Page 80 of His to Hunt

Beckett hasn't spoken since we left the house, and neither have I.

But silence with him doesn't just feel quiet—it feels like waiting. Like something under pressure building so slowly, so deliberately, that you can feel it pressing against your spine.

He sits beside me in the back seat, dressed in black from head to toe, as though the tension emanating from him demanded a uniform to match. His hand braces against his jaw, legs stretched out like the world should make room for him without question. Maybe it should.

I try not to stare at him, at the profile I've memorized without meaning to.

But I fail. Miserably.

Everything about him radiates control—his measuredbreathing, the stillness of his hands, the way his eyes track the passing landscape. But after yesterday, after that kiss in the studio, I know better.

It wasn't like the others. Not the bruising, possessive kind that came tangled with desperate hands and broken moans in dark corners. This was something else entirely—raw, unfiltered need. The way his mouth claimed mine like he didn't know how not to. The way his hand curved behind my neck, so carefully, like I might shatter beneath his fingertips. The way he pulled back slowly, reluctantly, as though letting go physically hurt him.

My heart hasn't stopped racing since.

I look down, picking at a loose thread on my jeans, suddenly aware of how little I actually know about the man who has somehow become the center of my existence.

"Where are you taking me?" The question leaves my mouth before I can reconsider.

Beckett doesn't turn toward me, but the slight shift in his shoulders tells me he heard. The silence stretches until I think he might not answer.

"Dutchess County," he finally says, the words clipped and almost reluctant.

I make a face. "Where even is that?"

"Upstate. Away from the city."

"Why?"

His jaw tightens fractionally. "To keep you safe."

"Safe from what?" I press, unable to stop myself from seeking more.

This time he turns, just enough to let me see the edge of his expression—sharp, calculating, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

"From anyone who might try to claim what's mine."

The words silence me completely. Not because I don't believe him—but because I do.

"So you're just going to hide me away?" I ask, my voice rising slightly.

"I'm going to protect you," he corrects, his tone brooking no argument. "Everything you need will be provided for you while you're there."

Something cold settles in my stomach. "While I'm there? What about you?"

His gaze rests on me for a beat too long, and something in his expression shifts, becomes more intense.

"I have business to attend to," he says, the words careful, measured. "Things that need to be dealt with."

"You can't just lock me up in some house and keep me prisoner," I say, my hands curling into fists in my lap.

Beckett turns his head deliberately, eyes finding mine with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away.

"I can," he says, each word measured and precise. "And I will. Until I'm certain no one else can touch you."

The car slows as we turn off the paved road, and the world outside my window transforms completely—manicured edges and power lines giving way to winding gravel and the slow, creeping hush of ancient trees. The forest grows denser with every mile, tall pines and bare-limbed oaks rising like silent sentinels on either side, their trunks darkened by rain and time. The canopy overhead is thick enough to swallow the sunlight, casting the road in a shadowed green that makes midmorning feel like approaching dusk.

I press my fingertips to the cool glass, watching as the trees seem to watch us back, sentient and waiting. The air smells different here—not like the city with its concrete and steel, not like the penthouse with its expensive neutrality. This placesmells of moss and cold stone and earth that hasn't been disturbed in years.

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