Page 133 of His to Hunt

Your night. Your triumph. I'm here if you need me.

The dynamic between us has shifted so gradually I barely noticed it happening. What began as control evolved into protection, then partnership, and now something I still don't have a name for. Something both stronger and more fragile than what came before.

"Earth to Luna," Avery says, nudging me with her elbow. "That couple over there wants to talk to you about 'Aftermath.'"

I follow her gaze to an elegantly dressed pair studying one of my largest canvases—a stark depiction of broken bonds and severed restraints, painted in the days after my rescue. The piece is raw, almost violent in its honesty, yet threaded through with a thin line of gold that suggests possibility amid destruction.

"Go," Genevieve urges, taking my champagne glass. "Be brilliant."

I move through the crowd toward the couple, accepting compliments and fielding questions with a confidence that feels new but not unearned. This is my work. My voice. My truth laid bare on canvas for all to see.

The exhibition is titled simply "Liberation"—eighteen pieces chronicling my journey from captivity through traumato the beginnings of freedom. I didn't hold back, didn't soften the darkness or exaggerate the light. Just painted what I felt, what I lived, what I survived.

And people are responding. Not with pity or discomfort, but with recognition. With understanding. With appreciation for the honesty in every brushstroke.

"The layering in your strokes—it's deliberate without feeling restrained," the woman says, stepping closer to the canvas. "There's a quiet violence in it. Beautiful and brutal all at once."

I explain my process, my intentions, sharing just enough of myself to connect without reopening wounds that are still healing. This is the balance I'm learning—honesty without exploitation, vulnerability without victimhood.

The conversation flows easily, and I find myself genuinely enjoying the discussion about technique and inspiration. When the couple moves on to view other pieces, I take a moment to survey the room, pride warming my chest at the sight of my work displayed so beautifully.

That's when I see them.

My parents.

Standing near the entrance, looking polished and perfect as always. My father in an expensive suit, my mother in a designer dress that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. They're scanning the crowd, searching for something.

Searching for me.

My heart slams against my ribs, panic rising like a tide threatening to drown me. I haven't seen them since before Christopher. Haven't spoken to them since they dismissed my assault as a misunderstanding, as something I must have invited or deserved.

"Luna?" Genevieve appears at my side, following my gaze to the entrance. "Oh, shit."

"How did they know?" I whisper, unable to look away from the threat their presence represents.

"The exhibition was announced publicly," she replies, voice tight with anger. "They must have seen it in the press."

"I can't—" I begin, but Genevieve cuts me off with a gentle squeeze of my arm.

"Yes, you can," she says firmly. "This is your night. Your space. Your power. And Beckett's already noticed them."

I glance across the room to where Beckett stands, his posture unchanged but his attention now laser-focused on my parents. The look in his eyes is cold, calculating, dangerous—but he doesn't move toward them. Instead, his gaze shifts to me, questioning. Waiting.

Letting me decide how to handle this.

"Do you want me to get security?" Genevieve asks. "They can be removed."

I consider it for a moment—how easy it would be to have them escorted out, to avoid the confrontation entirely. But something inside me rebels against the idea. I've spent too long running, too long hiding, too long letting others speak for me.

"No," I say, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. "I need to face them."

Genevieve studies me for a moment, then nods. "I'm right beside you."

We move through the crowd together, my sister a comforting presence at my side. As we approach, I notice Avery has positioned herself strategically nearby, ready to intervene if needed. And Beckett—Beckett has moved to a spot where he can observe without interfering, giving me space but remaining close enough to step in if I need him.

My parents spot me before I reach them, relief washing over their faces with such convincing sincerity that for a second, I almost believe it's genuine.

"Luna," my mother exclaims, stepping forward with arms outstretched. "Thank God you're alright. We've been so worried."

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