Page 6 of Hunted By Valentine

His impatience simmers beneath the surface, a predator ready to pounce. My heart hammers against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate for escape. But I am carved from ice, frozen in place by fear.

“Sorry,” I whisper, my voice barely there. “I just want to be prepared.”

“Prepared?” His laughter is a harsh bark that bounces off the walls, mocking me. “Ruby, your only task is to do as you’re told. You’ve been nothing but dead weight for years, so you should be grateful I’m giving you any purpose at all.”

His words are a branding iron, searing into my flesh. I fight back tears, pressing my lips together until they blanch. I must not let him see. He thrives on my pain, feeds on it like the monster he hides behind tailored suits and sharp cologne.

He scrutinizes me, eyes cold and calculating. “Ruby,” Michael’s voice slices through the silence, now strangely calm, “you’re too stupid to even understand why you should be grateful.” His words fall like hammer blows, but there’s a cold precision to them now, as if he’s carefully choosing each one to inflict maximum damage without raising his voice again.

“Thank you,” I manage to say, each word tasting of ash and defeat. “I’ll make you proud.”

“See that you do. Oh, and one last thing.” He gives me a cold, deadly smile. “Remember to thank Professor Grant for letting your useless ass into his classroom.”

Surely he doesn’t mean what I think he does. “How do you want me to thank him?” I ask, my voice trembling.

He shrugs casually. “Whatever it takes. Offer him your ass, your cunt, or your mouth. I don’t really give a shit. Just make sure it’s worth his time to teach you.”

As he exits the kitchen, his departure is as sharp and deliberate as everything else about him. The space he leaves behind feels warmer, as if his very presence had been the only thing chilling the air. Without him around, even breathing becomes easier. At least until his parting words register. I’m to whore myself out in exchange for an education I don’t want and didn’t ask for.

It’s at times like these that I regret not taking my oldest brother, Nick, up on his offer to free me from my marriage. Although I declined at the time, I know it is still an option. All I would have to do is call him, and he’d take care of it.

With an audible sigh, I get up and clear the table. I like keeping busy, it’s a way to keep my thoughts focused. And right now, I need that. Otherwise, I might give in, call Nick and beg him to get me out of the marriage to Michael.

My pride won’t let me, though. I’m not a damn damsel in distress. I might be a victim, cast in the role by having a vagina instead of a dick. But that’s only part of it.

The other reason is that my mom died while giving birth to me, and that’s something my dad never let me forget. Every year on my birthday, I’m reminded, like I’m to blame for the violent birth, like I wouldn’t give anything to not only be raised by my dad and nannies.

Thinking of my dad sours my mood, making me want to go to his final resting place just so I can spit on it. If only Jack was around instead of recovering in the hospital, he’d totally come with me and cheer me on.

As soon as the kitchen is spotless, I stride into my walk-in wardrobe, looking around for something—anything—I can wear at Holloway. Christ, most of my wardrobe is designer dresses that don’t really scream academia. But since Michael refuses to let me wear jeans or anything like that, I’m limited in my options.

While I go through my clothes, my mind circles back to thoughts about getting out of my marriage. But as much as I’d love that, I can’t. The damn contract, the one only five people know about—well, four now that Dad’s dead—is the only reason I’m still here.

When I first met Michael ten years ago, he was nice, and despite our twenty years age difference, he never treated me as anything but his equal. He bought me flowers, jewelry, and paid attention to me. Took me on dates and acted as though he enjoyed spending time with me. So when he asked my dad for my hand in marriage, I was ecstatic… for all of five minutes.

“Absolutely not,” Dad seethed, shaking his head. “If you want my daughter, you have to buy her.”

Michael turned to me, his eyes filled with sorrow. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Dad,” I tried to argue, but he didn’t listen.

“Do you want me to buy you?” Michael asked softly, and I nodded eagerly.

“P-please. Yes. I mean, yes, please buy me,” I replied.

Happiness bloomed in my chest; this was it. I’d be free, and…

“Told you I could make her beg,” Michael boasts as he shakes hands with Dad. “You owe me, Caspian.”

Dad grunts and stabs his finger in my direction. “Good for nothing,” he said coldly.

Finding out that Michael had made a bet with Dad to make me beg him to buy me, that’s the last time my heart broke. That night, I swore I’d never again let anyone else own me. Which means that when Michael dies, I’ll find a way to die too. That is if the Knight curse, or superstition, hasn’t claimed me when that day comes.

The curse is clear; three heirs are needed to make sure one survives. In the history of our family, there’s a pattern where only one of the three children survives. It’s been that way forever, and it’s a story that’s been passed down for generations.

While it’s easy to pass it off as nonsense, I suppose the proof is in the family tree. I hate the thought of my life being predetermined, like nothing I ever do or don’t do matters since the dice have already been cast. But… I also know I’m not meant to survive. I feel it deep in my marrow; the curse is going to claim me.

I’m so lost in my head I almost miss the black dress pants on the hanger. Pulling them out, I throw them over my shoulder along with some shirts and other clothes that might make me look less out of place at the university.

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