Page 23 of Hunted By Valentine

I want to retort, tell him I’ve never once burned his dinner, but what’s the point? He didn’t believe me when the former chef blamed me, so he most definitely won’t believe me now.

Nodding, I turn back to the stove. I stir the pot twice before I turn my attention to the fresh peppers already lined up. While I cut them, I do my best to ignore Michael’s eyes, boring into my back. Every movement feels scrutinized, every action inadequate under his critical gaze.

“You’re cutting those peppers too thick,” he sneers, leaning over my shoulder. His breath, hot and whiskey-laced, makes me flinch. “Can’t you do anything right?”

My jaw locks, teeth grinding. Every inch of me is trembling—barely able to hold myself together under his gaze. My grip on the knife tightens, the cool steel a small anchor in a sea of terror.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, my voice so thin it barely escapes my throat. “I’ll cut them smaller.” My hands tremble as I grip the knife tighter, trying to slice the peppers into paper-thin strips. How I wish it was his skin I was cutting into instead. The blade slips, nearly nicking my finger, and I gasp softly.

“Useless,” Michael observes. “Absolutely useless.”

My cheeks burn with humiliation, and I feel tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. I blink them back furiously, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Instead, I focus on my breathing, on the steady rhythm of the knife against the cutting board.

“I’m doing my best,” I say, hating how small my voice sounds.

“Your best isn’t good enough,” he snaps. “It never is. Never was.”

I feel my frustration mounting, a quiet rage building in my chest. My fists clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms. The pain helps ground me, keeps me from lashing out.

As I reach for a plate to serve the appetizer, my elbow catches the edge of the counter. The plate slips before I even realize what’s happening. The crash of ceramic on tile echoes through the room, too loud,too final.

Everything freezes for the briefest of moments—just long enough for me to hold my breath. Then his hand is on me. Fast. Hard. Pain blossoms instantly where his fingers dig into my arm. My body ignores my attempts to move, I’m locked in place despite every instinct screaming at me to run.

“You clumsy bitch,” he snarls, his face inches from mine. “Look what you’ve done now.”

“I’m sorry,” I gasp, tears spilling down my cheeks. “I-it was an accident, I swear. Please, Michael, you’re hurting me.”

His grip only tightens, and I know bruises are already forming. At this moment, all I can think about is escape—from this kitchen, from this house, from this life. But there’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

I’m trapped, and the realization hits me like a physical blow. As Michael continues to berate me, his words blurring into a cacophony of hate, I close my eyes and try to imagine myself somewhere else. Anywhere else. With anyone else.

“Are you even listening to me?” he sneers, and I realize I’ve made a terrible mistake by letting my thoughts consume me.

“Ye—” I’m interrupted as his palm connects with my cheek. The slap is so hard my head snaps to the side as ringing starts in my ears.

Michael’s fingers release their vise-like grip, leaving behind throbbing pain where bruises will surely form. I stumble back, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The shattered plate lies at my feet, a stark reminder of my failure.

“Clean this mess up,” he orders, his voice like ice. “And if I find a single shard, you’ll wish you’d never been born. Understood?”

I nod, not trusting my voice. My hands tremble as I reach for the broom and dustpan. Each movement feels like I’m wading through molasses, my body heavy with fear and despair.

As I sweep, my mind races. There has to be a way out. Maybe if I could just reach my phone, call Nick or Jack… but no. Michael would catch me before I could even dial. And the consequences would be unthinkable.

My husband might play nice—or somewhat nice—in front of my brothers, but he’d do almost anything to stop me from contacting them.

I focus on the task at hand, carefully gathering every shard. One piece catches the light, its jagged edge glinting. For a fleeting moment, I imagine using it as a weapon, though I quickly push the thought away. I can’t. I signed the damn contract that linked our lives together in ways I never want to test.

When I’m finished, I stand, my legs shaky. “It’s done,” I murmur, keeping my eyes downcast.

Michael’s heavy footsteps approach. He circles me like a predator, his gaze burning into me. “I see you’re good for something,” he sneers. “Now, why don’t you freshen up? You look a mess.”

Relief floods through me. My bathroom. My sanctuary. I take a step toward the door, but Michael’s arm shoots out, blocking my path.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he taunts. “Did I say you could leave?”

My heart sinks. “I thought… you said to freshen up,” I stammer.

He leans in close, his breath hot on my ear. “Remember your place, Ruby. You do nothing without my permission. Is that clear?”

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