Page 9 of Hunted By Valentine

It’s only been one week, yet I know something has irrevocably changed inside me—I don’t know how, or even what. All I know is that the attention Valentine gives me is… addictive. It’s not like he showers me with compliments or even checks me out, but he sees me. And somehow that’s enough.

Today, I arrive one hour early, and I’m the first one in the classroom. My lips move, morphing into a… a… holy shit, I’m smiling. It’s an honest to God smile. It might seem silly, but I’m proud of myself for finally getting it right.

I, Ruby Simmons, did something right, and all on my own.

Now that I’m here before anyone else, I’m spoiled for choice regarding seats. I longingly look at the back row, even taking a step toward the chairs there. But then I shake my head, thinking better of it. Something inside me tells me to sit where I usually do.

I know humans are creatures of habit, yet that’s not what’s driving me. It’s… well… Valentine gave me this seat, and for some reason unknown to me, my mind tells me to keep it.

As I place my bag on the floor, crouching to get my books and water out, the hairs on the back of my neck and arms rise. I feel him before I see him. His presence—a gravitational pull that tugs at the periphery of my awareness.

“Good morning, Mrs. Simmons.”

I glance up, seeking his eyes out. There they are, dark and deep as twilight shadows, watching me. I’m captured by them, pinned like a butterfly under glass.

“Good morning,” I echo, watching him as he strides through the room.

“Are you enjoying the course?” Valentine asks, and though the question is simple, his voice wraps around me like velvet chains.

“Immensely,” I reply, meeting his gaze head-on. A dangerous thrill courses through me as he offers me a half-smile; he’s pleased with my answer.

“Good,” he says. “I’d hate for you to be… bored.”

I frown at that. “Not at all.” The need to defend his class, the things he teaches, is ridiculous. But there’s no stopping myself. “Your class is very interesting. I’ve… umm, I’ve already learned a lot.”

He lectures about criminal psychology with such precision, dissecting the motives and inner workings of the people society fear the most that it’s impossible to be bored. Murderers, con artists, masterminds of manipulation.

The only one on that list I fear is manipulation. The others, hell, I was raised by and among them. But the fear of being manipulated, having my own mind turned against me, that’s gone straight to the top of my list.

Yet, when Valentine speaks about such people, almost intimately, his words slip under my skin, crawling into my thoughts. Each lesson feels like a glimpse into something darker, something dangerous. Something… alluring.

So I think it’s safe to say that bored, I am not.

“Good to hear,” he croons, giving me a full smile this time. “I’d hate to be wasting your time.”

I laugh softly at that, but then I quickly get the things I need from my bag and sit down. As other students file into the room, I stubbornly keep my eyes on the textbook in front of me. My heart is pounding, and I don’t… I don’t know what I’m feeling.

Is it possible I’m making him think I don’t care? Maybe what he reallymeant to say was that he feels he’s wasting his time on me. Yeah, that would make more sense. If that’s the case, I simply have to engage harder because there’s no way I’m going back to my cage willingly.

The class begins, and the world narrows down to the sound of his voice, the cadence of intellectual challenge filling the space between us. Discussions flow like dark rivers, deep and treacherous, touching on everything from criminal motivations to the psychological depths of deviance. The topics alone should be enough to send shivers down my spine, yet his delivery makes me feel at ease.

“Power dynamics can be subtle,” Valentine says, pacing before the whiteboard, “often masquerading as something benign when, in fact, they are anything but.” He pauses, eyes scanning the room until they find mine. “Can anyone give me an example?”

My hand lifts before I fully process the action. It’s as if I’m driven by some reckless impulse to show him he isn’t wasting his time on me. “Like… someone holding a door open for you, maybe?” My voice falters under the weight of his stare. “It could be seen as courteous, or as a way to assert dominance—deciding when and if you go through.”

“Interesting perspective, Mrs. Simmons,” he replies, and I can’t help noticing the way my name rolls off his tongue, like a secret we share. “Would you say you feel empowered or subjugated in such a scenario?”

“Empowered,” I reply as my mind immediately conjures up images of Valentine holding the door for me. “If it’s the right person, I would feel empowered.”

“And if not?” he challenges, cocking his eyebrow. “If it’s someone that wishes to control you.”

Control me… like my not-so darling husband. “Umm…” Trailing off, I fidget in my seat, biting down on my lower lip. “Then I suppose I wouldn’t feel empowered. Unless—”

“Unless, what, Mrs. Simmons?”

“Unless I chose to see myself that way,” I whisper.

“Choice,” he muses, “an illusion for many. But not, it seems, for you.” Applause is silent, but I feel it in his gaze, a quiet recognition that unnerves as much as it thrills.

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