Page 33 of His to Hunt

I lean in and whisper the truth against her mouth.

"I'm never letting go."

Fifteen

BECKETT

The elevator ascends silently,carrying us away from the forest, the Hunt, the eyes that followed our exit.

Luna stands beside me, barefoot and silent. She doesn't lean into me, but she doesn't pull away either—like she's suspended in some liminal space between resistance and surrender.

Her eyes remain fixed on the glowing numbers above the door, watching each floor pass with rigid attention, as if counting the seconds until she can breathe again. The soft mechanical hum fills the space between us, a buffer against words neither of us seem ready to speak.

I study her profile in the dim light—the slight tremble in her hands, the pulse still fluttering beneath her jaw, the wild tangle of her hair falling across shoulders marked with shadows of my touch. Her body bears the evidence of what happened in those woods, and something primal in me feels satisfied by the sight.

When the doors finally slide open to reveal my penthouse, she steps out without hesitation, moving into the space like she's already mapped every exit. The automatic lights respond to our presence, bathing the room in cold white illumination that catches on black marble, steel, and glass. The space was designed to intimidate as much as impress.

"Subtle," she murmurs as she walks barefoot across the polished floor.

"I don't do subtle," I reply, moving past her to toss my keys onto the kitchen island with practiced nonchalance.

She crosses her arms, surveying the open floor plan with critical eyes. "You live alone?" she asks without turning, her voice carrying a hint of something I can't quite place.

"Would've been awkward if I didn't."

A soft sound escapes her—almost a laugh, but hollower, edged with exhaustion. "Right. Wouldn't want to explain the girl standing here in your shirt."

"Wouldn't need to explain," I correct her. "What's mine is mine."

She turns then, finally facing me, one eyebrow raised in challenge despite the fatigue evident in every line of her body. "Do you usually hunt down women in the forest and then bring them home?"

"I never bring anyone home." The admission hangs between us for a moment before I continue, "So, I definitely wasn't supposed to bring you home."

"And yet," she counters, eyes never leaving mine.

"And yet," I agree, letting the implication settle.

She shifts her weight, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at what must be tender skin. I notice the way she tries to hide it, the stubborn pride that keeps her spine straight despite everything.

"You hungry?" I ask, surprising myself with the question.

Her brow furrows slightly, lips parting in confusion. "That's the first question you ask me?"

"No," I remind her, "the first was your name."

"And you didn't even care about the answer. I could have been anyone," she says quietly.

She fought me all night—stubborn and sharp, impossible to ignore from the second we locked eyes. But now? Seeing her hesitate, a flicker of uncertainty in those wild eyes… it stirred something deeper. Something I wasn't ready for. "Your name never mattered. You were mine, regardless of who you are."

The silence stretches between us, taut with unspoken questions. I lean back against the counter, taking her in, studying her. Her beauty had caught my attention from the beginning, but now she seemed ethereal. Like something not meant to exist in this world. Bruised and marked, yet still holding herself with that quiet, unshakable grace. It only made her more impossible. More breathtaking.

The kind of beauty that didn't falter under pressure—it sharpened. Fierce and delicate, like a painting made of bruises and fire. And fuck, I couldn't stop staring. I didn't want to.

"I have no clothes for you," I say finally. "No toothbrush. No closet space. I wasn't prepared for this."

"So what now?" she asks. "You make the rules and I play along? Is that how this works?"

"Yes."

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