Page 24 of Hunted By Valentine

I swallow hard, fighting back tears. “Yes, Michael.”

His hand envelops my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Then why the fuck didn’t you ask for permission to go freshen up for me? You look disgusting. Is that really how you want to look for your husband when he’s been gone for days?”

I stand there, frozen, as he continues to list all the ways I’m useless, all the punishments he thinks I would benefit from. My mind screams for escape, but my body remains still. I’m a prisoner in my own home, in my own skin.

Hell, even in my mind, which absorbs every cruel and vile word, cataloging it somewhere in the recesses.

“For your sake, I hope you look more presentable at Holloway,” he sneers. “The professor made it clear that your body is the trade for your enrollment. Have you fucked him yet?”

“N-no,” I stutter. For a fleeting moment, I consider telling Michael that I let Valentine fondle me under the table during our dinner with Nick and Carolina. But I can’t bring myself to share that little nugget of information.

I’m teetering on the edge of despair when a shrill ring cuts through Michael’s tirade. His phone. He scowls, fishing it from his pocket. “What?” he barks into the device.

My heart leaps. This is it. My chance.

There’s zero hesitation as I jump into action; turning the stove off before snatching my school bag from the counter and darting toward the hallway. My feet barely touch the ground as I fly past Michael, my breath caught in my throat.

I hear him curse behind me, but I don’t look back.

The bathroom door looms ahead. I run to it, slamming the door shut behind me. My fingers fumble with the lock until I hear the faintclick.Safe. The word doesn’t settle right away. My chest is heaving, breath catching in my throat as I slide down against the door, muscles still tensed for a fight that isn’t coming.

Slowly, too slowly, the tightness begins to ease. The rush of blood in my ears fades, but the tremors in my hands remain.

“Ruby!” Michael’s voice booms from the other side. “You might as well stay there. I’m going out.” The sneer in his tone is all the context I need. What he really means is that one of his mistresses called.

“O-okay,” I reply. But what I really want to say is good riddance.

I lean my head back against the door, exhaling slowly. I know I won’t be able to stay here indefinitely, but at least for now, I have a reprieve. A night to gather my strength, to remember who I am beneath the fear and control.

Although I know Michael won’t come back for me, I stay on the floor until I hear him leave. Then I sigh a breath of relief and push myself up from the floor. My legs are shaky as I make my way over to the bathtub and run the water as hot as possible. Once the bottom is covered, I add bath salts until a fresh lemon scent fills my nostrils.

As the tub fills, I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror. I hesitate, then slowly peel off my clothes, letting them fall to the floor. My naked body stares back at me, a canvas of contradictions.

Curves that should speak of femininity and allure are marred by old scars, silent testaments to Michael’s cruelty. My green eyes, once bright with hope, now seem dulled, shadowed by the weight of my circumstances.

Yet, as I trace the line of my collarbone, the slope of my breasts, I see something else. Resilience. Strength hidden beneath the vulnerability.

“You’re more than this,” I whisper to my reflection, voice barely audible over the running water.

Taking a few steps back, I look as more of my body is revealed in the mirror. My eyes trace the delicate lines of the tattoo that sprawls across my left thigh. The petals are soft, intricate, almost lifelike as they curl and unfurl, frozen in perpetual bloom. Magnolia flowers, my mom’s favorite, strong yet undeniably beautiful, captured in ink on my skin.

My fingers hover over the design, feeling the gentle rise of each line, each stroke etched into me. It’s strange, the way something so permanent can still feel so new. Every time I look at it, it feels like I’m seeing it for the first time.

There’s something about this tattoo—its placement, the way it curves along my body—that makes me feel… powerful.

It feels like armor, like a mark of something deeper. The flowers, so feminine and graceful, yet there’s a sharpness to the edges, like they’re ready to defend. It’s almost a contradiction, but it fits me. Soft and hard. Beautiful and untouchable. Vulnerable, but not broken.

I exhale, noticing how the black ink stands out against the pale curve of my hip, the contrast making it seem like the flowers are alive, blooming beneath my skin.

Michael hates the tattoo, I know he does. Yet he’s never made any attempt to make me get rid of it. I don’t know why, and I’ve never questioned it. Hell, maybe he does secretly like it since he’s covered it in his rank cum too many times to count.

Shaking my head, I refocus on my reflection. “You’re a Knight. You’re a survivor.” I whisper those words to myself over and over like a mantra.

There’s another contradiction for you; I’m not a survivor. I’m living on borrowed time. Just because death hasn’t found me yet doesn’t mean I get to survive. Sooner or later, the Knight curse will claim me as it’s done to countless others.

It already claimed Jack not long ago. His heart stopped beating. By all intents and purposes, he was dead, but thanks to modern medicine and swift action from the doctors, he survived. Something tells me that whatever my fate is, that won’t be in the cards for me.

Well, no point in dwelling on that shit. It’ll happen whether I want it to or not, and on evenings like this one, I’m almost ready to welcome it.

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