Page 122 of His to Hunt

But inside, deep where no one can see, I'm begging for Beckett to tear the world apart just to put me back together.

Because right now, I'm not sure I can do it myself.

Fifty-One

BECKETT

By the timeI reach the entrance, the commotion has already spiraled into chaos. Anthony Baine stands there, disheveled and wild-eyed, his usually immaculate appearance a wreck. His tie hangs loose, his hair sticks up at odd angles, and the stench of expensive whiskey radiates from him like heat from pavement.

Security guards flank him on either side, their hands firmly gripping his arms as he continues to shout, red-faced and spittle flying.

"You think you're so clever, Sinclair!" he slurs, struggling against the guards' hold. "You set me up! You destroyed everything!"

The gallery has gone eerily quiet, guests frozen in place, champagne flutes suspended mid-air, conversations halted as all eyes turn toward the spectacle. I maintain my composure despite the rage building inside me—rage not at his accusations, but at the disruptionof Luna's night.

"Get him out of here," I tell the security team, my voice calm but carrying enough authority that they immediately begin moving toward the exit.

"The feds seized everything!" Anthony continues to shout, his voice breaking with desperation. "My accounts! My files! I was just released on bail, and they're still coming for me!"

I simply watch, expression neutral, as the security team drags him toward the door. He must have called in every last favor to make bail, then come straight here in this pathetic state.

"You did this!" he screams, as they pull him through the entrance. "You destroyed me!"

No one moves to help him. No one speaks in his defense. They just watch, wide-eyed and whispering, as the once-powerful Anthony Baine is reduced to a drunken, raving mess.

I scan the crowd, noting the reactions—shock, embarrassment, and in some cases, poorly concealed amusement. My eyes land on Preston, standing near the back wall. Our gazes lock for a brief moment before he gives me a nearly imperceptible nod and quietly slips out a side exit. Message received. Association disavowed.

"Mr. Sinclair," one of the security guards approaches. "We have him secured outside. Would you like us to call the police?"

"No," I reply. "Just make sure he doesn't return."

The guard nods and retreats, and gradually the hum of conversation begins to resume around me. The crisis apparently averted, the crowd returns to their champagne and art discussions, though with a new undercurrent of excitement. Nothing like a bit of drama to make an opening memorable.

I turn back toward the main gallery space, searching for Luna. She must have witnessed at least part of that debacle, andI need to make sure she's alright, to reassure her that Anthony is no threat to us, that everything is?—

My blood runs cold as I spot Sebastian pushing through the crowd toward me, his expression tight with barely controlled panic.

"Where is she?" I demand before he can speak, already knowing the answer won't be one I want to hear.

"She's gone," Sebastian says, voice low and urgent. "I tried to move her to safety when Baine showed up, but she fought me. Ran off. Then she just... disappeared."

The world narrows to a pinpoint focus, every sound in the gallery fading to white noise. "What do you mean, disappeared?"

"One minute she was heading toward the commotion, the next—gone." Sebastian's eyes are grim. "I searched everywhere. She's not in the building."

I'm already pulling out my phone, accessing the security system I had installed in the choker I gave her—the one she wears like a talisman now rather than a claim. The tracking interface loads, showing her location as a pulsing red dot.

She's moving. Quickly. Away from the gallery.

"Five minutes from here," I say, memorizing the coordinates. "An abandoned warehouse complex."

The implications crash through me like a physical blow. Christopher. It has to be. He wasn't at the entrance with Anthony—he was waiting, using the distraction to take what he thought was his.

"I'm calling Graham," Sebastian says, already pulling out his phone. "We need backup."

"No time," I reply, already moving toward the rear exit. "Security team only. Tell Graham to clean up here, make sure the guests think everything's fine."

Sebastian grabs my arm, stopping me momentarily. "Beckett, think. Going in alone is exactly what he wants."

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