Page 91 of His to Hunt

I pull up the dossier I've compiled on him over the past week. Old money. Family connections that have kept him from facing consequences for a string of violence against women. A man who believes his privilege entitles him to whatever—or whoever—he desires.

A man who believes Luna should be his.

The invitation I've had created appears on the screen. Elegant black card stock, embossed with silver lettering. An exclusive gathering at my newest construction—a modernist mansion overlooking the Hudson. The sort of event Christopher Finch wouldn't dare miss, especially when the guest list includes names that could further his family's interests.

Names that have no idea they've been included. Names that won't actually be there.

Because the only people who will be there are Christopher and the team I've assembled to ensure he never threatens Luna again.

I schedule the invitation to be delivered tomorrow, then shut down the terminal. With both Baine and Finch handled, I can finally return to Luna.

The thought brings an unexpected warmth to my chest that I quickly suppress. This isn't about warmth. This isn't about feelings. This is about possession. Protection. Control.

At least, that's what I tell myself as I head to the garage where my car waits.

The drive upstate passes in a blur of asphalt and anticipation. I check the security feed twice during the journey—Luna pacing the house like a caged tiger, her frustration evident in every step. She's painted three more canvases since I left. All of them dark. Turbulent. Beautiful in their chaos.

When I finally pull up to the gates, the sun is setting, casting long shadows across the property. The house loomsahead, brutalist and imposing against the darkening sky. For a moment, I wonder how it looks through her eyes. A prison? A sanctuary? Something in between?

I enter silently, disabling security protocols with practiced efficiency. The house is quiet, but I can feel her presence within it—a disruption in the air, a subtle shift in the atmosphere that tells me exactly where she is.

The art studio.

I make my way there without hurry, footsteps deliberately audible against the stone floors. No point in startling her, though part of me is curious what she'd do if cornered. Luna Laurent has proven to be anything but predictable.

She stands before an easel, back to the door, brush moving in short, angry strokes across the canvas. She's wearing one of my shirts—white, too large for her frame, sleeves rolled up to keep them from the paint. Her hair is piled atop her head in a messy knot, exposing the nape of her neck where a smudge of cobalt blue mars her skin.

I pause in the doorway, allowing myself a moment to simply watch her. To appreciate the fierce concentration in her posture, the way her body sways slightly with each stroke, the tension in her shoulders that speaks of days of contained fury.

"You're back," she says without turning, voice flat. She heard me coming, then. Waited for me to make the first move.

"I am," I confirm, stepping fully into the room.

She continues painting, deliberately ignoring me. The silent treatment. It's almost endearing, this small act of defiance.

I move closer, examining the canvas. Another storm of color and shadow, this one more abstract than the portrait she painted of me. But no less powerful for its lack of definition.

"You've been busy," I observe, gesturing to the other finished canvases stacked against the wall.

Nothing. Not even a glance in my direction.

That's cute.

"The silent treatment won't work, Luna," I tell her, circling around to stand in her peripheral vision. "And it won't change anything."

Her jaw tightens, but she continues painting, each stroke more aggressive than the last. I wait, curious to see how long she can maintain this resistance.

Ten minutes pass. Twenty. I remain still, patient, watching as she finishes the painting with a final vindictive slash of crimson across the center. Only then does she turn to face me, eyes burning with barely contained rage.

"Are you done imprisoning me now?" she demands. "Or is this just a visit to make sure your property is still intact?"

There's the fire I've been waiting for.

"If you were merely property," I reply calmly, "I wouldn't have gone to such lengths to protect you."

"Protect me?" She laughs, the sound brittle and sharp. "Is that what you call locking me up without explanation? Without contact? Without so much as a fucking phone to call for help?"

"Yes," I say simply.

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