“I need to see Elliot Chambers.”
She glances up, recognition flashing in her eyes. “Do you have an appointment, Mr. Frost?”
“He’ll see me.”
“Mr. Chambers is quite busy today with?—”
“Tell him Julian is here.”
Her hesitation speaks volumes. She’s been instructed to keep me out. I draw myself taller.
“Now.”
She disappears through a door behind her desk. Seconds stretch into minutes as I scan the artwork, but I’m too distracted to appreciate any of it. When the door reopens, it’s Elliot who emerges.
He looks terrible. Beautiful, but terrible. Dark circles under his eyes. Hair not styled. A rumpled button-down and jeans have replaced his usual impeccable attire.
“Julian.” His voice is flat. Professional. “What can I do for you?”
“You know exactly why I’m here,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Three days of silence. You’re in breach.”
“Am I?” Elliot crosses his arms. “Show me the contract I signed.”
“The Hunt has rules?—”
“For prey who sign the contracts. I didn’t sign anything. I was a hunter like you.”
His defiance should infuriate me. Instead, it sends a thrill through me that I refuse to acknowledge.
“You were claimed publicly. Everyone saw.”
Elliot’s jaw tightens. “I was humiliated publicly. There’s a difference.”
Something cold settles in my stomach. “Is that what you think happened?”
“I think you made your position clear at your apartment.” His eyes meet mine, raw with hurt. “This wasn’t a relationship, remember? Just sexual exploration.”
I step closer, voice dropping. “You’re mine for a year. Those were the terms.”
“No.” Elliot doesn’t back away. “Those were terms you decided. I never agreed.”
I step closer to him, the familiar electricity crackling between us despite everything. But as I look into his eyes, I see something beyond the defiance—a deep hurt that stops me cold.
This isn’t just about the Hunt or the claiming. This is something more fundamental.
For the first time, I truly see him—not the art dealer with the carefully constructed mask, not the prey I conquered, but Elliot. A man who spent so long hiding who he really is, unable to show his authentic self to anyone. A man who finally took that terrifying leap, only to have me slam the door in his face.
Fuck.
The realization sends a cold spike through my chest. After giving himself so completely—something that must have taken immense courage after a lifetime of hiding—I reduced it to nothing but sex. I claimed him publicly, dragged him out of his carefully constructed closet, then told him none of it mattered.
I run a hand through my hair, taking a step back. The usual calculated words I wield abandon me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, the apology feeling foreign on my tongue. “What I said at the penthouse... it was cruel.”
Elliot’s expression shifts, surprise replacing some of the hurt. I rarely apologize—to anyone.
“I panicked,” I admit, the confession tasting strange. “When you said... what you said in the alley, I just?—”