Page 88 of Hunted By Valentine

Since I don’t know what I’ve just given him, or even how much since I just emptied whatever was left in the bottle, I rush to get dressed. Instead of bothering with the wet jeans, I steal a pair of his boxer briefs and a long-sleeved turtle-neck sweater. With the help of one of his belts, I make it look like a makeshift dress.

After grabbing my things, I push Valentine to the side so he doesn’t risk suffocating. My hands tremble as I roam through my bag, looking for my phone. But when I find it, I realize it’s dead. Of course it is.

Instead of panicking, I find Valentine’s next to his laptop. And after holding it in front of his face to unlock it, I dial Jack’s number.

“Hello?” he asks, sounding groggy and angry. “Who the hell is this?”

“Hi Jack—”

“Rubes? Is that you? Are you okay? Where the hell have you been?”

Sighing, I ignore most of his questions. “I’m in Brooklyn—”

“Brooklyn? What the fuck… wait, you’re with him, Valentine, aren’t you?”

“Jack,” I say, sterner than I mean to. “Can you come pick me up?”

Of course, he agrees right away, promising me he’ll be here shortly. After hanging up, I go back to look at Valentine one last time. He looks almost otherworldly as he lies there, every muscle relaxed. I press a soft kiss to his lips, knowing there’s a good chance I’ll never get to kiss him again.

Chapter 34

The Prey

Iwake with a start, disoriented and tangled in the unfamiliar sheets of Jack’s spare bedroom. The sun blazes through the flimsy curtains, stabbing at my eyes like hot needles. I glance at the clock on the nightstand. Seven in the morning.

Despite having only slept a few hours, and my body feeling like lead, my mind is clearer now.

After Jack picked me up from Valentine’s, I was too exhausted to think, to speak, to do anything but collapse into this bed. Now, a disturbing alertness courses through me. I stretch, yawn, and try to shake off the lingering fog of sleep.

Thinking about Valentine makes my heart contract painfully. It doesn’t help that I’m still dressed in his clothes, surrounded by his scent.

How can I love him when he’s so cruel to me? Love isn’t rational, but this… this feels like a sick, cosmic joke. Yet, even as I think that, I know I’ll do everything to protect him. It’s not sensible, it’s… love.

Since there isn’t time to sit and wallow, I fling the covers back and sit up, stretching until my joints pop. The air in the room is cool, almost biting, and I almost get back under the sheets. That won’t do though. Not when I want to spend the day with my brothers.

The place is quiet as I pad to the bathroom, hoping not to wake Jack. I flick on the light, its fluorescent hum breaking the silence, and close the door softly behind me. The mirror above the sink shows a stranger: hollow eyes, pallid skin, hair like a bird’s nest. I touch my face, half-expecting it to crumble like old clay.

Stripping off my clothes, I step into the shower and turn the knob all the way to hot. Steam billows around me, and the water stings my skin, waking me fully. I run my fingers through my hair, massaging my scalp, careful of the stitches.

The shower is a ritual, a baptism. I need to cleanse myself, not just of the grime and sweat, but of the past days. Of Valentine.

The water runs cold, and I linger a moment longer, letting the chill numb me. When I step out, I’m a specter in the mirror, wreathed in vapor. I dab my hair with a towel, then pat my body dry, each movement slow and deliberate.

Back in the bedroom, I rummage through the duffel bag Carolina brought me after Michael’s attack. It’s filled with brand new clothes, and I quickly pick out an underwear set, socks, jeans, and a black cashmere sweater.

Dressed, I head back to the bathroom with my makeup bag. The mirror has cleared enough that I can use it. I take out a brush and carefully run it through my hair before applying foundation, powder, and eyeliner. Each stroke is a piece of armor, each layer a shield.

This is not vanity; it’s preparation. Without it, I’m exposed, vulnerable.

I run my fingers through my hair, shaking it out, then use a small amount of mousse to tousle it into a controlled mess. The woman in the mirror is familiar now, but there’s something different in her eyes. A hardness, a determination. I can work with that.

I make my way to the kitchen, following the smell of coffee. Jack is already there, shirtless. I try not to wince as I notice the marks left behind by our dad’s betrayal.

He notices me lingering in the doorway and gives a half-smile, half-grimace. “She lives,” he jokes.

AsI walk over to him, I try not to react to his words since I probably won’t for much longer. “Don’t give me shit,” I say, forcing a grin. “I’m awake now.”

He pours two cups of coffee, sliding one across the counter to me.

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