Page 5 of His to Hunt

She doesn't have one, which means she stole her way in.

And I've never been more interested in anything in my entire life.

I watch her take her place in the line of women, her head held high, her spine straight, like she doesn't realize the walls are already watching. There's something different in her eyes though—a calculation, a desperation that speaks of more than just rebellion.

She moves like she doesn't belong, which means she doesn't move like prey. Not yet.

"She yours?" Sebastian's voice cuts in low beside me, amused. He doesn't look away from the procession, doesn't need to. He felt the shift in me the second she walked in.

Sebastian Ashford—heir to a political empire, the second-born son of one of the Club's founding families. We met when we were eight, two boys raised in the shadows of power and expectation. Even then, Sebastian carried himself like he was born to rule—dark-brown hair too neat for a child, gray eyes that missed nothing, already dressed like the heir to something larger than himself.

While our fathers mapped control behind closed doors, we roamed the estate, discovered forgotten passageways, and built a bond that survived prep school, college, and the brutal initiation that turned us into Owners. Now, at thirty-six, and one of the youngest state senators in history, he wears power like a second skin.

Graham, on my other side, says nothing—but I catch the twitch of a smirk tugging at his mouth. He's watching her too.

As one of the few non-legacy members to make it through the gates, Graham Ellsworth came from nothing and now owns everything that ever tried to break him. We met when we were barely men—me, all bloodline and burden; him, all gritand grin with a chip on his shoulder the size of Nevada. While Sebastian plays the game and I control the board, Graham slips in through the cracks. Messy dark blond hair, olive skin, green eyes full of mischief—he smiles when he lies and smirks when he knows you're doing the same. He made his fortune before most of us had degrees and made the Club take notice before they knew what to do with him. He's the wildcard, the one who pretends he's not paying attention—until he cuts clean through the lie.

"No anklet," he murmurs. "Bold little thing."

"She's reckless," I say, but my voice is different. Even I can hear it.

I take another sip of the scotch I've barely touched. It tastes like inevitability, like expectation, like a decision I've already made. My finger taps against my thumb as my gaze locks on her auburn hair twisted and pinned onto her head.

Sebastian huffs out a laugh, his eyes never leaving the women now forming a perfect line across the center of the ballroom.

"You're actually considering it, aren't you?" he asks, voice laced with the same amused disbelief he had when I started my first tech company at eighteen.

I don't answer, because I'm not considering anything. I've already decided.

"She's going to get eaten alive in here," Graham mutters, his voice carrying that same quiet certainty it had when we were twelve and he warned us about breaking into the off-limits east wing where the Collectors conducted their business. He wasn't wrong then either.

I tilt my head, gaze never leaving her. "Not if I take her first."

That shuts them both up for half a breath. ThenSebastian whistles under his breath, leaning closer so his words don't carry. "Fuck me. You've got the look."

"What look?" I ask mildly, already knowing.

"The one you get right before you destroy something," he smirks. "Or someone."

I don't deny it, because she is exactly that—unmarked, untethered, a beautiful lie stitched into lace and desperation. She obviously came here thinking she could disappear into the dark, outrun the Hunt, and claim the prize money.

But I see her clearer than anyone in this room.

And I want to fuck that fake prim and proper expression right off her face.

Sebastian shifts closer, voice dropping too low for anyone else to hear. "First time in how many years? Wasn't it your father who said an Owner who doesn't Hunt isn't worth the mask he wears?"

My jaw tightens imperceptibly. Even now, years after his death, my father's voice echoes in these halls. Richard Sinclair—former Collector, architect of half the Club's modern traditions. The man who taught my brother and me to hide our emotions before we learned to ride bikes. The man who lined us up at fourteen and made us recite the Owner's Creed until our voices broke from exhaustion. "Hunt what runs. Keep what's caught. Control what's kept." Words that shaped us all.

I reach inside my jacket. The velvet box is small, weightless, but when I hold it in my palm, it feels heavy. Inside is the choker—soft black velvet with a silver charm at the center, an ancient sigil the Club uses to mark what's off-limits. It's not ownership. Not yet. It's a warning.

Graham eyes the box and raises a brow. "You really want to start the game before it begins?"

I close the lid with a click. "It's already begun."

And then I step away from them, silent as the shadows stretch across the marble floor, eyes locked on the girl who doesn't yet realize she made the worst mistake of her life walking into this room.

Because she stole her way in and dared to pretend.

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