Page 137 of His to Hunt

"Without you," she says softly, not a question but a clarification.

I swallow hard, forcing the next words past the tightness in my throat. "If that's what you want. Yes."

Luna stands abruptly, moving away from the sofa to stare out at the city beyond the windows. Her back is to me, shoulders tense beneath the delicate fabric of her dress.

"And if I stay?" she asks, voice barely audible.

"Then you stay because you choose to," I reply. "Not out of obligation or fear. But because it's what you want."

She turns to face me, expression unreadable in the dim light. "And the collar?"

My hand moves unconsciously to my pocket, where I've carried the weight of it—a reminder of the woman I almost lost, the connection that was torn apart in violence. "That's part of why we're having this conversation."

I rise, crossing the room to stand before her, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes but careful notto touch her. "The collar was about marking you as mine. But that's not what I want anymore."

"And now?" she asks, her hand unconsciously moving toward her throat—still unmarked since that night Christopher ripped it away.

"Now," I say quietly, "I'm giving you the choice I should have given you from the beginning."

I withdraw the collar from my pocket, holding it in my open palm between us. The platinum is dulled in places, stained with rust-colored spots that make my chest tighten. One section bears a small dent where it struck the floor. "I kept it," I say softly. "Not because I planned to... not because I was waiting to put it back. I kept it because it was a piece of who you were. Who we were. I couldn't throw it away."

Luna stares at the damaged collar, her breath catching audibly as she takes in the evidence of that night—the violence. Her fingers hover over it but don't quite touch.

"But it doesn't matter to me anymore," I continue, my voice steady despite the emotion coursing through me. "The collar, what it represented—none of that matters. Only you matter. What you choose matters."

She finally touches it, tracing one finger along the velvet where it was ripped apart. "You saved it," she whispers.

"I saved you," I correct gently. "This was just... what was left behind."

For a moment, neither of us speaks, the weight of the damaged collar between us carrying all our history—the beginning, the breaking, and now this moment of choice.

"And if I choose to stay?" she asks finally, her voice steady despite the uncertainty in her eyes. "What then?"

"Then we figure it out together," I reply honestly. "Day by day. Without predetermined rules or power dynamics. Just... us."

"Us," she repeats, as if testing the word. "You and me."

"Yes."

She steps closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body, smell the subtle scent of her perfume. "And what about this?" she asks, gently taking the collar from my hand. "What happens to it?"

"That's up to you," I tell her. "Keep it as a reminder of where we started. Throw it away to symbolize moving forward. Melt it down and create something new. It's your choice, Luna. Everything is your choice now."

She studies the platinum band thoughtfully, turning it over in her hands before setting it aside on the nearby table. Then, with deliberate slowness, she reaches up and places her hands on either side of my face.

"I choose to stay," she says simply.

The words hit me with physical force, relief and wonder and something dangerously close to joy flooding through me. "Are you sure?"

Her smile is soft, genuine, reaching her eyes in a way that makes my chest ache. "I'm sure," she confirms. "Not because I have to. But because here, with you... this is where I want to be."

I cover her hands with mine, holding them against my face as if they're something infinitely precious. "Luna?—"

"I've spent weeks healing," she continues, her voice steady and sure. "Finding myself again. Reclaiming my voice, my art, my power. And in all that time, you've been beside me. Not controlling. Not demanding. Just... present. Supportive. Letting me become whatever I needed to be."

Her thumbs stroke along my cheekbones in a touch sogentle it nearly undoes me. "That's why I'm staying, Beckett. Because you see me. All of me. And you let me see all of you, too."

I don't have words to respond—not adequate ones, anyway. Instead, I turn my head slightly, pressing a kiss to her palm. A gesture of gratitude. Of reverence. Of the emotion I'm still learning to name.

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