Page 68 of Hunted By Valentine

“Which hand did you use?” I ask coldly.

Michael’s eyes widen in terror as he realizes what’s happening, his body trembling as he opens and closes his mouth over and over without making a sound. It’s clear I won’t get an answer from him. With a swift, fluid motion, I raise the bow and take aim at his right hand.

“I’ll choose for you,” I chuckle, my voice barely audible as I release the arrow.

The sound of the arrow piercing flesh is sickening, the thud of it embedding itself in Michael’s hand echoing through the basement. He screams in agony, his body convulsing as the pain washes over him.

I stand there for a moment, my breathing heavy as I watch him writhe in pain. The anger subsides, replaced by a cold, calculating calmness. This is what he deserves, what anyone deserves who dares to hurtmypet.

“A-are we even now?” he sobs.

Even? He thinks we’re even? “Not even close,” I reply as I put the bow back and reach for a scalpel. His face goes pale, what little color he had left drains from his cheeks as he notices the scalpel in my hand. “The arrow was for the first time you hit her after I warned you.”

“I-I didn’t mean to… it was… I had to.” His words are hard to make out through his whimpers and heavy panting.

Coming back to where he’s seated, I press the scalpel against his cheek, the cold metal biting into his skin. He freezes, his eyes wide with terror. “You didn’t mean to hurt the woman you want dead? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

He grunts but is wise enough not to say anything.

I let out a loud sigh. “Are you done now? Are you ready to accept there’s no escape for you?” I infuse a bit of the curiosity I feel into my tone.

“W-will you let me go if I say yes?”

At first, I don’t want to dignify that kind of stupid question with an answer. But the teacher in me decides this will make a great teaching moment. “No,” I reply, shaking my head. “You signed a contract when you hired me to kill Ruby—”

“Which you haven’t done yet,” he snarls as his fear morphs into a dangerous concoction of outrage. “So why even enforce the contract?”

I pick up the chair folded against the wall and stride back to him. Then I unfold the chair and sit down next to him, making sure the cold metal of the scalpel rests against his injured hand.

“Because a dignified society needs rules, Michael, and you broke one of mine. One you promised not to break. That can’t go unpunished,” I say, deliberately talking slowly. “As for the other part. How do you know I haven’t killed her?”

“Have you?”

I force a careless shrug. “No. Because of you, I can’t get to her. She’s protected by her brothers.” It’s hard to keep my tone even when rage thrums through my veins.

He scoffs and his nostrils flare like he’s trying to temper himself. Interesting. “So you’re going to kill me instead of that cunt?”

“No,” I admit. “Not kill you. You’ll leave with me tonight, and when we go back to New York, you’ll very much be alive. And nothing I do to you is instead of her.Youbroke the contract, it’s that simple.”

He shows his stupidity when he mumbles a weak thank you. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he snivels.

Surely he can’t think the arrow in his hand is the extent of his punishment, can he? I haven’t had any fun yet. I didn’t even chase him through the woods or anything.

I smirk, the cold, calculated smile of a predator staring down its prey. “Oh, but Michael,” I say, my voice low and menacing. “This isn’t about forgiveness. This is about justice.”

Gripping the handle of the scalpel, the metal cool against my skin, I press the blade against the soft flesh of his hand. His body goes rigid, the tension snapping through him like a live wire. I apply just enough pressure to break the skin, a thin line of blood welling up beneath the blade. His scream rips through the silence, raw and desperate, echoing off the concrete walls.

It’s a sound I know well. The sound of fear transforming into pain. The sound of a man realizing he has no control.

I savor it.

I let the blade hover there for a moment longer before pulling it away, watching as the blood drips slowly down his hand, staining the chair. His breath comes in ragged gasps now, his chest heaving as he struggles to contain the agony.

“Do you feel that?” I ask, my voice calm, measured. “That’s just the beginning.”

He sobs, his body trembling against the restraints. “Please…”

Since I’m here for justice, not here for his apologies, I ignore him. The scalpel catches the light as I turn it over in my hand, feeling the weight of it.

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