Page 51 of Hunted By Valentine

“So how come you never go out with us?” the guy next to me asks.

I scrunch up my nose. “I’m not really a going-out person.” My reply is flippant, and I hope he doesn’t notice the way I’m discreetly edging away from him.

My choice to put some distance between us isn’t only because of the daggers Valentine’s shooting through his eyes. I don’t like people this close.

“And why is that?” the guy asks. “Is it because you get wild when you drink?” He lowers his voice and gives me a smile I’m sure is meant to be charming.

Holding up my hand, I show him the wedding band. “It’s because I’m married,” I state flatly.

The change in him is almost comical. He quickly makes his excuse and gets up, joining some of the others that have formed a secondary groupcloser to the bar.

Their laughter is loud, free, uninhibited—everything I wish I could be right now. They’ve let the excitement of the day carry them away, but for me, every sip of alcohol feels like I’m inching toward a dangerous edge I don’t want to cross.

Valentine’s presence dominates the booth, effortlessly magnetic. I keep stealing glances at him, trying to decipher the subtle changes in his demeanor. There’s something different about him tonight. Something more relaxed, more unguarded.

His usual aloofness is still there, but it’s softened around the edges, like he’s letting himself enjoy this moment more than usual. His brown eyes—particularly the left one with that almost imperceptible heterochromia—glint with an intensity that makes it hard to look away.

Another round of drinks arrives. Glasses clink together, and my classmates cheer, toasting to the thrill of being inside a real courtroom today. I smile, playing along, but my martini remains mostly untouched.

When no one’s looking, I discreetly pour it onto the floor, watching as the pale green liquid pools beneath the table. My heart races, but I feel a small victory in regaining control. Alcohol lowers inhibitions, and I can’t afford to lose control. Not with Valentine watching.

I make my way to the bar under the guise of needing a refill, asking the bartender for water, but having it garnished with lime and mint. It looks convincing enough to pass for a cocktail when I return to the booth, sliding into my seat as the conversation flows easily around me.

Valentine is now at the center of it, effortlessly weaving his insights about the trial into the conversation, captivating my classmates. His voice rises above the din of the bar, commanding and smooth.

“I would never have taken you for a beer drinker,” one of the girls says, batting her long, dark eyelashes at Valentine.

The way she unashamedly eye-fucks him as he wraps his lips around the top of the bottle gets under my skin. “What did you think he’d be drinking?” I find myself asking.

She looks at me, widening her eyes. “I don’t know. What do you old people usually drink?” she bites back, rolling her eyes.

I snort-laugh at her. “The blood of younger people so we keep looking young,” I deadpan.

To my surprise, most of the table bursts out laughing, Valentine included.

“Never mind what he’s drinking, I didn’t think he knew how to laugh,” someone interjects.

Valentine’s eyes crinkle with laughter. “What can I say? It’s freeing to know that justice has been served, and that our streets are now a little safer.”

At his words, I busy myself with my drink, not able to look at anyone. The fact that the Hunter holds any regard for safety or justice is downright laughable.

As the discussion deepens, my classmates become more animated, dissecting every detail of the trial. Valentine entertains their theories, but I see the way his eyes flicker over me now and again, like he’s assessing me, waiting for my input. I’m silent at first, content to let the others soak up his attention, but eventually, I feel his gaze linger too long.

“Ruby,” he says suddenly, his voice cutting through the noise. The way he says my name, low and intimate, sends a shiver down my spine. “What did you think of the prosecution’s case today?”

The booth falls quiet, all eyes turning to me. My throat tightens as the weight of his attention presses down on me. He always does this—calls on me in these moments when I’m least prepared. But tonight feels different. His eyes are sharp, but there’s a softness too, something almost encouraging. It throws me off.

“I think they had a strong case,” I start, my voice barely audible over the noise of the bar. “But the defendant screwed it all up with his testimony.”

Valentine’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. “Interesting,” he says, leaning in just a little, as if to close the distance between us. “And why do you think that?”

I swallow hard, feeling the heat rise to my face under his gaze. “The evidence was circumstantial,” I say, trying to sound confident. “And the witnesses were inconsistent. The defense could’ve easily planted seeds of doubt… but the defendant’s testimony sealed the deal. His arrogance showed through, and it was enough to sway the jury.”

Fora moment, I think I’ve said something wrong. Valentine just stares at me, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile. “Very good,” he finally says, his voice a low murmur. “You’re not wrong. The prosecution was teetering on a fragile foundation until the defendant cracked under pressure. And you caught that.”

His approval hits me like a wave, unexpected. I feel a strange warmth spread through my chest, a kind of thrill that comes from knowing I’ve earned his respect, even if just for a moment. The rest of the group starts talking again, but I don’t hear anything they say.

I sip my water, the cold liquid a welcome relief against the heat building inside me. I know I should pull away, create some distance between us before things get too intense, but I’m already in too deep. His presence is intoxicating, and despite every warning bell going off in my head, I’m drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

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