Page 74 of His to Hunt

She flinches—a small, involuntary motion that confirms everything I need to know.

But she doesn't speak. And that silence? That's the first time I feel my grip slip.

"Are you going to make me ask again?" I say aftera long moment. My voice remains even, controlled, but there's an edge to it now that wasn't there before.

Her gaze finally lifts to meet mine, and I see everything she's trying to hide. The panic she's buried. The fear she's still holding. But it's not fear of the man who smiled at her across the gallery—it's fear of me. Of what I'll think when I learn the truth.

She's afraid I'll look at her and see the fingerprints someone else left behind. Afraid I'll see her as claimed, as touched, as marked by something I didn't approve of. And perhaps worst of all—that I won't want her the same way after I know.

"Beckett, I—" she begins, then stops, the words dying in her throat.

I step closer, each movement slow and deliberate, like a predator approaching wounded prey. "Don't," I say quietly. "Don't start with excuses."

Her back meets the wall before she realizes she's retreating. I don't touch her, but I move close enough that she feels how quiet I've gone. How calm. How fucking dangerous that silence really is.

"Who is he?" I ask, my voice dropping lower.

Her lips part, but no sound emerges.

My hand lifts—not to hurt, not to claim—just to brush the back of my knuckles down the center of her throat, soft enough to feel the shiver that ripples underneath her skin.

"You froze," I observe. "I've never seen you look at anyone that way."

Which was another red flag considering she was ready to cause bodily harm to me, or anyone else who dared touch her during the Hunt. She was also so fierce. Seeing her cower called to a piece of me I'd buried a long, long time ago.

Another breath escapes her—staggered this time. Her fingers curl at her sides, nails digging into her palms.

"Why, Luna?"

When she finally speaks, her voice is barely audible. "It's complicated."

"Then uncomplicate it," I counter, not unkindly but with enough firmness to make clear this isn't a negotiation.

Her gaze drops again, and I see it then—all of it. The weight she's been carrying.

I pull back slightly, giving her room to breathe. Letting the air between us thin.

"I need a drink," I say finally, turning away and walking to the bar.

I know if I keep standing this close, I'll press the truth out of her with more than words. And despite everything, despite the anger coiling inside me, I won't break her that way. Not her. Not us.

The scotch bottle is cool in my hand as I pour exactly two fingers—never more. Any more would mean losing control, and control is all I have right now.

I take a measured sip, letting the burn sear down my throat like punishment for something I didn't see coming.

When I turn back, she's still near the door. Still watching. Still waiting for me to decide what comes next.

"I can see you calculating what to tell me," I say, studying the amber liquid in my glass. "Don't bother. Either tell me everything, or tell me nothing. But don't lie to me, Luna. Not about this."

She straightens slightly, shoulders squaring as if preparing for a blow. "I wasn't going to lie."

"Omission is still deception," I reply. "And you've been omitting something significant since the momentI met you."

The silence stretches between us again, taut as a wire.

I finish my drink in one swift motion and set the glass down with deliberate care.

My decision is made.

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