Page 59 of His to Hunt

I meet his gaze head on. "I'm not afraid of anyone who has to hide behind procedure to get what they want."

Sebastian huffs out a breath—a twisted sound landing somewhere between admiration and disbelief. "Sure. Let me know how that plays in front of the panel."

I glance away, jaw tightening.

"She doesn't know," I say after a moment.

"Doesn't know she's at the center of what could be the biggest Club scandal in years?" Sebastian leans back, folding his arms across his chest. "So what happens when she does? When she realizes there might be consequences that not even you can stop?"

My fingers curl around the arm of my chair as I consider his words.

"She's not some pawn in their game," I say finally. "She's not a prize."

"No," Sebastian agrees, "she's not. But someone else thought she was."

I exhale, the sound sharp and low. "She wasn't marked. She wasn't trained. She didn't know the rules."

"And you knew exactly what it meant when you put that collar around her neck."

I say nothing, because there's nothing to say that doesn't sound like justification even to my own ears.

"Listen," Sebastian continues, his voice softer now but no less direct. "I'm only telling you this because the Collectors gave me a heads up and I thought I should warn you."

The silence stretches between us like a crack in concrete—long, thin, growing wider by the second.

"You better be damn sure she's worth it," he continues, watching me carefully. "Because if the Collectors decide you'veviolated the code, this doesn't end with bruised egos. It ends with reputation. Standing. Power."

I don't flinch, but the weight of his words lands anyway—heavy in my chest, cold where heat used to live. I reach for the glass I've left untouched throughout our conversation and tip it back, swallowing what remains in one burning gulp.

"Don't look at me like that," I murmur, setting the empty glass down with a soft clink.

He didn't need to ask if I would consider backing down. He already knew the answer.

Sebastian blows out a breath, a hint of his usual humor returning. “You are so fucked.”

I nod once, a ghost of a smile pulling at my mouth despite everything.

"Yeah," I agree quietly. “I am.”

Twenty-Four

LUNA

The elevator doorsglide open with a soft hiss, and for the first time in over a few weeks, I step into the world beyond Beckett's carefully controlled domain.

Real air hits my face—cool and sharp, laced with car exhaust, perfume, and a hundred conversations I'm not a part of. The New York street noise rushes in like a tide, overwhelming my senses after days of cushioned silence. I take a moment to remember how to breathe in this reality, how to process the sensory overload of actual life.

The sun feels too bright against my skin. The sidewalk too crowded with strangers brushing past. Everything vibrates just beneath the surface, as though the city knows I've been hiding and doesn't quite trust me anymore. My fingers instinctively reach for the thin velvet band at my throat—for comfort? Reassurance?—before I force them back to my side.

I pull in a deep breath and let it burn through my chest, a cleansing fire that reminds me I'm still here. Still me.

God, I missed this.

Not the chaos or the crowd pressing in from all sides. But the choice—the simple act of walking somewhere without calculated permission, of existing in a space that isn't governed by unspoken rules and watchful eyes.

Well, technically, I have a security detail following and I didn't pick the place.

Avery picked the cafe. It's one of those trendy little rooftop spots with overpriced coffee and food arranged more like modern art installations than actual sustenance. Exposed brick, hanging plants, and the kind of chairs designed to look good on Instagram but are extremely uncomfortable to sit in. But I'm not here for the ambiance or the twelve-dollar lattes.

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