Page 81 of His to Hunt

Beckett hasn't spoken since our brief exchange, his attention fixed forward, one arm draped casually across the back of the seat. His fingers tap once against the leather, almost imperceptibly, as though he's keeping time with a rhythm only he can hear. Even here, surrounded by wilderness, he's measuring the world, deciding whether to preserve or break its flow.

The gates appear suddenly before us, looking as though they've stood longer than the trees themselves—iron and twisted metal, quietly rusted in places that speak of deliberate neglect rather than carelessness. They part without sound as we approach, sliding wide to admit us as though the property itself recognizes its master.

The drive curves deeper into the property, gravel crunching beneath the tires. The trees gradually thin until the estate reveals itself in a clearing that seems carved from the wilderness by sheer force of will.

And it's breathtaking—not in the way of traditional mansions with their welcoming facades and warm lighting. This isn't a home. It's a fortress.

A brutalist sculpture hewn from dark stone and glass, all sharp edges and stark lines that cut into the sky like a warning. The roof slopes at severe angles. The windows stretch tall and narrow, like archer's slits in medieval battlements. The massive front door—matte black and flanked by imposing stone columns—looks designed to repel invaders or welcome warriors.

The car pulls to a stop at the entrance. Neither of us moves immediately. My fingers curl tighter around the strap of my bag as I take in the structure before us.

This place doesn't just keep people out—it keeps things in.

When the driver opens Beckett's door and then mine, the air that greets me is colder than I expected. It wraps around my bare arms, carrying the scent of pine and something metallic—like old nails or blood long dried against stone.

I should be nervous. Maybe I am. But there's something else stirring beneath my skin—something sharp and electric and primordial. As though my body remembers what it felt like to run through darkness before I ever learned how.

Beckett steps out beside me without a word. And as we walk through that imposing front door—into a world of stone floors and vaulted ceilings and windows that don't let light in so much as trap it—one certainty settles into my bones.

Whatever I thought was happening between us has already changed.

The moment I cross the threshold, I feel it—not fear, not safety, but something that exists in the uncertain space between. The entryway rises cavernously around us, stone floors beneath my boots, walls of shadowed concrete soaring upward to meet an angular ceiling that seems designed to make those beneath it feel small. A staircase curves away to the left, while a hallway stretches into shadows on the right.

I didn't know what to expect when Beckett said we were leaving, but it wasn't this—a fortress that feels less like a retreat and more like a final destination. This house doesn't feel like a place you visit. It feels like a place you never leave.

Beckett moves past me without speaking, takes my bag from my shoulder with casual authority, and disappears down the hallway. Left alone, I remain where I stand, my gaze sweeping over shadowed corners and walls that absorb sound rather than reflecting it.

The silence here isn't just quiet—it's intentional.As though the entire structure was built to hold perfectly still until someone decides it should move.

When Beckett returns moments later, his expression is carefully neutral as he hands me a small electronic keycard.

"This will give you access to most areas of the house," he says. "The kitchen is fully stocked. The security system is state of the art. No one gets in without my permission."

I look at him incredulously. "You're really going to just turn around and leave me in the woods?!"

His eyes meet mine, and for just a moment, I see something like regret flicker there before it's gone, replaced by a smirk I've come to know too well.

"Seems fitting, considering how we met."

"You can't do this," I say, my voice rising. "You can't just lock me away like some possession you're tired of looking at."

"I'm not tired of looking at you," he says, his voice dropping lower. "That's part of the problem."

He steps closer, and despite my anger, my body responds to his proximity like it always does—heart racing, skin warming, breath catching in my throat.

"Stay here," he says, not a request but a command. "Be safe. Behave."

"And if I don't?" I challenge, lifting my chin.

Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. "Then you'll find the consequences... educational."

He turns toward the door, and panic rises in my chest.

"Beckett, don't you dare walk out that door," I warn, following him. "You can't just?—"

But he's already moving, steps measured and deliberate as he reaches the entrance.

"This is for your protection," he says without turning. "Everything you need is here."

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