerously like desperation, I slip down a side corridor, away from the watchful gaze of the crowd.

My heels click against marble as I search for an exit, any exit, and find relief in the form of glass French doors left slightly ajar.

I push through them and step outside, immediately greeted by the sharp kiss of night air against my skin.

The terrace stretches before me, bathed in moonlight that transforms the stone into something almost ethereal. Beyond it, forests stretch into darkness, mysterious and untouched. For the first time since I entered this place, I take a full breath, letting the cold fill my lungs and clear my head.

Then I reach up with both hands and grip the collar. The velvet is soft against my fingers, deceptively gentle compared to what it represents. The clasp feels warm from my skin as I begin to pull at it.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

The voice cuts through the night air like a blade, and I freeze .

Turning slowly, I find him standing at the entrance to the terrace—tall, imposing, a shadow given form and purpose. His mask catches moonlight along its edges, turning silver to liquid mercury.

He doesn't approach immediately, simply watches me with that same predatory stillness that made my skin prickle from across the ballroom. "You're testing boundaries already," he observes, voice neither angry nor amused, merely certain.

"You let me go," I say, dropping my hands from the collar.

"I did."

"To see what I would do," I realize aloud.

A ghost of a smile touches his mouth. "To see how quickly you'd try to remove what's mine."

The possessiveness in his voice should offend me. Instead, it sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. "It's not yours," I counter. "It's on me."

"The distinction is irrelevant." He moves closer with deliberate slowness, each step measured and silent against the stone. "You're wearing my mark. My claim. My protection."

"I didn't ask for protection."

"And yet you need it." His gaze drops to my closed fist, where I still hold the green ribbon. "I see someone else found you."

"Is there a problem with that?" I ask, lifting my chin slightly.

His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes hardens. "The problem is that he knows exactly what that collar means—and he offered you a favor anyway."

His hand extends between us, not grabbing but commanding all the same. "Give it to me."

"Why should I? "

"Because it's not a gift," he explains, voice dropping lower. "It's a challenge. To me."

I unfold my fingers slowly, revealing the ribbon nestled in my palm. "And what does it mean? In your world of symbols and secrets?"

"It means he's offering you an alternative." His eyes remain locked with mine as he takes the ribbon, his fingers brushing my palm in a touch that feels both casual and deliberate. "It means he's willing to claim what I've already marked as mine."

"Maybe I prefer his offer," I suggest, watching for his reaction.

His lips curve, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes. "No. You don't."

"You don't know what I want."

"Don't I?" He steps closer, the heat of him pressing against my space without touching. "You want to escape. Freedom. A way out of whatever cage brought you here under false pretenses. There's no other explanation for your presence tonight."

My breath catches, unsettled by his accuracy.

"But that man isn't offering freedom," he continues, voice low and certain. "He's offering a different kind of ownership. One with higher walls and fewer doors."

"And what are you offering?" I ask, hating the slight waver in my voice.

He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he reaches up, one gloved hand gently touching the collar at my throat. Not pulling, not tightening—just a reminder of its presence.

"Something you won't find with anyone else in this room," he says finally. "Honesty."

I nearly laugh. "Honesty? In a place built on masks and lies?"

"Precisely why it's valuable." His thumb traces the edge of the velvet, the leather of his glove cool against my skin. "I won't pretend this isn't about ownership. But unlike the others, I won't lie about what that means."

"What happens now?" I ask, not backing away despite every instinct urging me to run.

His hand moves from my throat to cup my jaw with unexpected gentleness. "Now you make a choice. Keep the collar. Accept my claim. Or remove it—and face whatever comes next alone."

"Tell me, honestly. Why are you doing this?" I whisper, voicing the question that's been burning since he first locked eyes with me.

"Because you're not wearing an anklet," he says simply. "Because you walked in here like you owned the place, even though you're terrified. Because when I look at you—" his eyes search mine, almost curious, "—I see something worth taking."

The confession settles between us, heavy and unavoidable.

My goal was to escape without being claimed, get the money, and have a funeral for my family name and move on. Now knowing I have to outrun this man's claim complicates things. Immensely.

I should slap him. I should run. I should tear the collar from my neck and throw it in his perfect, arrogant face.

Instead, I hear myself say, "Then I guess you'd better not lose me in the Hunt."

Something flares in his eyes—surprise, perhaps. Or satisfaction.

"Oh, I won't lose you, little thief." His thumb traces my lower lip, a touch so light it's almost reverent. "I'm going to find you, catch you, and claim every inch of what you're pretending not to offer."

His certainty should frighten me. Instead, it sends heat straight to my core.

I step back, needing distance before I do something truly foolish. "We'll see."

His smile is slow, predatory. "Yes. We will." He closes the distance between us again, his height forcing me to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "Though I must admit, there's something... refreshing about a woman who thinks she has a choice."

"Excuse me?"

"We both know how this ends," he continues, voice dropping to a silken murmur.

"I'll hunt you. I'll catch you. You'll resist—just enough to make it interesting—and then you'll surrender.

" His gloved hand rises to my cheek. "It's inevitable.

Little lambs who come to play with the wolves always end up devoured. "

My spine straightens as anger flares hot and bright in my chest. "Is that what you think this is? Some predictable little game where I'm playing hard to get?"

"Isn't it?" His thumb traces my lower lip, his confidence absolute.

"You could have removed the collar. You didn't. You could have run when I approached.

You didn't. Even now, standing here alone with me, you're trembling—not from fear, but anticipation.

" He leans closer, his breath warm against my ear.

"You want to be caught, little thief. You're just too proud to admit it. "

The restraint I've been clinging to shatters like glass. Heat floods my body—not desire, but pure, blinding rage. Every ounce of fear, frustration, and defiance crystallizes into a single, unstoppable impulse.

I don't think. I don't hesitate.

My palm connects with his cheek in a crack that splits the night air.