Page 11 of Hunted By Valentine

Turning it over, I read the synopsis on the back.

In this chilling exploration of criminal psychology, Valentine Grant delves into the minds of those who manipulate, control, and destroy. From the subtle art of psychological domination to the violent outcomes of unchecked power, Grant dissects the intricate dynamics between predator and prey. With a focus on manipulation, coercion, and the human desire for dominance, Anatomy of Control unveils the dark motivations behind crime and explores how power becomes both a weapon and weakness. Drawing from case studies, historical events, and psychological theory, Grant offers an unflinching look into the shadowy depths of human nature.

“You wrote a book?”

To my surprise, he chuckles warmly. “I’ve written several books, Mrs. Simmons.”

Oh, right. I knew this. Hell, I’m carrying two books written by him in my bag. “Of course,” I mutter, not sure what else to say.

“This one isn’t on the curriculum, but I still think you’d find it… enjoyable.” As he says that, he moves his hand to my shoulder, squeezing it.

My body reacts immediately. Caught between wanting to lean into his touch and years of cruelty that’s made me skittish when I’m randomly touched like this, I end up wobbling. My hands shake so hard I drop the book.

“Oh no,” I gasp. My teeth chatter as I immediately drop to the floor, picking it up. I look at it intently, searching for any marks. Luckily, I don’t see any. “I’m so sorry.”

Valentine crouches down in front of me. “It’s just a book,” he says. His tone is warm, reassuring. “No harm, no foul.”

“I… I…”

“Are you okay, Mrs. Simmons?” he asks, his brows furrowed. Out of my peripheral, I notice him lifting his hand, slowly moving it toward me.

Closing my eyes, I brace myself for the contact, knowing it’s nothing more than what I deserve. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “You can hit me. Just please don’t tell Michael… umm, my husband.”

“Hit you?” he asks, and when I open my eyes, his head is tilted to the side. “For dropping the book?”

I have no words. My brain has shut down, abandoned me to fend for myself in this critical moment. My eyes jump between his and the hand still raised in the air, and I don’t… I just don’t know what to think. So instead of dealing, I clutch the book to my chest and stagger to my feet. Then I spin around, running from him.

The Hunter

When I finally leave campus, the cold air cuts through my jacket, but it doesn’t do a damn thing to cool the heat thrumming in my veins. So instead of getting a cab, I decide to walk to where I’m meeting Nicklas Knight.

My hands are clenched into fists inside my pockets, knuckles white, nailsdigging into my palms. I need to let this out, this… anger that’s spreading like poison through my blood.

Her face, her voice—it’s still echoing in my head.“You can hit me.”Only a fragmented person offers themselves up like a broken doll. And that’s what makes Ruby Simmons a riddle of the best kind.

The words she speaks, the way she’s constantly in flight mode, and the… well, everything about her screams victim and broken. But she’s not. All she needs is a little encouragement and nourishment in terms of kind words. So far, she hasn’t disappointed me, and I think I’m getting addicted to her reactions.

Ahead of our first day of class, I’d emailed all my students except for her, asking everyone to show up half an hour early. I wanted to see how she would handle herself when the cards were stacked against her from the beginning. She didn’t disappoint, and when she beat us all to class this morning, I could feel the elation roll off her in waves.

Ruby passed a test she wasn’t even aware I created for her.

For the first time in my thirty-eight years of being alive, I’m glad I have a month with my prey before I have to kill her. Ruby is far too intriguing for me to rush anything.

As I reach a secluded area, I do a double-take as I notice… Michael? No, it isn’t him. Just someone that looks like him. And just like that, my anger is back, the Hunter begging to be set free.

I follow the guy into an alley. The streetlights don’t reach this far, and I move quickly, silently. The man never sees it coming. He doesn’t even have time to turn around fully before my hand is on the back of his head, smashing his face into the brick wall.

The crunch of bone against stone is sickening, satisfying. Blood sprays, warm and wet, splattering across my knuckles. The man drops, limp, but I don’t stop.

I crouch beside his body, twisting his head until I hear the crack of his neck snapping. The street is silent again. No witnesses. No hesitation. This man was nothing, a shadow of Michael, but it was enough. Enough to quench the thirst for now.

Standing, I wipe the blood off my hands with a handkerchief, methodical as always. My breath is steady, my pulse even. There’s no remorse. There never is. It’s just what I do—what Iam.

It’s inconvenient, though. It’s only January still, so I need to pay some kind of tribute to Arthur Hatt for violating the terms of our agreement. As I walk away from the alley, I slip my hand into my pocket and pull out my phone. I tap the messaging app and send the King a message.

Me: I owe you for a life. What’s your price?

Though I could probably get away with the kill without Arthur ever knowing, I prefer honesty. Especially since he could shut the Hunter down for good if I get on his bad side.

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