Page 39 of His to Hunt

His voice whispering in my memory. His hands, always grasping. His hunger disguised as affection. The way he looked at me like I owed him obedience simply for existing.

"You'll learn to appreciate what I do for you," he'd said once, fingers digging into my wrist. "No one else will ever want you quite like I do."

The prize money would have bought me a new start, an apartment with security, a lawyer to keep the restraining order enforced. It would have paid for the debt I accrued hiding from him the first time. It would have given me six months, maybe more, to establish myself somewhere he couldn't find me.

And now? Now I have nothing.

No money. No freedom. No escape.

Just another man who's decided he owns me.

And yet... it doesn't feel the same. Not even close.

Beckett didn't pretend to love me. He didn't sweeten theblade. He took what he wanted, told me what I'd become, and made no apologies for it.

And somewhere inside me–deep and quiet and terrifying–I felt safe.

Safer than I ever did when I was being "protected," when I was being courted, than hiding behind gallery openings and fake smiles and carefully curated rebellion.

That's the worst part.

Because this was never supposed to feel safe. I didn't come here to be taken care of. I came here to disappear and to earn my freedom, to paint, to build a life out of my choices, not someone else's desires.

The Hunt was supposed to be a transaction. A risk, yes, but a calculated one.

All for nothing.

I never thought it would end with me crawling out of the woods with someone who looked at me like I was already his. Like who I was didn't matter, and I didn't have a choice in the first place.

Because that's what an Owner does, isn't it? He claims his Possession. And that's exactly what I am.

Beckett's Possession.

My hands move like they belong to someone else as they scrub at my skin fast, almost violently. But it's not that simple. There's no washing it all away.

Beckett has carved himself into my skin.

I rinse mechanically, barely noticing the water anymore.

When I finally step out, my skin burns from the contrast of air against wet flesh. I grab the largest towel I can find and wrap it around myself like armor before walking into the bedroom.

It's dim in Beckett's bedroom, just a lamp casting warmgold over slate-gray sheets and walls dark enough to swallow sound.

And he's there. Of course he is.

Sitting up in bed like this is routine, like I'm just another night folded into a schedule. One hand holds his phone as he scrolls, calm and casual, like I'm no different from the walls or the view or the wine he probably drinks without checking the label.

I stop in the middle of the room, grip tightening on my towel. My shoulders draw back instinctively, and when I lift my chin, it's not for him. It's for me.

I'm holding on to every last shred of dignity I have.

"Where am I sleeping?" I ask, my voice quieter than I want it to be.

He doesn't look up. Doesn't blink. Just gestures lazily to the space beside him with a flick of his fingers, like it's obvious. Like I should've known better.

I don't move, my feet feel like cement, because what he is insinuating is baffling.

"You thought you'd be anywhere else?" he asks eventually, still scrolling through whatever has captured his attention. "Silly little thief. I didn't think you were stupid, too."

---