Page 7 of Hunted By Valentine

It’s not lost on me that I’m obsessing over something as simple as what to wear, which is stupid. I’m looking at this all wrong. Attending Holloway is giving me a reprieve, something to do. What does it matter if I don’t fit in? It’s getting me out of the house, something I should embrace wholeheartedly.

“I can do this,” I whisper to myself as I walk into the bedroom, placing all the clothes I’ve picked out on the bed.

Chapter 4

The Prey

Two days later, I step out of the sleek black car, waving at the driver before shutting the door with a soft thud that echoes too loudly in my ears. The crisp January air bites at my skin as I stand before the towering gates of Holloway University.

The gothic architecture looms above me, windows like watchful eyes. Students bustle past, their laughter and chatter a stark contrast to the silence that shrouds my life with Michael. I feel as though I’m trespassing in a world that isn’t mine.

Taking a hesitant step forward, I’m acutely aware of my own footsteps echoing on the cobblestone path. The weight of my designer bag feels foreign on my shoulder—a borrowed emblem of normalcy. As I pass under the shadow of an ancient oak, whispers of my name seem to rustle through the leaves: Ruby Simmons, an imposter among these ivied walls.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel like I’m being watched. Well, not forever, just since Christmas. But every time I’ve left my house since then, I’ve felt the icy grip that comes from knowing someone is watching you. Luckily, today, there’s nothing.

The hallways are a river of youth and ambition, students flowing aroundme with an urgency I can’t muster. Their faces blur as they dash to their futures, while I am anchored in place by doubt. How will I survive in a class so outside my realm? The thought is suffocating, turning the air heavy in my lungs.

“Excuse me,” I mutter as a student nearly collides with me, absorbed in their phone. They don’t hear, or perhaps they don’t care—another reminder of my invisibility.

The criminology building stands before me now, its doors wide open as if welcoming me into its depths. I hesitate on the threshold, my mind racing with doubts and questions.

I push the thoughts aside and cross the boundary, entering the cool, hushed interior. The hallway stretches before me, lined with polished wood and portraits of esteemed scholars whose eyes seem to follow my every move. I’m under scrutiny, judged by history itself.

The door to the classroom is closed. Shit, am I late? A quick glance at the watch on my wrist confirms I’m early.

Opening the door, it creaks softly, and a hush falls over the room. Twelve pairs of eyes turn toward me, the outsider. Shit, Iamlate.

My gaze sweeps the room, an instinctual search for danger, for something out of place. And there he is—Professor Valentine Grant.

Valentine looms in front of his desk like some dark sentinel, his presence commanding the space. His height isn’t just physical; it’s as if his very being stretched toward the high ceiling, filling the air with a sense of foreboding power.

His back is to the whiteboard, arms crossed over his chest—a fortress of muscle and poise. His tailored shirt strains faintly against his form, contours of strength betraying the civilized façade. The dark hair on his head is meticulous, each strand defiant of chaos, while the shadowed stubble on his jaw speaks of a man who knows the allure of danger.

Valentine’s dark brown eyes move through the class, a predator surveying his domain. There’s an analytical sharpness in his stare that I recognize. It’s one I’ve seen too many times to count. But with him, it both makes me feel seen and yet, at the same time, completely unknown.

It’s unsettling, the way his attention feels both impersonal and intimate—as if he’s peeling back layers without my permission, looking for something hidden within.

“You’re already late, so I’d appreciate it if you don’t hold up my class. Take a seat, Mrs. Simmons.” Valentine’s voice cuts through the room, rich and certain. It’s not a suggestion; it’s a directive. I hadn’t realized I’d frozen in place until his words prompt me into motion.

“Y-yes, Professor Grant,” I stammer. “I’m sorry for being late.”

As I make my way to an empty chair near the back, Valentine halts me with a barely audible tsking sound. “Come sit here,” he says, pointing at the seat right in front of him. “There’s no point in disturbing more than you already have.”

My cheeks are aflame, burning with humiliation. Grinding my teeth together, I try to appear smaller, less noticeable. But the path feels like walking through quicksand, every step heavy with the weight of his gaze. It’s as though he’s reading me, dissecting the fear and curiosity that wrestle within my chest.

As I finally sink into my seat, I steal another glance at him. My heart hammers a frantic rhythm, a discordant melody to the calm he exudes.

Panic and fascination knot in my stomach as I observe him. The way Valentine Grant moves is unnerving—each step deliberate, each gesture measured with an academic precision that makes my skin crawl. I’m not just unsettled by him; I’m drawn to him.

“Welcome to Criminology 101,” he says, and the room quiets instantly, his command over the space absolute. “I’m Professor Grant.” His voice is smooth—too smooth, like velvet over steel. It wraps around me, and I fight the urge to squirm in my seat.

“Now that we’re all here…” His eyes move from me to a piece of paper in his hand. I don’t know what it is, the class list, maybe? “… we can finally begin.” He moves closer to the whiteboard and picks up a black marker.

Oh, hell, have they all just been sitting here while waiting for me? The thought makes me slouch in my seat, wanting to make myself as small as possible.

“Criminology isn’t just about understanding criminals. It’s about understanding human nature—the darkest parts of it.”

A shiver races up my spine, a mix of dread and intrigue. It’s as if he’s speaking directly to me, inviting me into a world where the rules are different, darker. He’s not merely teaching—he’s revealing. And I sense he knows far more about the darkness than he lets on.

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