Page 66 of Hunted By Valentine

“Shh,” I whisper into his ear, my voice cold and detached. “This won’t hurt for long.”

His body goes limp in my arms as the drug takes full effect. His eyes roll back, and he slumps against me, unconscious. I lower him to the ground, making sure he’s fully out before I move again.

I drag his limp body toward my car, opening the trunk with a practiced hand. It’s not the first time I’ve done this, and it won’t be the last. I hoist him into the trunk, his weight nothing more than an inconvenience now. The trunk closes with a soft thud, and just like that, Michael is fully in my possession.

I slip back into the driver’s seat and start the engine. The road to the Catskills is long, but tonight, the drive feels like nothing. The car moves steadily, cutting through the night like a blade. The Hunter has claimed his prey, and soon, the real work will begin.

As the city fades behind me, and the dark, looming trees of the Catskill Mountains rise in the distance, a slow smile spreads across my face. Michael will wish he’d never crossed me by touching my prey.

A telltale shiver runs down my spine, and my smile grows.

Another hunt just began.

Chapter 26

The Hunter

The gravel crunches beneath my tires as I steer the Camry onto the unmarked path. It’s nearly invisible, swallowed by the forest—a single scar carved through the dense underbrush, with branches overhead interlocking like bony fingers, blotting out the moon.

I’ve driven this road countless times, yet each journey feels like slipping deeper into a darker place inside myself. This is where I am most alive. The trees tower on either side of the car, casting shadows that flicker in the headlights like specters.

Checking the rearview mirror is more instinct than necessity. No one has ever followed me this far. The isolation out here is profound; absolute. And that’s exactly how I need it to be.

The cabin looms ahead in the distance, just visible through the fog. The headlights sweep over it as I pull into the clearing. The structure is unassuming—a simple wood cabin, its silhouette broken by the jagged outlines of decaying wood, a place forgotten by time.

It looks like any other hunting lodge that has long since fallen out of use, the kind that might draw curiosity from hikers or the occasional lost traveler. But those who find themselves on this land are rarely lost by accident.

Theengine hum dies as I shut off the car, and the silence that follows is almost jarring. Only the sound of the wind through the trees remains.

Fog curls around my ankles as soon as I leave the car. The scent of damp earth fills my lungs—clean, sharp, and laced with decay. Every breath makes me feel more grounded, more connected to the predator that thrives here.

The cabin doesn’t belong to me on paper, but in every meaningful way, it’s mine. No one comes here without my knowledge, and no one leaves without my consent.

I move toward the trunk of the car, eyes narrowing as I take in the figure inside. His unconscious form sprawled out like a rag doll, limbs limp from the drugs. His face is slack, jaw hanging slightly open as he breathes in shallow spurts. Not ready to bring him inside yet, I close the trunk softly.

As I walk up the steps to the cabin, the wood creaks beneath me, a familiar groaning that has long since become a welcome sound. I like the imperfections of this place. They remind me that nothing here is meant to be permanent. Everything and everyone is subject to decay.

Inside, the air is thick with the musty scent of abandonment, mingling with the acrid stench of old blood. The floorboards are warped and uneven. The fireplace, blackened with soot, hasn’t been used in years. This cabin is a façade, just like the role I play when I’m not here.

I head toward the back of the cabin where a nondescript door leads to the basement. As I unlock it, the heavy iron key grating in the lock, the air shifts. It’s laced with the history of violence that this place holds.

The stairs creak as I descend, the wood groaning under my weight. The deeper I go, the colder it becomes. The light from upstairs barely touches the bottom. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, casting a weak, flickering glow over the room.

It’s small; no more than ten by ten feet. But every inch of it is used to its full potential.

The centerpiece is the chair bolted to the floor in the center of the room. Heavy, black leather straps hang from its arms and legs, worn and frayed from use. Chains dangle from the ceiling like metal vines, their surfaces polished by the skin of past visitors.

Thewalls are lined with hooks, each one holding a different instrument—blades of various lengths, clamps, saws. And in the far corner, my favorite—a sleek, polished bow mounted on the wall, accompanied by a quiver full of arrows.

I walk toward the bow, my fingers trailing along the wall as I pass by the various tools. The wood of the bow feels smooth under my hand, a perfect weapon. The elegance of an arrow slicing through the air is unmatched. Clean, efficient. There’s no waste, no mess—just precision.

The basement itself has been soundproofed, though I took extra precautions to ensure the cabin’s remote location would offer all the privacy I need. Screams never reach the surface here. Not unless I allow them to.

I move over to the chair, testing the leather straps. They hold firm, as they should. I haven’t used this room in almost an entire year, but everything is ready. Tonight won’t require much creativity.

Michael Simmons isn’t the type that requires much thought. A contract-breaker like him deserves little more than brute force. Still, I have a few touches planned.

Before I get Michael from the car, I grab my balaclava from the shelf. It’s an extension of my being, a second skin that allows me to become the monster I truly am. The skeletal print on the black fabric stretches and moves with every muscle in my face.

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