Page 85 of His to Hunt

The place is massive, echoing, beautiful in a cold and forbidding way—and completely empty except for me. My footsteps reverberate off stone floors and concrete walls, the only sound besides my own breathing and the occasional curse I hurl at the security cameras I've discovered in every room.

I know he's watching. That's the worst part. Beckett is somewhere out there, probably sitting in his perfect penthouse with his perfect view, monitoring me like I'm some exotic animal in a very expensive zoo. Studying my reactions. Analyzing my movements. Cataloging my anger.

"You're an asshole, Sinclair!" I shout at the nearest camera, giving it my middle finger for good measure.

He can't hear me—at least I don't think he can—but it feels good to say it anyway. To release some of the fury building inside me like a storm about to break.

The house is impressive, I'll give him that. Three stories of brutalist architecture nestled in the wilderness, with floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over endless forest. A fully stocked kitchen with every appliance known to mankind. A library filled with first editions. A home theater. A gym. A glass-walled solarium with exotic plants I can't name.

A glorified cage, no matter how beautiful.

No phone. No internet. No way to contact anyone outside these stone walls. If I could reach Avery I'd tell her to call everyone. The FBI. The police. Hell, even the freaking Paw Patrol if they could get me out of here.

I've tried everything. The doors are electronically locked. The windows won't open more than two inches. The security system is beyond anything I could hope to hack.

I'm trapped. Completely at Beckett's mercy, waiting for him to decide when it's "safe" for me to return to the world.

Safe from what? Christopher? Does Beckett know about him? The thought of it sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. The way he looked at me at the club—that possessive smile, that recognition—made my blood run cold. But trading one captor for another doesn't feel like safety.

It feels like substituting one prison for another.

I find myself in the east wing again, drawn back to the room I've been avoiding since I discovered it yesterday. The art studio. My steps slow as I approach the door, something tightening in my chest at the sight of what's waiting inside.

Sunlight streams through tall windows, flooding the space with natural light. An easel stands in the center of the room, angled to catch the best of the morning sun. Beside it, a table laden with supplies—brushes of every size, paints in a spectrum I recognize as my preferred brand and palette, canvases in various dimensions stacked neatly against the wall.

He built this for me. Prepared it knowing exactly what I would need.

The realization both softens something in my chest and hardens my resolve. I won't give him the satisfaction. I won't use his gifts, won't create art for him to observe through his surveillance, won't give him any part of myself while I'm locked away here.

I turn my back on the studio, forcing myself to walk away despite the magnetic pull I feel toward the blank canvas waiting for me. The sensation is physical—an ache in my fingers, a hunger in my gut, a need that has nothing to do with Beckett and everything to do with the pressure building inside me.

But spite is a powerful motivator. And right now, denying Beckett what he wants—what he expects—feels like the only control I have left.

I make it halfway down the hall before I stop, fists clenching at my sides.

Who am I really punishing? Him? Or myself?

Art has always been my sanctuary. My voice when words failed. My escape when the world closed in. The one thing that was truly mine that no one could take away.

And here I am, denying myself that outlet to spite a man who probably doesn't even care if I paint or not.

"Damn it," I mutter, turning back toward the studio.

My feet carry me back before I can change my mind. I step inside, breathing in the familiar scent of linseed oil and fresh canvas, feeling the tension in my shoulders ease despite my anger.

The studio calls to me—not as Beckett's creation, but as a space that could be mine. For now, at least. Until I find a way out of this prison or he deigns to release me.

I approach the easel slowly, running my fingersalong the smooth wooden edge. The canvas is high-quality, stretched tight over the frame. The brushes are arranged by size, the paints organized by color family. Everything is in its place, waiting for me to bring it to life.

I pick up a brush, testing its weight in my hand. It feels right. It feels necessary.

And suddenly, I don't care if Beckett is watching. I don't care if this is what he wanted all along. I need this. Need to channel everything I'm feeling into something tangible before it consumes me from the inside out.

I select colors almost by instinct—crimson, burnt sienna, indigo, onyx black. Dark colors. Angry colors. I squeeze them onto the palette, more than I need, the excess a defiance in itself.

The first stroke is violent—a slash of red across virgin white that feels like tearing open a vein. It releases something in me, some pent-up energy that's been building since the moment I woke up here alone.

I don't plan what comes next. Don't think about composition or technique or any of the formal elements I usually consider. I just paint, letting the brush move where it will, colors mixing and blending on the canvas in a storm of emotion made visible.

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