Page 22 of Hunted By Valentine

“Ruby,” I say softly, her name falling from my lips like a promise.

She freezes, her back to me, her posture stiff, but she doesn’t turn around.

“I look forward to seeing how you figure it out. Where you fit in, I mean.”

There’s a long pause, and then she nods, her head barely moving. “Thanks, Professor.” Her voice is quiet, barely more than a whisper. Then she walks away, her steps quick and purposeful, disappearing into the shadows of the library.

I stand there, watching her go, my heart pounding in my chest, the echo of her touch lingering on my skin. It’s not just curiosity anymore. It’s not just the thrill of the hunt. There’s something else, something deeper, that stirs within me every time I’m near her.

And that realization terrifies me.

I can’t afford to be distracted, not now. Not when she’s nothing more than a job. But with every encounter, she pulls me further into her orbit, dragging me down into a place filled with unknowns. Which is something I don’t do.

Letting out a slow breath, I force myself to calm the storm brewing inside me. There’s still time. Still distance between us. But not for long. Soon, the line between predator and prey will blur, and when it does, neither of us will come out unscathed.

I turn, leaving the library behind, the weight of our interaction pressing heavy on my chest. Ruby Simmons is more dangerous than she realizes. Not because she’s fragile or breakable—but because she has the power to unravel everything.

And the most terrifying part?

I might just let her.

Chapter 9

The Prey

After leaving Valentine in the Holloway library, I rushed out of the university building and to the car already waiting for me. It’s on days like today I’m almost convinced my chauffeur never leaves.

Michael is back from another business trip today, and through a barrage of texts, he made it clear he expected hisdutiful wifeto have a home-cooked meal ready for him. My only solace is that he said for him, singular. I was afraid his brother, John, would join us for dinner as he usually does when Michael’s been gone.

Where Michael is… bad, John is pure evil. Luckily, I only see him once every few months or so, but it’s enough to know he’s evil incarnate. There’s something in his bottomless eyes and twisted grins. It’s enough that I’ll do whatever it takes to avoid his clutches.

I set the knife against the cutting board, trying to control the tremor in my hand. The repetitive rhythm of each slice fills the kitchen, but it’s not enough to drown out the ticking clock or the pounding of my pulse in my ears.

Though I force my eyes to focus on the task, they keep flicking to the kitchen door every few seconds, expecting Michael’s imposing figure to appear at any moment. The ticking clock on the wall seems to mock me, each second bringing me closer to his inevitable arrival.

As I chop away, the sharp scent of onions stings my nostrils, making me blink back tears—from the fumes or from fear, I’m not sure anymore. I take a shaky breath, trying to steady myself.

Just get through dinner, Ruby. One step at a time.

I slide a hand under the counter and into the hollow area only I know about. My fingers graze the cork of the bottle of poison hiding there, and for a brief moment, I allow myself to consider adding some of its content to tonight’s meal. But… no. With a sigh, I retrieve my hand.

The air shifts before Michael even steps into the room. His presence is like a shadow stretching through the house, snuffing out what little light there is.

And then he’s there, filling the doorway, his cold eyes scanning the kitchen like a predator assessing his territory. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, my hands freezing over the half-prepared meal. He hasn’t said a word, but the weight of his disappointment is already suffocating.

He watches me for a moment, silent. When he speaks, it’s with a low, measured tone. “I’ve traveled all day, Ruby. All. Fucking. Day. And this is what I come home to?” His voice is calm, but there’s an undercurrent—like the quiet before a storm—and it’s worse than shouting. It’s controlled, planned.

Shit!

His calm words are worse than if he outright shouted at me, even worse than if he hit me. They’re a false comfort. I keep my gaze lowered, focusing on the carrots I’m frantically peeling. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “It’ll be ready soon, I promise.”

“It better be,” Michael growls, stalking closer. I can feel the heat of his body behind me, making my skin crawl. “I’m starving, and I don’t have time for your incompetence.”

I force my hands to move, though every muscle in my body screams to freeze or run. Faster. Faster. “Of course,” I reply, my voice softer than I intended. If I just keep moving, just keep working, maybe I’ll avoid whatever mood he’s in. “Would you like a drink?” It’s a desperate offering, a hope that whiskey will slow the inevitable storm.

He grunts an affirmative, and I hurry to pour him a whiskey, careful not to spill a drop. As I hand him the glass, our fingers brush and I have to suppress a shudder.

“Hurry up,” Michael snaps, taking a long swallow. “And try not to burn anything this time.”

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