Page 43 of His to Hunt

"You want your own place," he says, repeating my words back to me. "That's cute."

I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off with a slight raise of his hand.

"You think because I let you sleep in my bed and wear my shirt and walk through my home barefoot that you've earned the right to negotiate?" His voice remains perfectly controlled, but there's an edge to it now, something sharp beneath the velvet.

"You're not my partner, Luna. You're not my equal." Hepauses, letting the words sink in. "You're not special. You're a Possession."

I flinch at the term, but force myself to stand straighter. "I'm a person. With needs and boundaries that don't disappear just because you put a collar around my throat."

He rises from his chair with fluid grace, towering over me without seeming to try. "I'll give you space. I'll give you a studio. Hell, I might even give you somewhere to put your art, if it suits me." His fingers brush a strand of hair from my face, the touch deceptively gentle. "But don't mistake my generosity for a single ounce of freedom."

He moves around me, circling like a predator assessing its prey. "You live where I say. You go where I say. You come when I say."

My breath catches, but I don't back down. "And if I don't?"

"Then you'll learn exactly how cruel I can be." He stops behind me, his breath warm against the nape of my neck. "And as for how much of you I get?"

He pauses, letting the question hang in the air. When he speaks again, his voice has dropped lower, intimate and absolute.

"My girl isn't something I get in pieces. Every piece is mine."

I turn to face him, refusing to let him intimidate me from behind. "You can't just lock me away like some medieval prize. I need space to breathe, to work, to be myself."

"You can have all the space you need," he says, surprising me. "Within parameters I set."

"That's not freedom, Beckett. That's just a longer leash."

His smile widens fractionally. "Freedom is an illusion, little thief. Nobody has it. Not really." He reaches out, trails a fingeralong the velvet collar still around my neck. I don't know why I haven't taken it off yet. "The most any of us can hope for is the right kind of cage."

"And you think you're offering me that? The right kind of cage?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

"I'm offering you protection. Resources. A life most would kill for." His hand drops away. "In exchange for obedience."

"You don't want obedience," I counter. "If you did, you would have chosen someone else at that ball. Someone trained to lower her eyes and say 'yes, sir' on command."

For a moment, something flickers across his face—surprise, perhaps. Or appreciation. It's gone before I can be sure.

"What I want," he says slowly, deliberately, "is for you to understand your place in this new world you've stumbled into. The sooner you accept what you are to me, the easier this will be."

"And what exactly am I to you?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

His eyes darken. "Mine. Nothing more. Nothing less."

The answer should infuriate me. It should make me want to slap him again, to scream, to run.

Instead, it settles in my stomach like a stone—heavy and permanent and undeniable.

"If I'm yours," I say carefully, "then shouldn't you want to take care of what belongs to you? Give it what it needs to thrive?"

His expression shifts subtly. "Clever girl. Trying to use my own possessiveness against me."

"Is it working?"

"Perhaps." He studies me for a long moment, then turns back to his desk. "You'll have your studio. Here. In my penthouse. Where I can see you. Where I can keep you safe."

It's not what I asked for. Not even close. But it's something.

"And my schedule? My time?"

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