Page 59 of Hunted By Valentine

“Promise me,” I demand, pretending I didn’t hear his outburst.

“Ruby, I—”

I cut Nick off. “Promise me,” I repeat.

Ignoring Jack doesn’t feel good, but Nick is technically the only one I need the promise from. Because if he forbids Jack from retaliating, there isn’t much my brother can do. What a messed up life.

“Fine,” Nick scoffs. “Fucking fine, Ruby. I promise we’ll stay out of it.”

“T-thank you,” I stutter as my eyelids grow heavier. “Both of you.”

I’m almost asleep when I feel a pair of lips grazing my forehead. “Go to sleep, Rubes,” Jack murmurs. “You can stay here as long as you want to.”

Despite my attempts at making myself thank him, I can’t seem to form the words.

“Yeah, don’t worry about a thing,” Nick adds. “Carolina and Valentine can handle Willow’s Foundation for now. I think they’re meeting this week.”

As I let the darkness reclaim me, I do so with a smile. I protected Valentine.

Chapter 23

The Hunter

The classroom empties around me, a slow tide of students drifting toward the door, their chatter fading to a distant hum. I barely register them—just bodies filling space until the bell rings. But one absence stands out: Ruby’s.

Her usual place remains conspicuously vacant, a void where her presence should be. Irritation gnaws at the edges of my thoughts, sharp like a needle pressing against the skin. I shove it aside, though it lingers, simmering just beneath the surface.

Stepping out of the building, the brisk air greets me with a biting edge, sharp enough to pull a shallow breath from my lungs. The Uber I ordered already waits at the curb. I slide in, the door closing behind me with a soft, final thud that cuts off the outside world, muffling the chaos of the city.

As we pull away, the city blurs past, but I’m focused inward. Ruby. Her absence from class lingers in the back of my mind, an irritating itch I refuse to scratch. Not now. I have another engagement—a personal appointment. One that demands my full attention. I allow my thoughts to drift to Eve instead.

I see her no more than once a month, a limitation she imposed early on. Her rules. Her boundaries. I’d have preferred more control over the frequency of our sessions, but control is her game, and she wields it with the precision of a surgeon.

Eve never bends. Never falters. The dynamic is both a test and a challenge. One I’ve begrudgingly learned to play by her rules, though not without resistance.

We turn a corner, nearing the ‘Mortis Psychotherapy and Behavioral Clinic.’ The sterile name, clinical and cold, fits her perfectly—precise, detached, always in control. And with a name like Eve Mortis, it carries an air of inevitability, almost fate-bound. I smirk, thinking how apt it is. She’s the type of person who draws lines in the sand and dares you to cross them, knowing full well the consequences are hers to dictate. Her intellect is her shield, but it’s also her weapon.

We stop outside her building, and I step out into the chilled air. The reception area is sterile, the assistant barely glances at me before buzzing me through. They’ve long since learned that I don’t make small talk, and I expect the same in return. I’m here for Eve, not niceties.

The waiting room feels like a deliberate exercise in restraint—soft lighting, minimal décor, and the faint scent of jasmine that’s almost too subtle to notice. I sit, my thoughts still lingering on Ruby and her absence from class. It bothers me that she didn’t show up after I lost myself in her in the bar’s bathroom only last night.

After what feels like an eternity, the door to Eve’s office opens, and she stands there, motioning for me to enter. She’s calm, unflinching, her gray eyes locking onto mine with a sharpness that never fades.

Her office is a reflection of her—minimalistic, purposeful, with just enough personal touches to remind me she’s not entirely an enigma. Shelves of books—psychology texts, journals, a few obscure poetry collections. The window casts a soft light over the room, but it’s her I focus on.

She takes her seat across from me. She doesn’t speak, just observes. Her long dark hair cascades down her back, the lower half is dyed red for the season. Eve always makes a statement, subtle but intentional.

During Christmas, she had it dyed green, and during summer it’s usually a mix of yellow and orange, sometimes she takes a week or two with blue.

She crosses one leg over the other, resting her notebook on her lap. “It’s been a month.” Her tone is neutral but probing.

“It has,” I respond, leaning back slightly in the leather chair. “I assume you’ve been keeping track.”

Her lips twitch into a faint smirk. “I always do.”

The silence that follows is thick, charged with unspoken tension, the kind that Eve thrives on. She waits, patient and deliberate, watching for any cracks in the armor. But I won’t break the quiet.

After what feels like forever, I look down at the watch on my wrist. As I look back up, Eve is beaming, and I know I might as well give in. She won fair and square.

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