Page 126 of His to Hunt

"I should have protected you better," I say, the words rough with emotion I don't try to hide. "I should have been there. I should have known."

Her fingers curl weakly into the fabric of my shirt—the first voluntary movement she's made since I found her. Not forgiveness, not absolution, but acknowledgment. Connection.

I open the passenger door with one hand, still supporting her weight, and lower her gently onto the seat. Her eyes find mine in the dim light, still traumatized but present now. Seeing me.

I kneel beside the open door, keeping my movements slow and deliberate, and brush a strand of hair from her face with careful fingers.

"He's gone," I tell her, needing her to understand completely. "Forever. You're safe now. No one will ever touch you like that again."

A single tear slips down her cheek, and I catch it with my thumb, gently wiping it away.

"We're going home," I repeat, the promise hanging between us. "And then we'll rebuild. Together."

I press a gentle kiss to her forehead before closing her door and circling to the driver's side. As the engine roars to life, I glance over at her—bruised, broken, but undefeated. Still breathing. Still fighting. Still Luna.

And as we drive away from the warehouse, leaving behind the body of the man who thought he could own her, I make a silent vow. She will never know fear like this again. Not while I live. Not while I breathe.

Because she isn't mine to possess.

She's mine to protect.

And I will burn the world to ashes before I fail her again.

Fifty-Three

LUNA

The world comes backto me in fragments.

Soft sunlight filtering through unfamiliar curtains. The whisper of expensive sheets against raw skin. The distant sound of someone moving through rooms beyond the closed door. Pain throbbing in places I can't yet name.

I don't open my eyes immediately. Instead, I catalog what I know to be true. I am alive. I am in a bed. I am not in the warehouse.

Christopher is gone.

That last thought triggers a cascade of memories—his hands on me, the ribbon tight around my throat, the darkness closing in. Then Beckett appearing like something ancient and vengeful. The look in his eyes as he cut me down. The feeling of being carried away from that place of horror, wrapped in his jacket, his voice a steady anchor in the storm.

I open my eyes and discover I'm in a bedroom I don'trecognize—not the upstate house, not Beckett's penthouse. The walls are a soft, muted blue-gray. The furniture is minimal but elegant. A glass of water sits on the nightstand beside a vase of fresh lilies.

When I try to sit up, pain shoots through my shoulders and wrists. I gasp, the sound escaping before I can catch it.

The door opens almost immediately.

"You're awake," Beckett says, his voice carefully neutral as he steps into the room. He looks different—dressed in a simple black t-shirt and dark jeans instead of his usual impeccable suits. There's a small cut on his lower lip, a bruise darkening along his jaw.

I try to speak, but my throat is too dry. He crosses to the nightstand without being asked, helping me sit up with a gentle hand behind my back, then offering the glass of water. His movements are deliberate, telegraphed, as if he's worried about startling me.

"Where are we?" I manage after taking a sip, my voice a rough whisper.

"Safe house," he replies. "One that no one knows about. Except Sebastian and Graham."

I take another sip of water, studying him over the rim of the glass. There are shadows beneath his eyes, tension in the set of his shoulders. He hasn't slept.

"How long?" I ask.

"Two days." He takes the empty glass, setting it back on the nightstand. "The doctor said you needed rest."

Doctor. I glance down at my wrists, now wrapped in clean bandages. The bruises on my ribs have been treated, covered with some kind of salve that numbs the pain. Someone has tended to me while I slept.

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