Page 70 of His to Hunt

The car doorshuts with a sound that's too soft for how loud my heart is beating. We're moving before I can get my seatbelt on, before I can breathe in the lace against my skin, before I can figure out if this is punishment, reward, or something darker.

The dress clings to me like a second skin—or maybe it's not a dress at all. Maybe it's just permission draped in black lace and the threat of exposure. High at the throat, tight at the waist, sheer in ways I'm realizing is common for the Club. There's nothing beneath it. Nothing under the material. Just skin. Just submission. Just me—offered up in a way that feels more like a sacrifice than style.

I keep my hands in my lap, palms flat, trying not to shift too much. Trying not to feel how wet I already am at the thought of what awaits us.

The car is dark inside. Quiet. One of those private town cars where the back seat feels like a confession booth and theman beside you is both judge and executioner. Beckett hasn't said a word since we left the house. He just watches me with that steady, calculating gaze—one hand resting on his thigh, the other draped lazily across the backrest, close enough that the heat from him makes my spine feel like it's slowly melting.

"You're quiet," I murmur finally, breaking the silence between us.

He turns his head just slightly, eyes reflecting the passing streetlights.

"You're dressed like a prayer," he replies, voice like velvet over gravel. "I'm just waiting to see what you pray for first."

I look away, trying not to smile and failing miserably.

"Is that your way of asking what I want?" I ask, finding my voice despite the weight of his stare.

His fingers brush the back of my neck, barely touching skin. "No. It's my way of telling you I already know."

We pull off the highway twenty minutes later, down a side road that feels deliberately isolated from the world. The car glides through a black steel gate so tall it blocks out the night sky entirely.

There's no signage announcing our destination. No numbers on the stone pillars. Just firelight flickering along the edge of ivy-covered walls and a line of parked cars that look like they've never touched anything as common as dirt.

The Infernum.

Even the name sounds like a warning—a whispered promise of sin and consequence.

The driver stops at the front entrance, and Beckett moves with practiced grace. He steps out first, then circles the car to open my door like we're arriving at a private gala rather than a sanctum built on ruin. He offers his hand, warm and steady.

I take it, my fingers disappearing into hisgrasp.

The moment my heel touches the stone path, something shifts in the atmosphere. The air becomes thicker. Heavier. The kind of pressure that doesn't just wrap around you, but presses into you. Like it knows you're here for something you shouldn't want. Like it wants to see what you'll do when you break.

"Second thoughts?" Beckett asks, his mouth close to my ear.

I shake my head. "Just wondering what I'm walking into."

"Somewhere that will ruin you if you let it." His hand settles at the small of my back. "Stay close."

There's no sign marking the entrance. No name engraved in stone. Just the whisper of torches flickering low in sconces carved into black stone, and walls pulsing faintly with deep, red back light. The kind of red that bleeds into your bones and stays there.

The sounds roll over me like silk over flame—low music with too much bass, the crackle of firelight, the soft thud of knees hitting velvet floors. Laughter behind masks. Moans that don't care who hear them.

The scent hits next—not just perfume or smoke, but something spiced and sharp and animal. Cinnamon laced with leather. Clove and blood orange. Sweat and sex intertwined like lovers. It hits the back of my throat, and I feel my body react before my brain can catch up, heat pooling low in my belly.

The air is warm, almost humid, heavy in a way that makes skin feel too tight. My thighs press closer together as I walk, trying to ignore the flicker of heat building between them with each step.

There's an entrance of sorts, and Beckett is given the sort of attention that I've come to understand he commands. People part for him, not even questioning who he is because theyalready know. They all but bow as we walk past the threshold that houses the host area and a few security guards that look like they could bench press my entire body.

We've barely made it past the main entryway when I see them—two men standing near a private alcove, drinks in hand, watching our approach with expressions that suggest they've been waiting. One I recognize immediately as Sebastian, his tall frame and aristocratic features unmistakable even in the dim light. The other is unfamiliar to me—broad-shouldered with a neatly trimmed beard, his eyes sharp and assessing behind his mask.

Beckett's hand tightens slightly on my lower back, a silent signal. His stride doesn't falter as he guides me toward them.

"Sebastian," Beckett nods as we approach. "Graham."

Sebastian's eyes flicker briefly to me before returning to Beckett. "We need to talk."

There's an undercurrent in his voice that makes my skin prickle with unease.

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