Page 65 of Hunted By Valentine

Carolina beams, clearly pleased with herself, oblivious to the storm brewing beneath my surface. I finish my drink and signal for another round. Whiskey for me, soda for her. She keeps talking about Willow’s Foundation, but I’m barely listening. My thoughts are already somewhere else.

Ruby. Michael.

Carolina is still talking as I rise from my seat. I offer her a polite smile, excusing myself under the guise of an early morning meeting.

“Take care, Carolina,” I say, my voice low and calm.

She smiles. “You, too, Valentine.”

I leave her with that, stepping out into the cool night air, the weight of my decision pressing down on me like a vise.

My burner phone buzzes to life as I switch it on and scroll down to Michael’s name. One text. One message is all it will take to get his attention, to remind him who’s in charge. My fingers hover over the screen, a brief hesitation flickering in the back of my mind. But it’s gone in an instant, swallowed by the need to act.

I press send.

As I slip my phone back into my pocket, I already know where this is headed. Michael won’t be able to resist. The promise of meeting to discuss Ruby is too tempting for a man like him—pathetic, desperate, easily led. He thinks he’s in control, but the truth is, he’s been under my thumb from the start.

The cold air brushes against my skin as I wait for a cab to drive me home, and during the short journey, a plan unfolds in my mind.

When I enter my apartment, I glance at the clock and decide I have enough time to change. I shed the suit and tie—the uniform of Professor Valentine Grant, the man the world sees. The one who smiles, who lectures, who pretends to care. But tonight, I’m not him. I’m the Hunter. And the Hunter has no need for pretense.

I open my closet and reach for the clothes that suit the task at hand: a black, long-sleeved shirt made of a material that moves with me, silent and forgiving. Over it, a leather jacket, worn just enough to blend in with the night but sturdy enough to withstand the harshness of the Catskill Mountains. The jeans are dark, unassuming. Functional.

Finally, I lace up my black boots, the soles soft enough to make no sound, but strong enough to tread anywhere. These are not the clothes of a professor. These are the clothes of a predator.

As I roll up my left sleeve to adjust the cuff, my eyes fall on the mark I always keep hidden. A black serpent coiled tightly around a bow and arrow, etched into the skin of my inner wrist. Its intricacy is hypnotic—each scale of the serpent detailed, the arrow pulled taut in the bow, ready to strike.

The symbol is a reminder of who I am. Of the hunt that always lives beneath the surface. The serpent strikes without warning, and tonight, that’s exactly what I’ll do.

I glance at it for a moment longer before covering it again. The countless rumors surrounding my mark are amusing, but also the reason no one can know I have it, the reason I always keep it hidden.

After grabbing the syringe from my drawer, the small vial of sedative already prepped, I leave my loft again.

By the time I step into my car—an old, nondescript Toyota Camry in dark gray I keep parked in a garage that’s a long walk from my home—I’ve fully embraced the persona that will carry me through the night. No one knows I own this car. No one ever sees me drive it.

Thedrive to the garage is quiet. My mind stays focused, calm, as I prepare for what comes next. Michael thinks we’re going to talk. He thinks he’s coming to negotiate the terms of Ruby’s demise.

I park just outside the garage where we’ve met before. It’s the perfect place for this—a shadowy, deserted spot where no one asks questions. No one will hear a thing. I pull the collar of my jacket up higher, making sure my face remains hidden under the shadow of the hood as I wait.

Michael’s car pulls up, the tires crunching against the gravel. I watch him step out, glancing around nervously, as though he can sense something isn’t right. His face is bruised, and I wonder if they’re marks from his last encounter with Ruby.

“Hello?” he calls out, his voice shaky, a pathetic attempt at bravado. “You here?”

I stay in the shadows, allowing my voice to carry from the darkness. “I’m here. Did you bring what I asked for?”

Michael hesitates. “Yeah, I brought it. But we need to be sure about this. Ruby—she’s with Jack. He’s in the way. If we’re going to go through with this, we need to be smart.”

Good, he thinks this is still about Ruby.

I move silently around the perimeter of the garage, keeping him in my sight, never revealing myself fully. My steps are measured, soundless.

He shifts uneasily, glancing around. “Hello?” he calls again, more uncertain this time.

I wait until I’m directly behind him. The syringe is already in my hand, hidden in the sleeve of my jacket. One step closer, and he still doesn’t hear me. Doesn’t sense the danger.

Then, I strike.

I clamp my hand over his mouth, pulling him back against me as I plunge the needle into his neck with swift precision. He struggles for a moment, his body thrashing, but it’s no use. The sedative works quickly, spreading through his veins like liquid fire.

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