Page 5 of Hunted By Valentine

“If you insist on putting it so crudely, yes. Is that going to be a problem?”

He laughs harder. “Not at all. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve whored her out. It’s what she is; a whore.”

I bristle at his words, not liking the way he completely discards her. But since he isn’t fighting me, I let it go. It’s not my problem.

“Okay,” he mutters. “I’ll do as you say, Hunter.” With a shake of his head, he walks away.

I remain in the shadows, watching him go. I’ve already set the pieces in motion. By manipulating Michael into granting her more freedom, I’ve ensured that she’ll soon be within my reach. And when she steps into my classroom, she’ll have no idea that the real game has already begun.

The night is alive with New Year’s celebrations as I step onto the streets. But for me, the real excitement is just beginning. This will be no ordinary job. It will be a game of control, manipulation, and unraveling. And Ruby? She’s about to become my most fascinating prey yet.

Chapter 3

The Prey

Ihave no idea why I’m having a staring contest with the cold omelet sitting in front of me. I should pick up my cutlery and start eating, but every time I’m about to do it, my stomach churns. I don’t want food, especially not when I haven’t cooked it.

Too many times, I’ve awoken in places I didn’t pass out, and when that happens, it’s usually either pain or my husband fucking me that jolts me awake. So yeah, I guess I’ve become wary of what the servers bring me. Not that it matters. If Michael wants to drug me, he’ll find a way. Yet, I can’t bring myself to eat a single bite.

As I listlessly scrape my fork against the plate, the sound echoing and hollow in the room, I mentally tell myself to stab the lump of eggs, but my hand keeps circling it instead. I’m here but not present, my mind shrouded by the heavy fog of a life half-lived.

The sharp click of dress shoes on tile yanks me back to reality.He’s here.

Michael sweeps into the room, a storm brewing in his every step. His suit is crisp, each line a calculated choice to project his dominance. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t greet me. Instead, he sits across from me, the distance between us far greater than the expanse of the tabletop. His eyes are locked on his phone, and for a fleeting second, I’m grateful to the device for capturing his attention.

“Ruby,” he says without looking up, and even his voice feels like a slap—sharp, demanding, inescapable. “You’re starting at Holloway University in two days—”

My hand freezes mid-air, the fork trembling slightly. This news comes from nowhere, an avalanche with no escape. “W-what?” He looks up from his phone, displeased at my interruption, making him scowl. I quickly fake a cough. “Sorry. I meant to ask what you want me to do there,” I quickly amend.

“Criminology.” He says the word like it’s an explanation, which it most definitely isn’t. “You’ve been a waste of space for too long. I’m tired of looking at you moping around without being useful for more than just your cunt. And even that’s not that good anymore.” Disdain drips from every syllable, and I flinch, as though the words are physical blows.

I sit frozen, a statue in my own kitchen, the words echoing like a sinister chant. University. Criminology. Each syllable is a hammer strike to the delicate glass of my composure. I don’t understand—can’t understand—the sudden shift in Michael’s demands.

A gnawing dread fills my chest, spreading like spilled ink over parchment, darkening the already shadowed corners of my mind.

The prospect of university life, mingling with bright-eyed students brimming with dreams and ambitions, terrifies me. They’ve lived lives unscarred by hands like Michael’s, minds unshackled by the cruelty of being sold like a piece of meat.

Not to mention that my education ended with a high school diploma that feels like a relic from another lifetime, not a stepping stone to academia.

“Why criminology?” My voice barely rises above a whisper, but it’s a risk, even that soft entreaty. “I don’t know anything about it.” I want to mention that I’ll look out of place. A twenty-eight-year-old in a sea of younger and brighter faces.

Michael is back to looking at his phone, scrolling through information more important than the woman sitting before him. He doesn’t need to look at me to wield power; his indifference cuts deeper than any stare. It’s not because I want his attention, far from it. But when I can see his eyes, I know his mood, and I’ve gotten good at recognizing his tells. So without his gaze, there’s no way to prepare myself.

“Because I decided it,” he replies without missing a beat, as if discussing the weather rather than commandeering my life.

I nod, a puppet jerking on a string. My heart races, pounding against my ribcage with the ferocity of a caged bird seeking freedom. The thought of stepping outside the walls of our pristine prison, into a world I no longer feel equipped to navigate, fills me with a paralyzing blend of fear and an unexpected spark of curiosity.

“You don’t need to know anything, Ruby. Just show up. Maybe you’ll learn something useful for once.” Michael’s voice slices through the quiet morning like a knife, his sneer as clear in his tone as it would be on his face. “It’s not like crime is new to you. Show me you actually have a brain and know how to use it.”

He’s right, I grew up around crime. But what I saw and heard isn’t the stuff I imagine will be taught at the prestigious university. Seeing my dad strap women down, and bleed them dry before fucking their corpse is probably not on the list of discussions. I don’t think drug trades will make said list either.

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat an uncomfortable knot. I want to argue, to scream that I am more than this life I’ve been boxed into. Acting out won’t help, though. That’s a lesson I’ve had to learn multiple times.

“Of course, Michael.” Averting my gaze, I brush some imaginary lint from my shoulder. I try hard to swallow the question building in my throat, but it slips out. “Are you sure it’s a good idea? I mean… I don’t know—”

The force of his fist meeting the table sends a shiver down my spine, rendering me speechless. Dishes rattle, mimicking the tremor in my bones. I jump, despite myself, the sudden movement a crack in my practiced composure.

“Enough!” he roars. The muscles in his jaw clench and unclench—a warning sign I’ve learned to heed. He sets down his phone, makingit clear that his attention is now fully on me. “You ask too many questions. It’s unbecoming and so fucking tedious.”

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