Page 110 of Hunted By Valentine

The drive to the mountains is long and winding. Normally, I prefer it that way but right now the drive feels too long, and I almost give up halfway through. Wasting all this time on the road doesn’t sit right with me. Yet I know it’s how it needs to be. The city has too many eyes, too many curious onlookers. And for what I have in mind, I need the seclusion. Up here, it’s just me.

I think about Ruby again, about our time here. I wish we’d stayed longer because for a short while, everything was perfect. Grinding my teeth I remind myself why I’m here, and I tell myself that itwillbe that way again.

The cabin comes into view, a dark silhouette against the starry sky. I park and kill the lights, take a deep breath of the forest air. It’s cold enough to see my own exhale, a ghostly plume that dissipates into the night.

I unload the bodies, one at a time, dragging them like sacks of meat. The exertion sends waves of soreness through my muscles, but it’s a welcome distraction from my thoughts that all center around Ruby—around my pet.

Behind the cabin is a clearing, dotted with tree stumps and overgrown brush. I’ve used this area to practice my archery many times, and it’s perfect for what I have in mind.

I unchain the first man and lash him to a tree, his arms stretched above him like a sacrificial offering. The bark tears at his skin, leaving raw, red streaks. I move to the second man, give him the same treatment on a neighboring tree. Their bodies hang limp, swaying slightly in the cold breeze.

Smelling salts bring them around, their effects immediate and violent. The men jerk and convulse, then suck in deep, ragged breaths. They look at each other, then at me, and realization dawns in their eyes.

“Here’s how it’s going to work,” I say, my voice cutting through the night. “I’m going to practice my aim. The first one to tell me what I want to know gets to walk away. The other dies. Slowly.”

I wrench open the car door with a jolt. My heart races as I grip onto my bow. The smooth curves of the wood feel almost alive beneath my fingertips. With a fierce determination, I snatch up the quiver filled with sharpened arrows.

As I approach the men, their struggles against their bonds only intensify. They cry out for help, their voices echoing in the desolate environment. But instead of revealing myself, I reach for an arrow and aim it at the closest target.

My first shot is calculated and precise, sinking deep into the foot of the Steel Crew member. His groans are muffled as he twists in agony, his body contorting in a futile attempt to escape my wrath. With a steady hand and determined focus, I notch another arrow and pull back on the bowstring, feeling its familiar tension coursing through my veins as I aim it toward the Scrapper.

“Practice shots,” I announce, and release. The arrow pierces the shoulder of the Scrapper. Blood seeps from the wound, and he starts to sob.

I take a step closer, moving slowly and deliberately, savoring the fear that radiates from their bodies. “Who’s in charge of the auction?” I ask.

“Fuck you,” says the Scrapper, though his voice is more whimper than defiant.

The Steel Crew man is silent, his eyes glassy with shock. I had expected him to break first. Maybe he’s in too much pain to realize the opportunity.

“Remember,” I say, lifting the bow and drawing another arrow. “Only one of you has to die.”

I aim for the Scrapper’s chest, then shift my gaze to the Steel Crew man. He flinches, and I see his resolve start to crack. I loose the arrow, and it thuds into the Scrapper’s thigh, narrowly missing his femoral artery.

He howls, cursing me, cursing his rival, cursing the world.

“Okay, okay!” The Steel Crew man’s voice is frantic. “I’ll tell you!”

“Don’t believe him,” spits the Scrapper. “He’s just stalling.”

I raise a hand, silencing them both. “Go on,” I say to the Steel Crew man.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “All I know is that V is in charge of the auction. He handles all those things for the Scrappers. It’s all their business.” His words are a jumbled rush of words, but I’m confident I understand what he’s saying.

I look to the Scrapper. His face is a mask of pain and fury. “He’s lying,” he says, but there’s no conviction in his words.

“Maybe,” I say. “But he’s talking. That’s more than you’ve done.”

“Wait! Wait! I’ll tell you where it’s at. It’s in the meatpacking district. You won’t be able to miss it. Even though it starts at midnight, people might already be arriving,” he shouts.

Since I already knew that, I turn back to the Steel Crew man. “Who paid V?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. Some rich fuck. We’re just the muscle.”

The Scrapper starts to laugh, a manic, unhinged cackle. “You’re so fucked, dude. You think you can take on V? He’s the fucking devil.”

I walk to the Scrapper, pull the arrow from his thigh. He screams, then bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. “He might be the devil, but I’m the Hunter. And I live for the hunt.” I stab the arrow into his gut, just below the ribs. His eyes go wide, and he gasps like a fish pulled from water. I twist the shaft, feel the crunch of cartilage.

The Scrapper’s head lolls to one side, his body sagging against the tree.

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