Page 69 of Hunted By Valentine

“Did she cry like you?” I ask, curious to know the answer. “Did she try to buy her way out of your punishment?”

His sobs grow louder, his body shaking violently in the chair. He’s unraveling. The fear has taken hold, sinking its claws deep into his psyche. He’s no longer a man. He’s prey.

I lower the knife, letting the blade hover just above his skin. The tension in the air is palpable, electric. Fear radiating off him in waves, his body tenses in anticipation of the next cut.

But I don’t move. Not yet.

I let the silence stretch out between us, heavy and suffocating. His breathing becomes more erratic, his sobs choking in his throat. He’s waiting, desperate for it to end, desperate for the pain to begin so that it can be over.

Having had enough of this one-sided conversation, I get to work. Michael’s screams grow louder, more frantic, as I slowly flay the skin from his hand, inch by agonizing inch. The sound of his flesh tearing is music to my ears, a symphony of suffering that feeds the darkness within me.

AsI work around the arrow, I can’t stop thinking about Ruby. I wonder what her beautiful face looks like when it’s twisted in pain, and I hate that I haven’t seen it yet.

The anger and hatred that I’ve kept buried deep inside me surges to the surface, fueling my every movement. This is for touching my pet, I think, my grip on the knife tightening. This is for all the pain he’s caused someone that isn’t his to inflict anything on.

Done with the top of his hand, I stand and unceremoniously grip the arrow to pull it free. His screams and cries are no longer exciting. In fact, they’re downright bothersome, so I bare my teeth at him.

“Screaming won’t help,” I deadpan as I twist his hand so the palm faces up, before slamming the arrow back through his limb and the chair.

He tries his best to remain quiet, but the second I slide the scalpel beneath his skin, he loses any control and howls in pain. I’ve done this so many times now that the sounds don’t disturb my work anymore.

I was twenty-four when I taught myself the art of skinning, something any hunter needs to know. Unlike most, I didn’t practice on animals, but on people. Which both made it harder and more rewarding since they were alive.

It didn’t take me long to learn to block out their small jerks, screams, even the bodily responses that sometimes follow. As if on cue, Michael’s pants darken with wetness, and the scent of urine hits my nostrils.

“Do you know why no one is allowed to interfere with the hunt?” I ask conversationally, opening the subject again as I force the scalpel between his middle and index finger.

“N-no,” he screams.

I suspected as much. “It’s because that makes it harder to get to my prey.” Pausing, I try to think back on one of our first meetings. “But I think I’ve already tried to explain that to you. Anyway, now Ruby’s with Jack, and February is upon us.”

Through hiccups, Michael manages to deliver another pointless apology. Not that it matters, I’m done now. I stand up again and admire my handiwork.

“We’re done,” I say, my tone grave. “Your indiscretions have been punished.”

Michael lets out an audible sigh of relief and opens his mouth. But then he changes his mind and closes it again, probably for the best.

I quickly undo the straps and tilt the chair so he falls to the floor. Another scream is torn from him as this jostles his hand since the arrow is embedded into the armrest on the chair.

“This is your one and only warning, Michael,” I say, my voice cold and hard. “Do not interfere in the hunt again.” The sense of satisfaction, of power, I feel is delectable. This is who I am, I think, my fingers tracing the intricate mark on my wrist. This is what I do.

I watch him as he pushes himself to his knees and pulls at the arrow. When he finally gets it free, I get the urge to slam it back into place, but I refrain. I need to get back to New York.

Pointing at the hose and tap by the end wall, I say, “Start cleaning.”

Leaning against the wall, I watch Michael collect his skin from the floor before pouring bleach all over it. When he begins hosing it down, I sit down on the stairs, making sure he’s within my view at all times. A few times I notice him staring longingly at my weapons, but he never once makes a move to grab one.

It takes a couple of hours before he’s done, and by the end, he’s struggling to stand and his face is paler than before. I fully expected him to pass out, so I’m begrudgingly impressed he’s still standing.

“It’s time to go,” I say, my voice cold and impassive. “You’re going to walk yourself to the trunk and get in. And if you try anything… well, let’s just say I have plenty more arrows where that one came from.”

Michael hesitates for a moment, his eyes flicking between me and the door. But ultimately, he knows he has no choice. With a resigned sigh, he nods and begins to make his way up the stairs, his movements slow and pained.

Watching him, I feel a sense of detachment, of disgust. This man, this pathetic excuse for a human being, is not worthy of my time or energy, yet I’ve wasted an entire evening on him.

As I load him into the trunk of the car and drive away, leaving the cabin and the forest behind, I pull my phone out of my pocket, frowning as I realize it’s turned off. I never turn my phone off. When it refuses to switch on, I realize it must have run out of juice.

Huffing with annoyance at myself for not having checked the battery, which is very unlike me, I reach for the USB cable and plug my phone in. It takes several miles before the display lights up with my home screen.

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