Page 108 of Hunted By Valentine

Nicklas cuts in, his voice steely and cold. “Neither of us do. But right now, we don’t have the luxury of choosing our allies. Ruby’s our priority, and that means putting aside personal feelings.” His hard gaze never leaves mine, a warning and a challenge all at once. “You’re no friend to the Knights anymore, Valentine. But for now, we’ll work together.”

I nod, accepting his terms without hesitation. “Work together?” I question. “No. I work alone, and I’ll be the one to bring her back.”

“Valentine,” Nicklas growls.

Shaking my head, I meet his cold gaze with one of my own. “You’ll get in my way, Nicklas. I’m not slowing down for you, or risking either of you fucking this up—”

He steps closer, stabbing his finger into my chest. “Listen to me you piece of shit. That’s my sister, and no one is going to—”

“I don’t care,” I interrupt him. “I’m the Hunter and New York is fucking mine right now. Step aside, or try to step through me. This is the one and only warning I’ll give you; if you interfere, I’ll kill you.”

Jack shoves his brother out of the way. “You’d better pray you bring her back alive. Because if you don’t, you’re dead. I’ll fucking kill you myself.” There’s a pause, thick with hostility. His voice drops to a cold whisper. “Go find her, Hunter. Bring my sister back.”

Nicklas’ jaw clenches as he gives a single nod. “Bring her back,” he echoes. His expression is unyielding, his voice laced with a deadly edge.

Without another word, I turn on my heel, quietly leaving the house. Before I’m completely gone, I hear Nicklas mention that he needs to check on Marco.

Chapter 40

The Hunter

Blood soaks through my shirt, thick and congealing like syrup. None of it is mine. The tang of iron fills my nostrils, mingling with the stench of fear that lingers in the dank alleyway.

A crimson river runs from the shattered face of the thug at my feet, his nose a flattened wreck of cartilage and bone. He gurgles something incoherent, perhaps a plea for mercy. I deliver a final, bone-crunching kick to his jaw. Silence.

The answer to the question I’ve repeated for the last two days has been reduced to two names; one, or maybe both, of the petty gangs knows where Ruby is.

After leaving Ruby’s house, I returned to my loft long enough to learn that the CCTV cameras didn’t pick up anything around her house. Hell, the entire street. There can be many reasons for this, not that any of them matters. With no time to troubleshoot or hunt down surveillance that might not even exist, I took to the streets.

I’ve asked every person I’ve come across the same thing, and those are the names they’ve kept giving me in their last moments. The names echo in my skull, a ceaseless drumbeat: Scrappers. Steel Crew. Scrappers. Steel Crew.

I wipe my hands on the ruined fabric of his jacket, the gesture almost casual. My fingers are raw, my knuckles split and bleeding from the repeated impact of flesh and bone. I feel none of the pain, only a numb, buzzing anger that drowns out everything else. It’s the kind of anger that sharpens you, that hones you into something deadly and pure.

Ruby.

Her name is a scream in my mind, a wail of anguish that threatens to tear me in two. Where is she? Every second of not knowing is a hot brand against my skin, her absence a wound that bleeds and festers.

I’m running out of time. The Scrappers and the Steel Crew are my last leads. One of them took her, or knows who did. That much is clear. Less clear is how long she can hold out. Ruby is strong, but she’s no fighter. She’s all heart and passion, the kind of person who throws herself into the deep end without a life vest for those she loves.

And that’s exactly what I’m doing, too; risking everything for the woman I love. Yes, love. There’s no doubt that what I feel for her is a twisted version of that feeling. I hate it took losing her to realize that, but here we are, and there’s no time to dwell on regrets.

I stalk out of the alley, the cold air biting against my sweat-soaked skin. But I barely notice as I get into my car.

One more stop. If I don’t get what I need there, I’ll have to call Nicklas so we can divide and conquer. That’s a complication I don’t want, but I’ll do whatever it takes.

As I reach my destination, I drive all the way onto the curb, almost running over a couple walking. But they scurry out of my way while the woman screams insults at me over her shoulder. If only she knew how little I care.

My balaclava is still in place, covering my face completely, so I don’t hesitate to walk inside the dive bar. It’s the kind of place where even the cockroaches carry switchblades. I push through the door, and a wall of stale beer and sweat hits me. The jukebox in the corner is playing something scratchy and old, drowned out by the din of shouted conversations.

I scan the room, eyes settling on a familiar face. Tony ‘Two-Bit’. A small-time hustler with big-time aspirations, and a mouth that runs faster than his legs. He’s perched on a barstool, nursing what looks like a cocktail with a tiny umbrella. I make my way over, weaving through the crowd with predatory grace.

“Ah shit, it’s you. Is it February already?” he asks, attempting to sound calm as I loom over him. His eyes widen, taking in my blood-soaked appearance. He looks like he wants to bolt, but knows better. “Christ, man. You been swimming in a slaughterhouse?”

“Something like that.” I take the stool next to him, leaning in close. He flinches. “I need information.”

He swallows hard, glancing around the room. “I’m kinda in the middle of something.”

I grab his drink and crush it in my hand. Glass shards bite into my palm, and the fruity concoction sprays across the bar. “You’re in the middle of whatever the fuck I tell you.”

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