Page 131 of His to Hunt

"Obviously. But they're making a lot of noise. Press conferences, social media campaigns... They're painting themselves as concerned parents searching for their beloved daughter."

The thought of those people—the ones who handed Luna to a monster, who dismissed her pain, who valued connections over her safety—now pretending to care about her wellbeing makes something dark and dangerous stir in my chest.

"Let them look," I say coldly. "They won't find her unless she wants to be found."

"And if she does?" Sebastian asks carefully.

The question catches me off guard. I haven't considered the possibility that Luna might want to see her parents, might want to confront them or even—though it seems impossible—reconcile with them.

"Then that will be her choice," I say finally. "Not mine."

Sebastian makes a sound that might be surprise. "That's... not what I expected you to say."

Neither did I, if I'm being honest. But these past weeks with Luna have changed something fundamental in how I viewour relationship. What began as possession has evolved into something I don't fully understand yet—something that makes her choices matter more than my control.

"There's one more thing," I add, changing the subject. "I need you to arrange a visit."

"For?"

"Genevieve Laurent and someone named Avery. Luna's friend from art school."

Another pause. "You want to bring outsiders to the safe house?"

"I want Luna to have support beyond just me," I correct him. "People she trusts. People who matter to her."

The admission costs me something—an acknowledgment that I alone might not be enough for her recovery, that she needs connections I can't provide. But her healing matters more than my pride.

"I'll need to vet them both thoroughly," Sebastian says, always practical. "Security protocols?—"

"Do whatever's necessary," I interrupt. "Just make it happen within the next few days."

After ending the call, I stand in the kitchen, watching the first hints of dawn paint the sky beyond the windows. The safe house is quiet, peaceful in these early hours—a sharp contrast to the chaos still threatening from outside.

I think about Luna, sleeping in the next room. About the progress she's made in these past weeks. The paintings accumulating in the studio, each one less dark than the last. The moments when she smiles—brief, rare, but genuine. The way she reaches for me in the night when the nightmares come, trusting me to keep her safe.

This is about her. Just her. Luna herself—stubborn, talented, resilient, beautiful in ways that have nothing to dowith physical appearance and everything to do with the strength of her spirit.

I want her to heal. I want her to create. I want her to be exactly who she is, without constraint or expectation.

I want her to be happy.

The realization should terrify me. Instead, it settles into my chest with the quiet certainty of truth. This isn't possession. This isn't even desire, though God knows I still want her with an intensity that burns through my veins.

This is something else entirely. Something I've never felt before. Something I've never even believed in.

But I believe in her.

The soft sound of bare feet on hardwood pulls me from my thoughts. Luna stands in the doorway, hair tousled from sleep, wearing one of my t-shirts that hangs to her thighs. The bruises on her face have faded enough that they're barely visible in the dim light.

"You're up early," she says, voice still rough with sleep.

"Business," I reply, gesturing vaguely with my phone. "I didn't want to wake you."

She nods, moving into the kitchen with a natural ease that wasn't there a week ago. The wariness that kept her movements tight and careful has gradually faded, replaced by something closer to comfort. She fills a glass with water, then leans against the counter, studying me.

"Is everything alright?" she asks.

I consider lying, offering a vague reassurance that everything is fine. But we've moved beyond that kind of pretense.

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