Page 116 of His to Hunt

"Beckett..."

That's all it takes.

I thrust once more, twice, then bury myself deep—so deep it feels like we're carved from the same primal chaos—and I break apart.

"Fuck—Luna—" Her name tears from my throat as I spill inside her, emptying everything I am into the woman who somehow found what was worth keeping.

My whole body locks as I come harder than I ever have, a release that's more than physical—it's the collapse of every wall I've built since childhood.

Of pride. Of distance. Of the armor I forged around myself since before I can remember.

She undoes it all with her hands, her eyes, her heart.

I don't immediately move away. I stay joined with her, forehead pressed to hers, breath mingling as the water continues to cascade over us, washing away paint but leaving everything changed beneath.

She combs her fingers through my hair with gentle reverence.

"I've never felt like this before," she whispers, the confession barely audible over the spray.

I kiss her like I understand the magnitude of what she's given me. Like I feel exactly the same. Like I'll never be the same man I was before her.

"Mine," I murmur against her mouth, the word both possessive and a promise. "Even if the world burns for it."

And I mean every syllable.

Forty-Eight

BECKETT

The gallerypulses with energy—champagneflutes clinking, hushed conversations about technique and meaning, the occasional burst of laughter rising above the ambient music. But I see none of it. I see only her.

Luna moves through the crowd with a grace I've never witnessed before, her black dress flowing around her like liquid shadow, gold accessories catching the light with every gesture. She's radiant. Commanding. Completely in her element as she discusses her work with critics, collectors, and admirers who have no idea they're in the presence of something extraordinary.

Someone extraordinary.

Her paintings dominate the space—twenty-three canvases, each more arresting than the last. The collection tells a story of transformation, of darkness yielding to light, of captivity giving way to freedom. And they're selling. Fast. Three red dotsalready mark pieces as sold, and I've seen at least four more serious inquiries in the last hour alone.

I had nothing to do with it. That was my gift to her—not just the gallery, but the chance to succeed or fail on her own merit. The invitations went out under the gallery's name, not mine. The guests tonight have no idea that Beckett Sinclair is involved. They're here for the art, for the artist, not for connections to power or influence.

And Luna is flourishing in a way that makes my chest ache with something dangerously close to pride. No—not pride. Something deeper. Something I still can't fully name.

She catches my eye across the room, a small private smile curving her lips before she turns back to the curator from MoMA who's been monopolizing her attention for the past fifteen minutes. The look lasts barely a second, but it's enough to send heat coursing through me, to remind me of exactly what I plan to do to her when we're finally alone.

I want to take her to one of the many private corners of this place and fuck her senseless against the wall, her dress hiked up around her waist, my name on her lips. I want to taste the victory on her skin, to feel her shudder against me as she comes undone.

But that will come soon enough. Tonight is hers. Her moment. Her triumph.

I haven't seen Christopher yet, but security knows to alert me as soon as he's seen anywhere on the property.

"Well, well, well," a familiar voice drawls from behind me. "The mighty Beckett Sinclair, lurking in the shadows while his woman steals the spotlight."

I turn to find Sebastian and Graham approaching, both impeccably dressed in tailored suits that cost more than most people's monthly rent. Graham is grinning like he's caught mein some embarrassing act, while Sebastian maintains his usual air of aristocratic amusement.

"I'm not lurking," I reply, accepting the glass of whiskey Sebastian offers me. "I'm observing."

"Obsessing, more like," Graham counters, clapping me on the shoulder. "You haven't taken your eyes off her all night."

"Can you blame him?" Sebastian asks, his gaze drifting to where Luna stands. "She's magnificent."

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