Page 7 of His to Hunt

"I don't recall offering my company," I counter.

He leans in close and I fight the urge to pull back. "You offered the moment you walked in wearing a lie," he says, voice pitched for my ears alone. "Bold move, coming to a place like this without an invitation."

I maintain my dignity, though my heart thrums against my ribs. "I don't know what you're talking about. I handed my invitation over at the door."

"You're not wearing the anklet," he observes, his voice refined and controlled. No accusation, just calm certainty, as though he's already decided what happens next.

"Neither are you," I respond, holding his gaze.

A smile curves his mouth, lacking warmth but not appreciation. "You're clever. I like that."

"I'm not here for your approval."

"No," he agrees, maintaining that maddening composure. "You're here under someone else's name. In someone else's place. Wearing someone else's mask." His gaze drops momentarily to my lips before rising again. "Which means you don't belong to anyone yet."

"Your observational skills are remarkable," I say, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Do you use them often, or save them for special occasions?"

Something darkens in his expression—not anger, but interest. "Only when something catches my attention. You'd be surprised how rarely that happens."

"Perhaps you're easily bored."

"Or perhaps," he murmurs, leaning slightly closer, "I've just been waiting for someone worth watching."

Heat crawls up the back of my neck, spreading across myskin in a wave I can't suppress. I hate that my body betrays me—not just with fear, but with something hungrier, something that waits for his next words even as I brace against them.

"I don't belong to anyone, period," I lift my chin.

His gaze meets mine again, and something sparks behind his eyes—interest, challenge, decision. "I disagree."

"Your disagreement doesn't change facts."

"Doesn't it? In my experience, few things are more malleable than facts... except perhaps beautiful women who pretend they're not afraid."

"I'm not afraid of you."

"No? Then why is your pulse racing at your throat? Excitement, perhaps?"

With smooth precision, he withdraws a small velvet box from his pocket, opening it with one hand to reveal a choker of thin black velvet. At its center lies a silver charm, intricately designed with a symbol I don't recognize. The reaction around us is immediate—conversations halt, heads turn, breath catches. This is no ordinary favor. This is an Owner's collar, the most direct claim possible before the Hunt begins, a tradition so rarely invoked that even longtime members seem startled by its appearance.

He holds it between his fingers, an offering that looks deceptively like a choice.

"No," I say, the word quiet but firm.

He hears what lies beneath—not defiance, but warning.

His expression softens into amusement. "You don't have a choice."

"You think I'm going to let you collar me like a fucking pet?" I respond, the laugh that follows dry and disbelieving.

"Such language," he chides, though his eyes brighten with appreciation. "And here I thought you were trying to blend in."

"I'd have to care what these people think to blend in."

"And yet you cared enough to steal your way through the door." The amusement fades, replaced by something more serious. "No. I think you're going to let me protect you before someone else decides to take what I've already claimed."

"I didn't realize I had 'Property of Arrogant Stranger' stamped on my forehead," I retort. "How convenient that you've saved me the trouble of choice."

"Choice is overrated when the options include being devoured alive," he says, his calm at odds with the threat underlying his words. "You're in the wolf den now, little thief. And trust me when I say, I'm the least hungry wolf in the room."

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