Page 57 of His to Hunt

The door closeswith a soft click behind Luna, and I remain motionless at my desk. The penthouse suddenly feels too large, too empty—a vacuum she's left behind that somehow roars louder than her presence.

She's gone to see Avery, and I agreed to it. Not because I wanted to let her walk out that door, but because she asked. She didn't beg or manipulate; she simply looked me in the eye and said she needed this—and some sadistic part of me needed her to remember that even this small freedom was mine to give.

Am I really worried she'd run? No, not really. There is nowhere she could go that I wouldn't find her.

But I wouldn't be happy if she tried.

I'm already unhappy when she turns away from me in the penthouse.

Luna always walks away quietly, but the silence she leaves never is. It scrapes at the inside of my skull, demanding attention, dragging my focus from everything I should be workingon. I run a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly as I stare at the monitors before me.

This is why I've buried myself in work all week. Surveillance. Strategy. Control. Every morning I've locked myself in this office under the guise of discipline over indulgence. Every night I've watched her slip into bed while pretending I haven't been standing in the hallway for hours, watching her paint.

I tell myself I'm just keeping an eye on her. Just security.

But that's bullshit, and I know it.

The way she moves when she paints—careless yet focused, wild yet elegant—unravels something inside me I can't afford to lose. She's completely herself in those moments, unburdened by the weight of my gaze, my expectations, my ownership.

I wasn't supposed to want her like this.

I was supposed to own her. Use her. Master her.

But somehow, she's crawled under my skin in ways I haven't allowed in years, and it's making me fucking reckless.

So, I've done what I always do when something starts to matter too much—I started digging.

I built my empire on secrets. There's a public face to my business, of course. High end cyber security. The Fortune 500 list is pretty much a comprehensive list of who my clients are. But, that's not where my true talents lie, nor the true money. That lies in backdoors, in covert hacks, in things most men are too dumb or scared to pull off.

But not me.

My monitors illuminate the room with a blue glow as information floods the screens. Her file. Club logs. Secure messages between Owners I've pulled through quiet backdoors and favors no one knows I'm still owed.

I'm looking for one thing specifically—who invited Genevieve Laurent to the Hunt in the first place. The answer should be somewhere in these records, buried between encrypted files and redacted names. My fingers move swiftly across the keyboard, breaking through layers of security that would keep others out for days.

And there it is.

The invitation was extended by Anthony Baine. One of the Collectors. Fifth generation. Old money. Quiet reputation, brutal record.

I sit back in my chair, jaw tightening as I stare at the name that keeps circling the outer edge of this mess like a shark waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

He was the one expecting Genevieve Laurent at the Hunt. Not officially—nothing written down—but the language was there between the lines. A personal invitation from a Collector isn't something that happens by accident. There had to be a reason he wanted her there.

But it wasn't Genevieve who showed up that night.

It was Luna.

No anklet. No posture. No conditioning.

And I was the one who put my mark on her before Anthony could blink.

Now I know whose plans I interfered with.

Now I know who's watching.

And what of Genevieve in all of this? Did she know that her sister stole her invitation? Was she complicit? Or is she still none the wiser that this was set up for her?

A knock interrupts my thoughts—two soft taps, quick and confident.

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