Page 41 of Hunted By Valentine

Chapter 16

The Hunter

The days following the charity event feel heavy, like a storm cloud hanging over my head, threatening to burst at any moment. That’s also the perfect summary of my mood; I’m livid. At myself for giving in to my basic urges, and at Ruby for making me.

With each passing day, my anger intensifies, and yesterday, I could no longer ignore my need for… retribution, maybe. I don’t know what to call the feeling living in my chest, eating away at me. I’ve summoned Ruby to my office today. Under the guise of an evaluation of her coursework, she’ll pay. I’ll strip her of her guards like she’s done to me.

Game. On.

The faint scent of aged books and polished wood surround me as I sit in my office at Holloway University. Both scents normally have a calming effect on me, but the chaos stirring within is too powerful to be tamed.

I drum my fingers against my desk, a monotonous pattern as the seconds tick down. My lips spread into a cold, sly smile as I notice she’s late. Only by a minute and a half, but late is late.

When Ruby enters, the atmosphere shifts. She’s wearing a fitted blue blouse that hugs her curves and dark skinny jeans that emphasize her shapely legs and pert ass. The way she carries herself—a blend of confidence and curiosity—makes my heart race.

“Mrs. Simmons,” I greet her, letting my voice drip with authority. “I didn’t hear you knock, and you’re late.”

“Professor Grant.” Her response is steady, but I notice the way her eyes flicker, taking in the space and then settling on me. “I’m sorry, I got turned around.”

I scoff, making it clear I don’t care about excuses. “Have a seat.” I gesture to the chair across from me, and as she settles in, I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk. “I wanted to discuss the answers to the criminal psychology quiz from the other day.”

She tilts her head slightly. “Okay.”

I wait, wanting to see if she’s going to continue talking or disappoint me further by just letting her sentence hang in the air like an incomplete and unpolished thought. After several moments, it becomes clear that she isn’t going to elaborate.

Terribly disappointing.

As the silence stretches on, a slight blush creeps up her cheeks, a testament to her nerves. It ignites something primal within me. With a sigh, I pull her test answers out of my drawer and place them on top of the table.

“Question 23 was ‘Tell me, what do you think motivates someone to commit a crime? Is it purely instinct, or is there a psychological element at play?’” I say, reading the question out loud. “You circled option B without elaborating.”

Her brows furrow as she contemplates my words. “Y-yes. It was a multiple choice answer, so I circled the one I thought was correct.”

The wry chuckle I let out is completely devoid of emotion. “Did you miss the part that saystellme? To most of the students in the class, that indicated there was more to the question than just circling an option, Mrs. Simmons. But not to you.”

As she opens her mouth to say something, I hold up my hand and push the piece of paper toward her.

“Right below the options it says, ‘do you have anything to add?’. That’s where most of your peers chose to express their personal thoughts.” While she studies the paper, I pull another one out; Miss Dawn’s test. “As you can see here, Miss Dawn understood the question and gave an elaborate and thoughtful answer.”

“But I… I didn’t know,” Ruby whispers.

Her gaze flicks to mine, and I know she’s looking for some kind of reassurance that she didn’t do anything wrong. But there’s no reassurance to be found in my gaze. Details are everything, and I purposefully worded the question in a way that would separate the strong from the weak-minded.

Criminology isn’t only about perfecting answers from a textbook, it’s so much more. It’s about knowing the mind, identifying patterns, and challenging one’s thinking. Ruby did what she thought was right without questioning it—without paying attention to the detail in the question’s phrasing.

“Do you wish to elaborate now?” I ask.

She looks up at me from beneath her long, dark lashes. “I believe it’s a combination. Instincts can be heightened by external factors like trauma, environment, wants—”

I cut her off, leaning closer. “But what if those external factors are manipulated? What if the individual is coerced into a situation where they feel compelled to act? What does that say about their autonomy?”

Her gaze sharpens, sensing the shift in our conversation. “Are you suggesting that people aren’t responsible for their actions?”

I allow a cold smile to curve my lips. “I don’t know, Mrs. Simmons. Am I?”

She shakes her head. “I-I don’t know… m-maybe?” I’m disappointed when she poses it as a question rather than a statement.

“Let’s explore this further.” I stand and walk around the desk, moving closer to her. The air thickens, tension vibrates between us. I stop beside her, invading her space just enough to make her uncomfortable. “What if I were to challenge you? I want to see how far you’re willing to go to prove your point.”

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