Page 18 of His to Hunt

"Let them talk. I don't give a fuck," I say, scanning the treeline ahead. I can sense her out there—not physically, not yet, but in some deeper, more primitive part of me that her presence has awakened.

"They're not just talking, Beckett. They're watching. You've changed the game by putting that collar on her. The others think it's an invitation to challenge you."

I turn slowly to face him. "Then they'll learn what happens when someone touches what's mine."

Sebastian sighs. "You don't even know who she is."

"I know enough." I adjust the leather gloves on my hands, ensuring they fit perfectly—no restriction of movement, no possibility of leaving evidence behind. "She doesn't belong here. She's using another woman's name. Another woman's invitation."

"And that interests you because...?"

"Because she looks like prey but moves like a predator," I say simply. "Because she thinks she can slip into our world, take what she needs, and disappear without consequences. Because," I add, voice dropping lower, "she looked at me like she wasn't afraid when every instinct in her body was screaming danger."

Sebastian studies me for a moment, then shakes his head. "You're hunting her because she's the only one who doesn't want to be caught by you. That's some fucked up twisted logic, even for you."

"I'm hunting her because she thinks she can beat me at a game I invented. And don't stand here and pretend you aren't thinking the same thing."

Sebastian's grin widens. "I'm not the one broadcasting my intentions to the entire club."

"Sounds like you're afraid someone will take what you want before you have the chance to claim her yourself."

"Not at all. I just prefer to catch her by surprise."

The bell sounds—a single, pure note that echoes through the woods, signaling the beginning of the Hunt.

Around us, men move like predators through the trees, masks gleaming momentarily in patches of moonlight before disappearing again. The Hunt has begun.

"See you on the other side," Sebastian says, already moving away.

I don't respond. My focus has narrowed, sharpened to a single point. Somewhere in these woods, my Possession is running. And I'm going to find her.

I move silently through the trees, each step placed with deliberate care. Unlike the others, I don't rush. I don't crash through the underbrush, driven by adrenaline and desire. I track methodically, reading the signs of her passage—a broken twig, a partial footprint in damp soil, the faint but distinctive scent of her perfume lingering in the still air.

She's smart. She didn't take the obvious path. Didn't run in a straight line. But she's operating on instinct and adrenaline, making choices based on immediate threats rather than long-term strategy.

I, on the other hand, have been hunting these woods for years. I know every path, every clearing, every dead end. I know which routes look promising but lead nowhere, which shortcutsactually take longer, which hiding places seem secure but are actually traps.

And more importantly, I know how prey thinks when it's being hunted.

The first glimpse of her comes as a flash of pale skin through dense foliage—her bare shoulder, perhaps, or the curve of her leg where her dress has torn in her flight. She's moving quickly but not running blindly, pausing periodically to listen, to assess, to plan her next move.

I circle wide, positioning myself ahead of her likely path. And then I wait.

Stillness is a skill few master. The ability to become part of the environment, to blend so completely into the background that even wary prey doesn't register your presence until it's too late. Something I mastered long ago.

I hear her soft footfalls on the forest floor, the rustle of fabric against leaves, the slightly elevated pace of her breathing. Then she appears, moving through a patch of moonlight, bright hazel eyes darting in every direction except mine.

She's beautiful in her fear—not because I enjoy seeing her afraid, but because even terrified, she moves with a kind of defiant grace. Her dress is torn at the hem, her auburn hair partially freed from its careful arrangement, her skin flushed with exertion. But her eyes are clear, focused, determined.

She pauses just a few feet from where I stand concealed in shadow, her head tilting as she listens. For a moment, I think she senses me, but then she turns away, continuing along the path I anticipated.

I could take her now. End the Hunt before it truly begins. But something makes me hesitate. Perhaps it's the unexpected respect I feel for her resourcefulness. Perhaps it's the desire to see what she'll do next, how far she'll push herself to escape me.

Or perhaps it's the simple truth that I'm enjoying this more than I should—this chase, this challenge, this woman who doesn't know she was mine from the moment she stepped into that ballroom.

I follow at a distance, watching as she navigates the increasingly difficult terrain. She's heading deeper into the woods, away from the paths most Hunts follow, into territory few of the participants ever explore.

Smart. But not smart enough.

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