Page 49 of Hunted By Valentine

Michael grabs my hair and forces himself down my throat. I close my eyes as his movements become more erratic. To drown out the sounds of his pleasure, I replay the sounds Valentine made. But there’s no masking the sour taste of Michael’s pre-cum on my tongue.

Finally, he tenses, his grip on my hair tightening as he spills into my mouth. I swallow, my stomach turning as I try to keep from gagging.

He pulls away, his eyes filled with satisfaction. “That wasn’t bad,” he says, his voice dripping with condescension.

I force a smile, my body trembling with relief as he steps away. “Thank you,” I reply softly.

He nods, his gaze still on me as he pulls up his pants. “Go to bed,” he orders, dismissing me.

My legs shake as I stand up and hurriedly make my way to the bedroom. As soon as I’m out of sight, I let the tears fall, my body wracked with silent sobs. But even as I cry, the sense of satisfaction I feel is overwhelming.

I protected Valentine… no. That’s not accurate. I protected myself; my choice, and I’ll do it again and again, no matter what it costs me.

Chapter 19

The Hunter

The morning light filters through the windows of my loft, casting sharp, angular shadows across the room. I stand in front of the full-length mirror, carefully adjusting the cuffs of my tailored shirt. Every movement is deliberate. There’s a method to my routine, one that has been perfected over years of practice.

I smooth the collar of my shirt and pull on my suit jacket. The rich fabric hugs my frame, accentuating the controlled power I radiate. I take my time, savoring the ritual—preparing for the role I will play today.

In the mirror, my dark eyes meet my own reflection, gleaming with the barely concealed darkness beneath. There’s a thrill in the deception, in the artful mask I’ve crafted.

To the world, I am a respected professor, a mentor to eager minds, but beneath that veneer lies the predator. It’s a game I play with finesse. I move through life unnoticed, a wolf among sheep, and today is no different.

I adjust my tie, the silken material gliding through my fingers. It’s a small, final detail, but perfection lies in the details. The sharp crease in my slacks, the polished leather of my shoes gleaming under the morning light, the scent of my aftershave—each element is part of the performance.

By the time I leave my loft, I am Valentine Grant, a man of stature, poised to step into a day of instructing young minds on an outing to the courthouse.

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as I step out into the biting air and head toward my destination.

Today is unlike any other day. The reason for my good mood is the class excursion we’re doing. Once a year, I like to take my class to witness a real life trial. While it’s all masked as an opportunity to observe their studies in the perfect environment, it’s so much more than that beneath the surface.

The grandeur of the Thurgood Marshall U.S. Courthouse stands before me, a towering symbol of justice. To me, it’s merely another theater, another stage for humanity to play out its little dramas without having an inkling who walks amongst them. To my students, it represents the law.

They gather around me, wide-eyed and eager as always, unaware of how close they stand to a wolf in disguise. I lead them inside the building, my footsteps echoing off the marble floors.

“Remember,” I say, my voice calm but authoritative. “This is an opportunity to observe a real life case. Take detailed notes, and pay attention to the nuances. What you see here is just the surface. There’s always more beneath.” I catch Ruby’s eye as I say this, her green gaze sharp and penetrating.

We enter the courtroom, a space designed to inspire awe with its dark wood paneling and high ceilings. My students settle into their seats, their pens at the ready. I want to laugh at the absurdity of it.

When my class first started, they all showed up with their laptops and tablets. But after observing me using old school pen and paper, they’ve defied technological evolution and reverted to using dated tools.

“Wow,” one student mutters.

“This is exactly what I imagined,” another adds.

Many of them look around with awed expressions, and I have to remind myself that to them, this trial is an exercise in justice. To me, it’s a reminder of the system’s futility. The court may put criminals behind bars,but the real predators—the ones like me—remain unseen, untouched.

The trial begins with the prosecutor’s opening statement, his voice ringing out through the room as he lays out the case against the defendant—a man accused of arson.

I listen with half-hearted interest, my attention divided between the theatrics unfolding in the courtroom and the reactions of my students. They hang on every word, scribbling notes furiously, while I lean back, absorbing the atmosphere.

Mentally, I scoff at how weak the arsonist is. His eyes dart around the room, sweat collecting at his temples. He’s made the cardinal sin of any predator; he got caught. I, on the other hand, am untouchable. The thought fuels the simmering excitement in my veins.

The prosecutor drones on, detailing the man’s failures, his foolish mistakes. I smirk. The law is designed to catch the careless, the impulsive, but those who plan, those who control their instincts, remain free.

Iam the living proof of that.

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