Page 50 of Hunted By Valentine

As the defense attorney rises, I note a shift in the room. The students lean in, eager for a counterargument. The attorney’s words, however, fall flat. The jury isn’t swayed, and neither am I. This man has already lost, even if the verdict hasn’t yet been delivered. He’s just a rodent caught in a trap, scrambling for freedom.

But as much as I disdain him, I also recognize the kinship. He’s still a predator, no matter how clumsy. He burned what he couldn’t control, and now he’s here, begging for mercy. His desperation is palpable, his weakness plain for all to see. I feel a flicker of secondhand embarrassment. How pathetic.

As the trial continues, I focus on Ruby. She sits a little apart from the others, her posture straight, her face impassive. She’s taking it all in, but I sense the gears turning in her mind. Unlike her peers, she’s not content to accept what’s in front of her.

There’s a hunger in her, a need to understand the mechanics of power and control. It’s what makes her different. What makes her dangerous—and intriguing.

When the prosecutor calls the arsonist to the stand, the courtroom falls into a hush. His voice trembles as he recounts the events, his hands shaking as they grip the podium. “I didn’t mean to do it,” he stammers. “I lost control.”

Pathetic.

I watch with detached amusement as he attempts to justify his actions. The jury remains unmoved, their faces stony. They’ve already made up their minds, as have I. This man is weak. But Ruby—she watches him with intensity, her gaze unwavering. It’s that depth that draws me in.

Leaning closer to one of my students, I murmur, “Pay attention to the defendant’s body language. Fear tells you more than words ever could.”

He nods eagerly, scribbling down my insight, but my thoughts remain fixed on Ruby. What is she seeing? What conclusions is she drawing? I wonder if she’s considering how easily a person can unravel when stripped of their control. And if she is, is she aware of how close she’s come to that edge herself?

After the closing arguments, the jury retires to deliberate. The students file out of the courtroom, buzzing with excitement and chatter. I follow them into the courthouse atrium, where they begin discussing the case amongst themselves. But I’m not listening.

I sense her before I see her. Detective Sullivan strides toward me, a confident smile on her face. “Valentine,” she greets me, her eyes flicking over the group of students. “Good to see you.”

I introduce her to the students, and they immediately swarm around. I stand back, watching her answer their questions with ease. She’s competent, skilled even. But unlike the students, she doesn’t captivate me. My gaze slides past her to Ruby, who stands on the edge of the group, her arms crossed, her gaze locked on me.

There’s something there—a challenge, perhaps. A shiver runs down my spine, but it’s quickly replaced by the thrill of her attention. She’s trying to see through me, to peel back the mask I wear. And that excites me.

“Detective Sullivan,” I say smoothly, “was instrumental in solving this case. Her ability to find the cracks in a suspect’s story is unparalleled.”

Ruby’s gaze narrows slightly, and for the first time today, I feel a genuine flicker of something close to unease. But it’s fleeting. The challenge in her eyes only deepens my interest.

“You flatter me,” the detective smiles. “We couldn’t have done it without your help. Your insights and ability to pick up even the slightest pattern really helped us a lot.”

“Wait, you assisted with this case?” a student asks.

I smile. “I tried to,” I reply.

Both Detective Sullivan and myself know I did more than help, I practically solved the entire thing. But I don’t need credit, so I’m happy to pass it on.

The truth is that I don’t help because I’m a dogooder. I do it because I get a high from being right under their nose without anyone knowing. It’s reckless, but so damn intoxicating.

By the time we leave the courthouse, darkness has fallen, and the students are practically buzzing with the day’s events.

Still ecstatic that I’ve spent the day amongst the very people who would want to lock me up for good, without anyone realizing my true nature, I make an uncharacteristic suggestion. “Why don’t we all go for a drink?”

They hesitate at first, caught off guard by the offer, but soon enough, the prospect of drinking with their professor outweighs any concerns for about half of the group. I wish I could say it was a power play, a way to bend lines and make them question authorities.

But today, that would be a lie. The truth is much simpler, a lot less deviant; I want to celebrate.

At the bar, we settle into a large booth. The low hum of conversation, the dim lighting, and the alcohol create an intimate atmosphere. The students’ chatter fills the space, but I remain quiet, observing. I let them relax, let their guards drop.

I glance at Ruby again, watching her sip her drink, her eyes fixed on the people around her. She’s still calculating, still observing. The guy next to her strikes up a conversation, even slightly moving closer to her.

Our eyes meet as she looks away from him, and I shake my head, my mouthset in a grim line. Whether she knows it or not, she’smine,and I don’t allow others that close to what’s mine.

Chapter 20

The Prey

The bar is alive with the hum of excited chatter, the clinking of glasses, and the faint scent of spilled alcohol. I’m nursing my first drink, a sour apple martini that’s gone warm in my hand, while my fellow students are already on their second or third round, courtesy of Valentine.

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