Page 118 of His to Hunt

And then I see him—Anthony Baine, stumbling slightly as he pushes past the security guard at the door, his eyes wild as they scan the room, looking for one person only.

Looking for me.

Forty-Nine

LUNA

The gallery glowswith soft light that makes every canvas sing. I've never experienced anything like this—people gathered to see my work, to discuss it, to feel something because of what I've created. It's intoxicating. Validating in a way I never knew I needed.

"Your use of negative space here is extraordinary," the curator from MoMA is saying, her elegant hands gesturing toward my largest piece—a storm breaking, darkness giving way to unexpected light. "There's something almost transcendent about the tension you've created."

I smile, explaining my process, my intentions, sharing just enough of myself to connect but keeping the deepest truths private. Those belong only to me. And to Beckett.

I can feel him watching me from across the room. I've felt his eyes on me all evening—not possessive, not controlling, but present. Proud. The weight of his attention is different now, a caress rather than a claim. Each time our gazes meet, evenbriefly, a silent conversation passes between us. Later, those eyes promise. When this is yours, I'll make you mine again.

The thought sends a pleasant shiver through me that has nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

Three of my paintings already have sold. Three red dots marking the first pieces of my work that will hang in someone else's home, on someone else's walls. And not because of Beckett's influence or connections—he made sure of that. These sales are mine. This success is mine.

The freedom tastes sweeter than the champagne I sip as I move to another group of admirers eager to discuss my technique, my inspiration. I answer their questions with a confidence I've never felt before, as though I've finally found the language that belongs to me.

This is what it feels like to be seen. To be valued not as a possession, not as currency, but as a creator. As myself.

I glance again toward where Beckett stands with his friends, noting the new addition to their circle—an older man with silver hair and an air of authority that reminds me slightly of Beckett himself. They seem deep in conversation, something serious passing between them.

The curator touches my arm lightly, drawing my attention back. "I'd love to discuss the possibility of featuring your work in our emerging artists showcase this fall," she says, her eyes alight with professional interest.

"I'd be honored," I reply, meaning it. "Perhaps we could?—"

A commotion at the front entrance interrupts me—raised voices, a crash, the sudden shift in energy that ripples through the crowd like a warning.

Before I can process what's happening, Sebastian appears at my side, his tall frame positioning itself slightly between me and the direction of the disturbance.

"We need to move," he says, his voice low and urgent, his hand coming to rest on my elbow.

"Why? What's happening?" I ask, trying to see past him to the entrance where people are moving out of the way of something—or someone.

"Just do what you're told," Sebastian replies, his grip tightening as he tries to guide me toward the back of the gallery.

The command, so reminiscent of every controlling voice from my past, triggers something immediate and visceral in me. I wrench free from his grasp, anger flaring bright and hot.

"No," I say firmly. "Tell me what's happening."

Sebastian's expression shifts from commanding to genuinely concerned. "Luna, please?—"

But I'm already moving, pushing past him toward the commotion, needing to see, to understand what could possibly threaten this perfect evening. Is it Beckett? Is he in trouble?

The crowd parts reluctantly, conversations hushed as I make my way forward. I catch a glimpse of Beckett's broad shoulders as he moves with deliberate purpose toward the entrance, Graham at his side.

And then a hand reaches out from a darkened corner, grabbing me firmly and pulling me backward. I gasp as I'm yanked into shadow, my back pressed against a wall, a body blocking my escape.

For one disoriented moment, I think it might be Beckett, intercepting me, playing some game of control and surrender like we've done before.

But no. Something is wrong. The grip is different—too tight, too desperate. The scent is wrong—cologne that makes my stomach clench with remembered fear. The energy is wrong—not protection but predation.

I look up, and my worst fearsare confirmed.

Christopher.

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