Page 104 of His to Hunt

But real.

And raw.

And fucking eternal.

Forty-Three

BECKETT

The Bentley glidesthrough midday traffic, the city falling away behind us as we head north along the Hudson. Luna sits beside me in the passenger seat, her gaze fixed on the passing scenery, fingers occasionally drumming against her thigh to a rhythm only she can hear. She's wearing a long gown today—a simple black piece that somehow manages to make her look both elegant and untamed. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, still damp from our shower this morning.

I can't help but steal glances at her profile as I drive. Even after everything—the confessions, the gallery plans, last night in the studio—there's something almost surreal about her presence beside me. As if I've stepped into a reality I didn't design but somehow desperately needed.

My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket. I ignore it, knowing it's likely another confirmation that my plans are proceeding exactly as arranged. Christopher had RSVP'd to the galleryopening invitation within hours of receiving it, his eagerness almost pathetic in its predictability. He has no idea the trap that's been set—that the invitation was bait designed specifically for him, that the opening will be the beginning of his end.

As for Anthony Baine, that situation is already resolving itself with ruthless efficiency. The CEO of Nexus Dynamics received my anonymous tip yesterday. By now, the federal authorities have been notified, evidence secured. Baine will be in handcuffs before he ever realizes it was me who orchestrated his downfall, his attempt to access the quantum encryption algorithms serving as the perfect noose.

Everything is in motion. Precise. Controlled. Just as I planned.

The other Collectors will likely maintain their distance once Baine falls. The Club has always operated on a principle of plausible deniability—each member responsible for their own actions, their own failures. They'll cut ties with Baine the moment his arrest becomes public, preserving their own positions rather than risking exposure.

"You're quiet," Luna observes, her voice pulling me from my thoughts.

I glance over, finding her watching me with that penetrating gaze that seems to see beneath my carefully constructed facades. I reach across the console, placing my hand on her thigh, feeling the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her dress.

"Everything is handled," I tell her, squeezing gently.

She covers my hand with hers, her thumb tracing small circles against my skin. "You know you can talk to me about stuff now. I'm not just some wallflower. I went to college, I'm educated."

I can't help the chuckle that escapes me. "I know that."

"Do you?" she challenges, though her tone remains light. "Because sometimes it seems like you're still trying to shield me from everything."

"I will include you in things," I promise, threading our fingers together. "But nothing that could get you into trouble."

She tilts her head, considering this. "Okay, well, I guess that makes sense." There's reluctant acceptance in her voice, but also a note of appreciation for the honesty.

We fall into comfortable silence as I turn off the main road onto a private drive that winds through a corpse of trees. The property reveals itself gradually—twenty acres of manicured grounds stretching down to the riverbank, crowned by a modernist structure of glass and steel that catches the afternoon light like a prism.

Luna's breath audibly catches as the building comes into full view. "Beckett, this is?—"

"Yours," I finish for her, unable to keep the satisfaction from my voice.

I park in front of the main entrance, turning off the engine and watching her face as she takes in the scale of the property. Her eyes are wide, lips slightly parted in an expression of stunned disbelief that I find oddly satisfying.

I step out and circle around to open her door, offering my hand. She takes it automatically, still distracted by the building before us.

"Do you like it?" I ask, though her expression already tells me everything I need to know.

She steps out of the car, her grip on my hand tightening almost imperceptibly. "Wait, this is going to be my gallery?"

"Looks like you've got a lot of art to make," I reply, unable to suppress the smile that breaks across my face at her reaction.

Luna stands motionless for a moment, taking in the sweeping lines of the structure, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the way the building seems to both command attention and blend seamlessly with its natural surroundings.

"You did this for me," she says softly, not quite a question.

"I did," I confirm, watching her carefully. "The renovations should be complete within three weeks. The opening is already scheduled."

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