Page 142 of His to Hunt

She steps back, giving me a clear view of the canvas. "What do you think?"

I study the painting carefully, taking in every detail. It's me—unmistakably me, captured in oils with the precision and insight that makes her work so powerful. But unlike the first portrait she ever painted of me, this one contains no darkness, no shadow, no threat.

Instead, I stand bathed in golden light, surrounded not by storm clouds but by clear skies. My expression is open, unguarded, revealing the man I've become rather than the one I was. The man who learned to replace control with trust.

"It's how you see me," I observe quietly.

She nods, coming to stand beside me, studying her work with critical eyes. "How I see you now. How you really are."

I wrap an arm around her waist, drawing her against my side, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Only because of you."

"No," she corrects gently. "You were always capable of this.Of being this man. You just needed someone to see past the darkness to the light underneath."

I consider her words, feeling their truth resonate through me. What began as claiming has become choice. And in that transformation, we've both found versions of ourselves we never knew existed.

"So," I ask, nodding toward the canvas, "does this one have a title yet?"

Luna smiles, leaning into me, her head resting against my shoulder as we both contemplate the painting that captures not just my image, but our journey.

"Becoming," she says simply.

And in that single word is everything—our past, our present, our future. The darkness we survived and the light we found. The possession that became partnership. The claiming that became choice.

The endless possibilities of the life we're creating together.

The End.

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HIS TO CLAIM

Chapter 1

Graham Ellsworth

The Metropolitan Opera House glitters like a jeweled crown against the Manhattan skyline, its grand façade illuminated for tonight's charity auction benefiting the New York Children's Hospital. I adjust my black bow tie as I step out of my Aston Martin, handing the keys to the Bainet with the casual confidence of a man who's attended a thousand such events.

Inside, the opulent lobby buzzes with New York's elite—old money mixing with new tech fortunes, political dynasties rubbing shoulders with entertainment royalty. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over designer gowns and perfectly tailored tuxedos, the air thick with expensive perfume and the subtle hum of power exchanging pleasantries.

I spot my target immediately, Sebastian Ashford stands near the champagne station, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world. Even in his impeccably cut Armani, Sebastian radiates the kind of tension that comes from a man trapped in circumstances beyond his control.

"You look like someone's holding a gun to your head," I say, appearing at Sebastian's elbow and accepting a glass of Dom Pérignon from a passing waiter.

Sebastian's gray eyes flick to me with barely concealed irritation. "Might as well be. Three more months until the engagement announcement."

"Ah yes, the illustrious Miss Catherine Whitmore." I take a sip of champagne, savoring both the vintage and Sebastian's obvious discomfort. "Remind me again why you're going through with this particular form of social suicide?"

"Family expectations. Political alliances. The usual reasons men like us sacrifice personal happiness for strategic advantage." Sebastian's tone is flat, practiced—the voice of someone who's given this explanation too many times. "Father's been planning this marriage since Catherine was in prep school."

"How delightfully medieval of him."

Sebastian shoots me a dark look. "Easy for you to say. You don't have a senatorial legacy breathing down your neck."

I shrug, unrepentant. "Benefits of being new money, my friend. No ancestral obligations to ancient bloodlines." I scan the crowd with practiced ease, cataloging faces, connections, potential opportunities. "Speaking of which, have you seen our favorite reformed predator and his artist?"

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