Page 143 of His to Hunt

"Over there." Sebastian nods toward the far corner of the room, where Beckett Sinclair stands in deep conversation with a museum curator, Luna Laurent at his side looking radiant in midnight blue silk.

I study them with genuine interest. The transformation in both of them over the past six months has been remarkable to witness. Beckett—once the epitome of cold control—now carries himself with a different kind of confidence. Still commanding, still dangerous, but tempered by something that looks suspiciously like contentment. And Luna... she's blossomed from the guarded, sharp-edged woman I first met into someone who moves through these elite circles with natural grace, her art having earned her a place here independent of Beckett's influence.

"They look disgustingly happy," I observe.

"Disgustingly," Sebastian agrees, though there's warmth in his voice. "Who would have thought Beckett Sinclair capable of actual human emotion?"

"The heart wants what it wants, apparently." I raise my glass in a mock toast to the distant couple. "Even stone-cold bastards like us aren't immune."

"Speak for yourself. My heart wants a great many things, none of which involve Catherine Whitmore."

Before I can respond with an appropriately sarcastic comment, Beckett and Luna approach, weaving through the crowd with the unconscious synchronization of two people completely attuned to each other.

"Gentlemen," Beckett says by way of greeting, his hand resting lightly on Luna's lower back—protective but not possessive, I note. "Enjoying the spectacle?"

"Oh, immensely," I reply. "Sebastian's been regaling me with tales of his upcoming nuptials. Apparently, love is in the air."

Luna shoots Sebastian a sympathetic look. "How are you holding up?"

"About as well as expected for a man walking toward his own execution," Sebastian says dryly.

"Come on, it can't be that bad," Luna says. "Maybe she'll surprise you."

Sebastian's smile is sharp enough to cut glass. "The only surprise would be if she had an original thought in that perfectly coiffed head of hers."

"Such romantic enthusiasm," I murmur. "I'm getting emotional just listening to you."

Beckett's mouth twitches—the closest thing to a smile most people ever see from him. "Perhaps we should change the subject before Sebastian throws himself off the balcony."

"Please," Sebastian mutters.

"How's the new collection coming along?" Beckett asks Luna, smoothly redirecting the conversation.

Luna's face lights up with genuine excitement. "Better than expected. The gallery thinks we might be able to schedule the exhibition for early spring."

"That's wonderful," Sebastian says, and I can hear the relief in his voice at having something positive to discuss. "Your work deserves the recognition."

"Thank you. It's still surreal sometimes, having people actually want to buy my paintings."

"Good art speaks for itself," I say, meaning it. I might be a cynic about most things, but Luna's talent is undeniable. "Success was inevitable."

"Ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer's voice booms across the room, "if you would please take your seats, we'll be beginning tonight's auction shortly."

As we move toward the main auction hall, I fall into step beside Beckett. "Speaking of inevitable events, any word on next year's Hunt schedule?"

Beckett's expression doesn't change, but I catch the slight tension in his shoulders. "Six months out still. The Collectors are being more... selective in their planning this year."

"After the Baine incident, I imagine they would be." I keep my voice low, aware of the ears around us. Anthony Baine's spectacular fall from grace sent ripples through the Club that are still being felt. "Any idea who's on the list?"

"No one I know personally," Beckett replies carefully. "Which is probably for the best."

I nod, understanding the subtext. After what happened with Luna—the violence, the near-loss, the fundamental shift in how Beckett views the entire institution—his enthusiasm for the Club's more traditional activities has notably waned.

We settle into our reserved seats in the front section, the four of us claiming a small table that provides an excellent view of both the auction stage and the rest of the crowd. I position myself strategically, back to the wall, where I can observe without being obviously watched in return.

The auctioneer, a distinguished man in his sixties with the kind of practiced charm that comes from decades of extracting money from wealthy donors, begins with the evening's smaller pieces—paintings, sculptures, and jewelry that will warm up the crowd before the main attractions.

I half-listen to the proceedings, more interested in studying the audience. This is where the real action happens at these events—in the subtle negotiations, the social positioning, the careful dance of influence and favor that drives New York's power structure.

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