Page 11 of His to Hunt

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

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

Six

BECKETT

Her hand connectswith my face, sharp and fast, and for a split second, I wonder if she thought she could hurt me with it.

She didn't, obviously.

But I can't deny I'm happy to see I wasn't wrong in my initial assessment. I'm an excellent judge of character. From the first moment I meet someone, I can tell their true intentions. And the fiery spirit I saw beneath all that careful control is exactly who I want. If she was anything else, we wouldn't even be having this conversation.

I let the sting bloom across my cheek under my mask and keep my gaze steady, one hand slipping up to catch her jaw—not hard, not cruel, just firm enough to keep her there.

Her breathing stutters. Her mask might hide most of her expression, but I can see the fight in her eyes.

"You done?" I ask softly.

She jerks her chin, but doesn't try to pull away. That tells me more than words ever could.

"I'm not yours," she snaps.

Not yet.

My fingers trace the edge of her jaw, slow and deliberate, like I'm painting a memory she won't be able to wash off. Her skin is warm, soft, vibrating with barely contained rage. Or fear. Or both.

She tries to step back, but I don't let her.

"Keep telling yourself that," I murmur. "You might even believe it for another hour."

"Fuck you."

"Eventually."

The door creaks open behind us, and the moment stretches—tight as wire—before the tension breaks with a familiar voice.

"Well, that escalated quickly," Graham drawls, stepping onto the terrace like he wasn't intentionally interrupting. "Didn't know the party had moved outside."

He has a glass of something expensive in one hand, his jacket slung over one shoulder like he's immune to formality. His tone is casual, but his eyes? Sharp. Watching. Reading every inch of me like he already knows how deep this runs.

"She hit him," he adds, clearly talking to someone else.

Sebastian steps into view like a chess master entering mid-game—measured, immaculate, unreadable. He doesn't speak, but his gaze moves quickly. Noticing everything. The tension in my shoulders, the look on her face, the way my fingers are still curled slightly under her chin.

"She's not afraid of him," Sebastian says.

"She should be," I answer.

But I don't takemy eyes off her.

Because she's still trembling. Still pretending. Still wearing that collar like it hasn't already burned itself into her skin.

And I know the look on her face. It's the look of someone who just realized she made a deal with the devil. A deal she never meant to make and doesn't understand what it cost her yet.

Graham grins as his gaze shifts between us, reading more than he'll say aloud. "Interesting choice. Most women don't have the nerve to slap you."

"Most women don't interest me enough to warrant the reaction."

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