Page 3 of His to Hunt

"I know." What I don't tell her is that it doesn't matter. NoPiece has ever refused once claimed. The allure of being Chosen is too strong for most. But I'm not here to be chosen. I'm here for the money. Evade capture until dawn, and $250,000 is mine—no strings, no expectations, no ownership.

And with that money, I can finally escape. Not just from Christopher, but from all of it—the galas, the fake smiles, the endless parade of people who see me as nothing more than a decorative piece for their collections. I can leave New York behind entirely. Find a small place somewhere, maybe even a crappy studio apartment. I don't care. I can make a living with my art—paintings, sketches, commissions, whatever it takes. My fingers itch just thinking about it. Freedom. Real freedom.

The mask shifts slightly as I adjust the strap again. It doesn't fit quite right—too wide across the bridge of my nose, too loose at the corners—but it's close enough.

I stole my sister's invitation, her name, her place. They won't know the difference, as we look similar enough. Not unless I give them a reason to look too closely.

"You're insane," Avery mutters. "The odds of making it through uncaught?—"

"I don't need odds," I whisper back. "I just need to be faster than the others. One night of running, and I get $250k." For the first time all night, I smile. Not the practiced one I use at family dinners. Not the frozen one I wear through years of being told to smile more, be less. This one's real. Determined. "With that money, I can disappear for good."

A car pulls to a stop outside the estate and my pulse picks up. The driver says nothing, just glides to the door with that perfectly blank expression all these people wear—trained neutrality, controlled silence. The door opens, and I hesitate.

Just for a second.

Long enough to feel the weight of everything pressingdown on my ribs like it wants to crack me open. The mask sits uncomfortably on my face. The dress clings too tight. My heart pounds like it knows something I don't.

But beneath the fear is a cold calculation. Every woman who makes it through the night uncaptured gets a prize that could change everything. The odds are terrible—the men outnumber the women by design. But I'm not here to be caught. I'm here to win.

"You've got this, Luna. You can do it. I expect to see you when the sun rises."

I nod, inhale, and push it all down.

Then step out.

Two

LUNA

The estate risesin front of me like a myth built from stone. Towering spires, black marble, steel bones beneath all that wealth. It doesn't feel like a house. It feels like a warning.

As I approach the entrance, I notice the symbols etched into the stone archway above—subtle designs carrying weight for those initiated into the society. I've heard whispers about these markings, how they represent the original Collectors who founded the Club centuries ago.

Women regal enough to be Possessions.

Because what else would a group of men who call themselves 'Collectors' and 'Owners' call the women they sponsor? The women who are caught are claimed by the Owners and considered their Possession to do with what they please. But there is an expectation that these women will be cared for their entire life.

But those who outrun them, who make it until dawnwithout being caught—they earn their prize. Their freedom. Their escape.

I can see how the idea of having someone take care of you for the rest of your life could be appealing. I've even heard that some Owners are kind and don't ask for much.

But there is no way in Hell I'm jumping from one gilded cage to another.

A man in a black suit waits at the door, motionless behind his blank mask, gloved hands held out to receive my invitation.

My fingers don't shake as I pass it over.

But inside? Everything is already unraveling.

Genevieve Laurent.

The name isn't mine, but the mask makes everything a lie, anyway. He studies it for a beat too long. His gaze lifts to mine, unreadable beneath the mask, but I meet it without flinching, daring him to look closer, daring him to call me what I am—an imposter in borrowed skin.

He doesn't. He simply steps aside, and I force my shoulders to relax.

I'm in. Step one complete.

I walk through the door before either of us changes our mind, and that's when the weight of it hits me.

---