Page 60 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Fifty-Six

BECKETT

The penthouse is quiet when we return from the gallery, the city lights stretching out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows like a blanket of stars fallen to earth.

Luna moves through the space with practiced ease, slipping off her heels and dropping her clutch on the entryway table as if she's always belonged here.

In many ways, she has.

I watch her from the doorway, taking in the graceful line of her back, the confident set of her shoulders, so different from the wary, guarded woman I first brought here.

The gallery opening was a triumph—every piece admired, most already sold or reserved for prestigious collections.

But more than the commercial success, what lingers in my mind is the moment she faced her parents.

The unwavering strength in her voice as she claimed her truth. The clarity in her eyes as she chose her path. The perfect, uncompromising certainty with which she demanded respect—not as anyone's victim, but as herself.

Luna Laurent. Artist. Survivor. Force of nature.

She turns to me now, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Are you going to stand there all night?"

"I was admiring the view," I reply, moving into the room.

She laughs softly, the sound still rare enough to make something warm unfurl in my chest. "Smooth talker."

"Honest observer," I correct her, crossing to the bar to pour us each a drink.

She accepts the glass of whiskey I offer, taking a small sip before setting it aside. "Thank you," she says, her voice suddenly serious. "For tonight. For being there without stepping in."

"You didn't need me to step in," I point out, leaning against the bar, keeping a careful distance between us. "You handled it perfectly."

"Still. Having you there... it mattered."

The simple admission settles into the space between us, weighted with everything we haven't said. Everything we haven't defined. The dynamic between us has shifted so fundamentally that the old parameters no longer apply, leaving us in uncharted territory neither of us quite knows how to navigate.

I study her in the dim light of the penthouse—the elegant lines of her black dress, the subtle makeup enhancing features that need no enhancement, the quiet confidence she carries now like a second skin. And I know, with sudden, crystal clarity, what needs to happen next.

What I should have done weeks ago.

"Luna," I say, setting my own drink aside. "There's something we need to discuss. "

Her expression shifts, wariness flickering briefly before she controls it. "That sounds ominous."

"It's not meant to be." I gesture toward the living room. "Sit with me?"

She follows me to the sleek leather sofa, perching on the edge as if prepared for flight. I take the seat opposite, deliberately leaving space between us for what comes next.

"Tonight at the gallery," I begin, choosing my words with care, "you spoke about freedom. About making your own choices. Living on your own terms."

She nods, watching me with those perceptive eyes that seem to see straight through every defense I've ever built.

"You deserve that," I continue. "Completely. Without reservation or condition."

Her brow furrows slightly. "I'm not sure I understand where this is going."

Instead of answering directly, I reach into my pocket and withdraw a small velvet box. Not the kind that holds a ring—something else entirely. I place it on the coffee table between us, leaving it unopened.

"What's that?" she asks, eyeing it with understandable suspicion.

"A key," I reply simply. "To an apartment in SoHo. Three bedrooms, rooftop access, a studio with northern light. It's yours if you want it."

She stares at the box, then at me, confusion evident in her expression. "You're... giving me an apartment?"

"I'm giving you a choice," I correct gently. "The freedom to go or stay. To live on your terms, not mine."

Understanding begins to dawn in her eyes. "Beckett?—"

I raise a hand, needing to finish before my resolve falters. "From the beginning, this has been about control. Even when that evolved into protection, into... something else, the original terms remained. The collar. The claim. The fact that I never gave you a real choice."

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, forcing myself to maintain eye contact despite the vulnerability coursing through me. "You deserve that choice now. Especially now, after everything you've accomplished. Everything you've become."

She's silent, watching me with an intensity that makes it difficult to continue. But I push forward, needing her to understand completely.

"The apartment is yours. No strings, no conditions. You can move in tomorrow if you want. Create your art. Build your career. Live the life you choose."

"Without you," she says softly, not a question but a clarification.

I swallow hard, forcing the next words past the tightness in my throat. "If that's what you want. Yes."

Luna stands abruptly, moving away from the sofa to stare out at the city beyond the windows. Her back is to me, shoulders tense beneath the delicate fabric of her dress.

"And if I stay?" she asks, voice barely audible.

"Then you stay because you choose to," I reply. "Not out of obligation or fear. But because it's what you want."

She turns to face me, expression unreadable in the dim light. "And the collar?"

My hand moves unconsciously to my pocket, where I've carried the weight of it—a reminder of the woman I almost lost, the connection that was torn apart in violence. "That's part of why we're having this conversation."

I rise, crossing the room to stand before her, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes but careful not to touch her. "The collar was about marking you as mine. But that's not what I want anymore."

"And now?" she asks, her hand unconsciously moving toward her throat—still unmarked since that night Christopher ripped it away.

"Now," I say quietly, "I'm giving you the choice I should have given you from the beginning."

I withdraw the collar from my pocket, holding it in my open palm between us.

The platinum is dulled in places, stained with rust-colored spots that make my chest tighten.

One section bears a small dent where it struck the floor.

"I kept it," I say softly. "Not because I planned to.

.. not because I was waiting to put it back.

I kept it because it was a piece of who you were. Who we were. I couldn't throw it away."

Luna stares at the damaged collar, her breath catching audibly as she takes in the evidence of that night—the violence. Her fingers hover over it but don't quite touch.

"But it doesn't matter to me anymore," I continue, my voice steady despite the emotion coursing through me. "The collar, what it represented—none of that matters. Only you matter. What you choose matters."

She finally touches it, tracing one finger along the velvet where it was ripped apart. "You saved it," she whispers.

"I saved you," I correct gently. "This was just... what was left behind."

For a moment, neither of us speaks, the weight of the damaged collar between us carrying all our history—the beginning, the breaking, and now this moment of choice.

"And if I choose to stay?" she asks finally, her voice steady despite the uncertainty in her eyes. "What then?"

"Then we figure it out together," I reply honestly. " Day by day. Without predetermined rules or power dynamics. Just... us."

"Us," she repeats, as if testing the word. "You and me."

"Yes."

She steps closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body, smell the subtle scent of her perfume. "And what about this?" she asks, gently taking the collar from my hand. "What happens to it?"

"That's up to you," I tell her. "Keep it as a reminder of where we started. Throw it away to symbolize moving forward. Melt it down and create something new. It's your choice, Luna. Everything is your choice now."

She studies the platinum band thoughtfully, turning it over in her hands before setting it aside on the nearby table. Then, with deliberate slowness, she reaches up and places her hands on either side of my face.

"I choose to stay," she says simply.

The words hit me with physical force, relief and wonder and something dangerously close to joy flooding through me. "Are you sure?"

Her smile is soft, genuine, reaching her eyes in a way that makes my chest ache. "I'm sure," she confirms. "Not because I have to. But because here, with you... this is where I want to be."

I cover her hands with mine, holding them against my face as if they're something infinitely precious. "Luna?—"

"I've spent weeks healing," she continues, her voice steady and sure. "Finding myself again. Reclaiming my voice, my art, my power. And in all that time, you've been beside me. Not controlling. Not demanding. Just... present. Supportive. Letting me become whatever I needed to be."

Her thumbs stroke along my cheekbones in a touch so gentle it nearly undoes me. "That's why I'm staying, Beckett. Because you see me. All of me. And you let me see all of you, too."

I don't have words to respond—not adequate ones, anyway. Instead, I turn my head slightly, pressing a kiss to her palm. A gesture of gratitude. Of reverence. Of the emotion I'm still learning to name.

"So," she says, a hint of mischief entering her eyes, "what does that make us now?"

I consider the question seriously, wanting to get this right. "Partners," I suggest. "Equals. Two people choosing each other, day by day."

Her smile widens. "I like the sound of that."

And then she's rising on her toes, her lips meeting mine in a kiss that feels like beginning rather than continuation. Different from any kiss we've shared before—not demanding or desperate, but tender. Exploratory. Patient.