Page 21 of Hunted By Valentine

“Oh, but I do.” I smile, leaning back. “I think there’s more to you than you’re letting on.”

Her lips part, and she swallows hard. “I’m just trying to keep up,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Trying, or doing?” I ask, watching as her knuckles whiten around the edge of her book. It’s subtle, but it’s there—the tension she’s trying so hard to hide. “You’re not like the other students, Ruby.”

She freezes for a moment at the sound of her name on my lips. I hadn’t meant to say it so familiarly, but now that I have, there’s no taking it back. It lingers in the air between us, charged with unspoken meaning.

“What do you mean by that?” she asks, her voice trembling, as though she’s not sure she wants to hear the answer.

Hmm, what do I say to that? Rather than blurting something out, I take my time, running a hand through my hair before cupping the back of my neck as I consider my words carefully. “Your answers aren’t textbook predictable. There’s a complexity to you that I find… fascinating.”

Her eyes widen, and her breath catches in her throat. I can see her mind working, calculating whether my words are a compliment or something far more dangerous.

“I’m just one of your students,” she finally says, her voice small, but firm.

“Are you?” I challenge, my gaze never leaving hers. “You seem like someone who’s more than that. Someone who’s struggling to figure out where they fit into a world that’s trying to control them.”

The silence stretches between us, taut and heavy. I watch her carefully, waiting for her reaction, for the crack in her armor. And then, she surprises me.

“What if I am?” she whispers, leaning forward slightly, her green eyes darkening. “What if I don’t know where I fit?”

There it is; a flash of vulnerability, a glimpse of the real Ruby beneath the surface. My heart quickens, the predator in me sensing an opening, an invitation to explore deeper. But there’s something else too, something more primal, more visceral—a need.

“Then you’re not alone,” I rasp, my voice dropping lower, softer. “None of us really know where we fit, do we? Sometimes we even have to carve our own niche rather than use the ones society has created for us.”

She inhales sharply, her gaze faltering as if she can feel the weight of my words. The air between us shifts, crackling with something unspoken, something dangerous. My hand moves almost instinctively, reaching across the table, my fingers brushing against hers.

The moment our skin touches, she stiffens. Her reaction is immediate—a sharp intake of breath, her pulse quickening under my fingertips. But she doesn’t pull away. Instead, her eyes widen, darting to where our hands meet, and for a second, I see the battle waging inside her.

Her lips part, but no words come out. The tension between us is palpable, thick enough to drown in. Slowly, I let my fingers slide across the back of her hand, feeling the subtle tremor in her muscles.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” I murmur, my voice barely a whisper. But even as I say the words, I know they’re a lie. She should be afraid. Hell, I’m dangerous to her in ways she can’t even begin to understand.

“I’m not afraidofyou,” she says. Although her voice is steady, the undercurrent of doubt, the tremor in her tone, betrays her.

I raise an eyebrow, watching her closely, studying the way her chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, the way her pupils dilate as I hold her gaze. “No? Then what are you afraid of?”

Her fingers twitch beneath mine, and for a moment, she looks as though she might pull away, retreat back into the safety of her walls. But she doesn’t. Instead, she holds my gaze, her green eyes dark and stormy, filled with something raw, something untamed.

“Losing control,” she admits quietly, her voice barely audible.

Ah, control. That elusive thing we both pretend to have a handle on, when in truth, it’s slipping through our fingers every moment we spend together. I know that feeling well—the desperate need to hold on, to keep everything neatly in place, even as it all threatens to spiral out of control.

“You don’t have to be,” I whisper, my hand tightening slightly around hers. “Not with me.”

Her breath hitches, and for the briefest of moments, I see it—the temptation in her eyes. She wants to believe me, wants to let go, to surrender that control she clings to so fiercely. But then, just as quickly, she pulls her hand away, her walls slamming back into place.

“What do you want from me, Va-Professor?” she asks. Her tone is no longer soft, it’s sharp.

She licks her lips, drawing my gaze to the way the tip traces the contours of her lips. “For now, just a conversation,” I reply as I lean back in the chair crossing one leg over the other.

She purses her lips. “And do you want to touch me while we talk? Like at the restaurant?”

I’m tempted to say yes to see how far she’ll go, but something holds me back. “That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Simmons.”

“In that case, I should go,” she says, sounding detached, like my answer didn’t matter to her one way or the other. Standing, she clutches her book to her chest like a shield, her body tense, as if she’s trying to regain her composure.

I rise slowly, not wanting her to leave, but knowing I shouldn’t push too hard. Not yet. She’s still too fragile, too raw. But soon… very soon.

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