Page 44 of His to Hunt

"You can paint whenever you wish. Go wherever I allow. See whomever I approve." He glances back at me. "But you sleep in my bed. You eat at my table. And when I want you, nothing else takes priority."

I want to argue more, but I recognize the iron beneath his words. This is as much ground as he's willing to cede—for now.

"So you're saying I should be grateful for the scraps of autonomy you're willing to toss my way?" I can't keep the bitterness from my voice.

He turns fully to face me again, and this time there's no smile, no mockery in his expression. Just cold, hard certainty.

"I'm saying," he speaks slowly, as if to a child, "that you belong to me now. And the sooner you accept that, the sooner we can move beyond these tedious negotiations."

"Maybe I'll never accept it."

His smile returns, thin and dangerous. "Then we'll have a very interesting time together, won't we? Because I can be patient, Luna. I can wait for you to break. To bend. To realize that fighting me only makes your cage smaller."

I stare at him for a long moment, weighing my options, calculating just how much defiance I can afford.

"Fine," I say at last. "A studio here. But I want supplies. Professional ones. And I want windows. Natural light."

"Done," he says without hesitation, as if he'd already decided this before I even asked. "Anything else?"

The simple acceptance throws me. "I... want to contact my friend. Avery."

He considers this, head tilted slightly. "You may speak with her. With supervision."

"Supervision?" I scoff. "What, are you afraid I'll tell her I've been kidnapped by an arrogant asshole with control issues?"

His eyebrow raises slightly. "Haven't you?"

The question catches me off guard, and to my horror, I find myself fighting a smile. "Touché."

"You'll find I can be reasonable," he says, stepping closer until there's barely space between us. "As long as you remember one thing."

"And what's that?" I ask, my voice suddenly hoarse.

His hand slides into my hair, gripping firmly at the base of my skull, tilting my face up to his. "That at the end of the day, no matter what freedoms I allow, no matter what privileges I grant—" his lips brush against my ear, "—you are still… Mine."

Nineteen

BECKETT

I don't waitfor her answer. I walk back to the desk, my bare feet silent against the polished floor. I lower myself into the chair, my body still relaxed, posture still controlled. The glow of the monitors dances across my skin as I look at her and wait.

Her brows lift—confused, maybe. Cautious. Good. Confusion is the first step toward surrender.

I lean back in the chair, letting my eyes move over her slowly. Long legs bare. Thin fabric clinging to her curves. Defiance simmering just beneath the surface like a flame she doesn't realize is already dying. I can still see the marks I left on her throat, fading now but present. A reminder of how she sounded when she begged me to take her in the woods.

My cock thickens, already hard from our little exchange. I spread my knees slightly and rest my hands on the arms of the chair. "Get on your knees."

She blinks. Her eyes widen slightly, then narrow as the realization of what I'm asking settles in.

Her arms cross tightly over her chest. Her jaw locks. "I'm not?—"

"You are," I cut in, calm. Certain. "Or we can skip the words and I can put you there myself."

Her eyes narrow, heat flickering behind them like she's ready to burn something down. She shifts her weight, a subtle tell that she's considering running. But where would she go? In my home, in my shirt, with my marks still on her skin?

"So this is how it's going to be?" she asks, voice low. "You give me nothing, and I give you everything?"

"I've given you more than most would," I reply. "Safety. Protection. A collar that keeps the wolves at bay."

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