Page 9 of His to Hunt

"Unusual to see him move first," he says smoothly, voice rich with cultured amusement.

I don't answer. I don't have the context for his observation, and I've learned enough tonight to distrust the traps hidden behind velvet voices.

He steps closer, invading my space with practiced ease. "Or perhaps he's just getting sentimental in his old age."

"Do you always talk this much to women who didn't ask for it?" I respond, straightening my spine.

He laughs—soft and genuinely delighted, as though I've confirmed something he suspected. "I like you,"he says, studying me with undisguised interest. "Which is inconvenient."

Before I can respond, he reaches into his jacket and withdraws a folded ribbon—deep green satin, gleaming under the golden lights. A favor, placed deliberately in my palm before I can object.

"Consider your options carefully," he murmurs, and then he's gone, disappearing into the crowd with practiced ease.

I stare at the ribbon resting in my hand, unsure what it represents but certain it carries significance beyond its appearance.

The air around me suddenly feels too thick, too warm, too heavy with expectation and eyes that don't blink. I need space. Air. Distance from this game I don't fully understand.

Following an instinct that feels dangerously like desperation, I slip down a side corridor, away from the watchful gaze of the crowd. My heels click against marble as I search for an exit, any exit, and find relief in the form of glass French doors left slightly ajar. I push through them and step outside, immediately greeted by the sharp kiss of night air against my skin.

The terrace stretches before me, bathed in moonlight that transforms the stone into something almost ethereal. Beyond it, forests stretch into darkness, mysterious and untouched. For the first time since I entered this place, I take a full breath, letting the cold fill my lungs and clear my head.

Then I reach up with both hands and grip the collar. The velvet is soft against my fingers, deceptively gentle compared to what it represents. The clasp feels warm from my skin as I begin to pull at it.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

The voice cuts through the night air like a blade, and I freeze.

Turning slowly, I find him standing at the entrance to the terrace—tall, imposing, a shadow given form and purpose. His mask catches moonlight along its edges, turning silver to liquid mercury.

He doesn't approach immediately, simply watches me with that same predatory stillness that made my skin prickle from across the ballroom. "You're testing boundaries already," he observes, voice neither angry nor amused, merely certain.

"You let me go," I say, dropping my hands from the collar.

"I did."

"To see what I would do," I realize aloud.

A ghost of a smile touches his mouth. "To see how quickly you'd try to remove what's mine."

The possessiveness in his voice should offend me. Instead, it sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. "It's not yours," I counter. "It's on me."

"The distinction is irrelevant." He moves closer with deliberate slowness, each step measured and silent against the stone. "You're wearing my mark. My claim. My protection."

"I didn't ask for protection."

"And yet you need it." His gaze drops to my closed fist, where I still hold the green ribbon. "I see someone else found you."

"Is there a problem with that?" I ask, lifting my chin slightly.

His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes hardens. "The problem is that he knows exactly what that collar means—and he offered you a favor anyway."

His hand extends between us, not grabbing but commanding all the same. "Give it to me."

"Why should I?"

"Because it's not a gift," he explains, voice dropping lower. "It's a challenge. To me."

I unfold my fingers slowly, revealing the ribbon nestled in my palm. "And what does it mean? In your world of symbols and secrets?"

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