Page 8 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Seven

BECKETT

I leave her on the balcony, breathless and trembling, because I want her to remember what it feels like to watch me walk away.

Not in defeat.

In silence.

In control.

I want her to burn in the space I leave behind. To stand there with that collar still tight around her throat and wonder why I didn't finish what I started. Because the second she starts asking questions—about me, about this place, about herself—she's mine.

Inside the ballroom, the shift has begun.

The music no longer dances. It pulses. Slow, rhythmic, laced with something primal and low.

The notes thrum beneath the skin, vibrating like a warning no one dares speak aloud.

The lights have dimmed, subtly but with intention, casting the edges of the room in long, flickering shadows.

Candlelight trembles. Conversations drop to murmurs.

The choosing is over.

The Hunt is coming.

No one says it. No one needs to. The Club operates on tradition, not instruction.

You feel the transition before you recognize it.

The women begin to vanish—escorted by silent stewards in tailored black, led toward the back of the estate where the woods begin.

None of them speak as they disappear, not even to each other.

They know better. Their time for words ended when they walked into this room.

Now? Now they run.

My gaze flicks to the double doors near the east wing. They remain closed for now, but I know what waits beyond them—the dressing rooms for the men, the final moment of calm before the storm. The suits are left behind. The masks go on. The roles shift.

The predators shed their polish.

And become what they were always meant to be.

I move toward the corridor without hesitation. The other Collectors part for me without realizing it—just enough to let me pass, just enough to acknowledge what they all know but won't say aloud.

She's mine.

But I also know the rules. The ancient clause no one likes to talk about. The loophole that still exists—intended to make the Hunt real, to give it teeth.

If another man gets to her first, and he takes her?

She's his.

It doesn't matter who claimed her in the ballroom. It doesn't matter who gave her a collar. The Hunt rewrites the terms .

Once she steps into the woods, she belongs to the man who catches her first.

Which means I put a target on her back the second I touched her.

And now?

I have to get to her before anyone else does.

Sebastian appears at my side just as I reach the threshold of the corridor, his champagne finally gone, his smirk softer now—sharpened into something focused. He falls into step beside me, jacket loose in his grip, mask still tilted back on his head.

"She hit you," he says mildly.

"I noticed."

"She looked like she meant it."

"She did."

He glances at me. "You like that?"

I don't answer. Because he already knows.

"You know what that choker did," he adds, tone dropping, quieter now. "You marked her before the Hunt even began."

"I know."

"You didn't give her a token."

"No," I say. "I gave her something better."

Sebastian hums like he's not sure if I'm bold or insane. Probably both.

"You're not the only one who found what they wanted tonight." He taps his pocket where his own favor used to be—already handed off. "Graham too. Gave his out before the first hour was up."

I nod once, gaze scanning the ballroom one last time before stepping into the corridor.

They played the game, too.

They gave their tokens like good little monsters playing by the rules, hands steady, faces composed, like the Hunt wasn't already bleeding through their masks.

But I saw it—the flicker in their eyes when they found the ones they wanted.

That shift. That sharp, possessive pull.

Obsession settles fast in places like this. And me? I welcomed it.

Because in the end, it doesn't matter who made the first move. Only who makes the last.

And me? I didn't play. I didn't ask. I collared her in front of the entire room. I didn't just choose her. I took her.

And now every man here knows she's mine—and that I marked her outside the rules.

To them, that makes her fair game. To me, it makes her the only thing worth fighting for.

"You just put a target on her back," Sebastian says quietly, falling away as we reach the changing wing.

I glance over my shoulder, voice steady. "Let them try."

He grins. "See you in the woods."

Graham's already waiting ahead, hands in his pockets. He says nothing. Just gives a single nod before disappearing into the darkness of the dressing wing.

I follow.

My suit comes off piece by piece, each layer discarded like a skin I no longer need. The silk, the wool, the polish—it all falls away. What replaces it is simpler. Rougher. Built for speed, for violence, for clarity of purpose.

Black T-shirt. Dark jeans. Combat boots. The bare essentials.

And then—the final piece.

The skull mask waits for me at the end of the long mirror.

Ivory white. Hollow eyes. The mouth slightly parted in a painted sneer .

I slide it on without hesitation.

And in the mirror, the man disappears.

What's left is the truth.