Page 15 of Hunted By Valentine

“Call me Valentine when we’re not within university walls,” he instructs, his voice low.

“Alright… Valentine.” I test his name, tasting the forbidden fruit of familiarity. Even though I think of him as Valentine, and have whispered his name to myself, it’s different to say it out loud.

He eyes me, head tilted slightly, an unreadable expression painting his features. “You’ve changed clothes since I last saw you.”

The way he notices unsettles me; it’s as if he catalogs every detail, storing it away in the vault of his mind. For a minute or two, I stand completely still, watching him as he unashamedly watches me. His eyes trace over every inch of my body, and when they linger on my chest, I arch my back subtly, pushing my breasts forward, a silent invitation for his eyes to wander.

And they do. A flicker of hunger crosses his face, so fleeting it might be imagined. But then he licks his lips, and the air between us thickens with unspoken words.

“Do you like it?” I ask, a fire igniting within me.

“Like it?” he asks, his eyes snapping up to mine. “Very much.” His tone is velvet, dangerous. He steps closer, invading my space with a quiet assertion that sends shivers down my spine.

I stare at his eyes, realizing something I hadn’t noticed before. They aren’t just dark brown, bordering on black, like I thought. There’s something else—a ring around his left eye, barely visible unless you’re really looking. Amber, glowing faintly.

Itcatches the light, twinkling in a way that almost feels deliberate. I can’t look away now that I’ve unlocked something about him, something small but important. And I like it. It’s mesmerizing, that tiny ring of color, adding depth to the darkness.

Without realizing it, I’m moving closer. I don’t stop until I’m so close his breath ghosts across my face, making chills erupt all over my body. What the hell am I doing? A smile plays at the corner of his mouth. It’s a predator’s grin, promising danger and delight in equal measure.

“Sorry,” I murmur, immediately taking a step back.

I don’t know what’s happening to me. With every movement I make in Valentine’s presence, it seems my body and mind are at odds. Both pull me to react a certain way, and as a result, I end up doing stupid things like invading his personal space.

He frowns slightly. “No apologies necessary, Ruby. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

No, I guess he’s right. Michael basically told me to screw my professor as a thank you for letting me into his classroom. So it’s not like I have to worry about something as inconsequential as nearness.

I like being so close to Valentine that I can smell him, and maybe that’s why it feels illicit. I’ve never before enjoyed it when Michael has ordered me to screw someone.

Looking over my shoulder, I wonder if I should head back inside. When I look back, my gaze lands on his hand, and I immediately notice the small drop of red nestled under one of his nails.

“Is it yours?” While I wait for his answer, I take his hand and pull it in front of me to get a better look. “Did you hurt yourself?” My stomach churns at the thought of someone else hurting him.

He holds my gaze, an unreadable expression on his face. There’s something like amusement—or is it curiosity?—flickering in those unnerving dark brown eyes. “Would it matter if it was?” His voice is low, laced with dark honey.

“It does to me,” I whisper.

“Why?”

Shaking my head, I let go of his hand. “It just does,” I mumble.

A car horn sounds, reminding me we’re standing out in the open and that my brother’s men are probably watching us. I immediately let go of his hand, dropping it like his skin is burning mine.

“What you signed up for in there is commendable,” Valentine says, the word rolling off his tongue like a caress. Praise from him feels like a rare gift, and warmth floods through me. I want more. “Charity is important. Is this one personal to you?”

“Why do you ask that?”

He shrugs. “It just seemed like it was personal to both you and Carolina.”

I nod slowly. “I knew her sister, even considered her a friend. Willow was… she was a good person. The best, really.”

It’s hard not to feel sadness as I think about her bright smile and sunny disposition. Despite being confined to a wheelchair, Willow didn’t see herself as a victim or the world as cruel.

My mind flicks back to the day I first met her.

I’d arrived at Ability Acres on Nick’s demand; he wanted me to scope out the place. I took that to mean spy on Willow, so I quickly greased the right hands with promises of future donations before they pointed me in the direction of Carolina’s sister.

When I entered her room, she was humming to herself while making paper hearts. At my entrance, she looked up. “Hi,” she beamed. “Can I help you with something?”

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