Page 1 of Hunted By Valentine

Chapter 1

The Hunter

The snow outside falls steadily, covering the city in an eerie, muted stillness. The kind of quiet that swallows everything whole.

Inside my loft, the only sound is the smooth, rhythmic scrape of an arrowhead against a whetstone. A deliberate, methodical movement. Back and forth. It’s a ritual I’ve perfected over the years—every motion precise, every angle exact.

Perfection is in the details—sharpness, precision, control.

The space around me is minimalist, sharp, and cold, much like the world I’ve constructed for myself. The dark hardwood floors reflect the faint gray light filtering through the tall industrial windows. A single espresso cup sits on the counter, untouched, the steam curling lazily into the air. The scent of bitter coffee lingers, mixing with the cool crispness of the morning.

Control. It’s the one thing that matters. Every detail in this loft, down to the placement of the smallest object, is controlled. Just like every part of my life. Just like every kill.

The phone on the counter vibrates, breaking the silence. I don’t rush to answer it. I don’t need to since I already know what it’s regarding.

The number is private, encrypted—only used by those that fully graspwho they’re calling. The Hunter. No name. No identity. Just a whispered title that has carried weight in certain circles for nearly two decades.

I glance at the screen before the call cuts off, leaving a voicemail. When I finally press play, a voice, low and edged with desperation, fills the air. “Hunter, I need your services. My wife—Ruby Simmons—needs to be… removed. Name your price.”

It’s short, clinical, like every request I’ve heard before, but there’s something different in the way he speaks. I listen to the message again, intent on finding out what it is my body has picked up on, but my mind is yet to process.

“Hunter, I need your services. My wife—Ruby Simmons—needs to be… removed. Name your price.”

His voice shakes slightly as he utters his wife’s name. Hmm. There’s something about his wife that he either fears or hates, it’s hard to tell which. Both? Neither?

I don’t reply immediately. Instead, I press the blade harder against the whetstone, feeling the steel bite into the stone with precision. Something about the way he speaks intrigues me. And I don’t do anything unless I’m intrigued.

Finally, I get up and stretch my body, my neck cracking when I turn it this way and that. Then I walk over to my old-fashioned vinyl player and put a record on. It’s Beethoven. I move the needle until I find Symphony No. 7. The music fills my quiet loft, and while I let the notes engulf me, transporting me to a place and mindset where I feel most myself, I text him back.

The Hunter: Meet me later today.

When he agrees, I send him the location and exact time before turning the phone off.

“Ruby Simmons.” I say her name out loud, focusing on the way it tastes on my tongue. It’s almost electrifying.

This woman, that I don’t yet know, is already promising excitement.

With a smile on my face, I start doing my research. I dive into the online footprints left by Mr. and Mrs. Simmons; Michael and Ruby, and… well, isn’t that interesting. Ruby’s maiden name is Knight. The old pictures of her standing with her dad, Caspian, and her oldest brother, Nicklas—the current leader of the Knight empire, confirm my suspicions about Michael potentially fearing her.

Only a fool wouldn’t fear the Knights.

For a moment I contemplate calling off the meeting, but then I decide against it. I want to see how honest Michael is going to be. Will he tell me about his wife’s family? Or will he pretend that’s a nonissue?

My lips pull into a sharp grin; Christmas Day just got a lot more interesting.

With that thought, I start getting ready for my meeting with Michael. I change the music to something different; equally classic, but more upbeat. Then I disappear into the bathroom, where I quickly shower and get dressed.

I stand in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection with the same cold detachment I use on my victims. The dim light barely touches my face, casting shadows that exaggerate the sharp angles of my jaw, the ridges of my cheekbones.

My dark hair falls slightly across my forehead, tousled just enough to appear effortless, though I know better. Everything about me is calculated.

Chance is not a game I indulge in. Not ever.

Buttoning my black shirt, I watch how it fits over my chest—perfectly tailored, no excess, no mistake. The fabric stretches over the hard muscle underneath, my body a tool as finely honed as my mind. I roll the cuffs of my sleeves just enough to expose the veins in my forearms, the slight tension in the muscle beneath the skin. I know how to use this—everything about me is a weapon.

My eyes meet my own in the mirror, dark and unflinching. I see the predator lurking behind them, the same one my prey sees before their last breath. A faint smirk pulls at my lips—there’s no warmth in it, just the quiet satisfaction of knowing I am in control. Always.

The long coat slips over my shoulders, heavy and smooth. I adjust it, rolling my shoulders to feel the weight settle against me, grounding me. A knife is already in my pocket, cold steel pressing against my thigh, a silent reminder of who I am and what I do.

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