Hunted by Valentine (Seasonal Obsessions #2)

Chapter 1

The Hunter

T he snow outside falls steadily, covering the city in an eerie, muted stillness. The kind of quiet that swallows everything whole.

Inside my loft, the only sound is the smooth, rhythmic scrape of an arrowhead against a whetstone. A deliberate, methodical movement. Back and forth. It’s a ritual I’ve perfected over the years—every motion precise, every angle exact.

Perfection is in the details—sharpness, precision, control.

The space around me is minimalist, sharp, and cold, much like the world I’ve constructed for myself. The dark hardwood floors reflect the faint gray light filtering through the tall industrial windows. A single espresso cup sits on the counter, untouched, the steam curling lazily into the air. The scent of bitter coffee lingers, mixing with the cool crispness of the morning.

Control. It’s the one thing that matters. Every detail in this loft, down to the placement of the smallest object, is controlled. Just like every part of my life. Just like every kill.

The phone on the counter vibrates, breaking the silence. I don’t rush to answer it. I don’t need to since I already know what it’s regarding.

The number is private, encrypted—only used by those that fully grasp who they’re calling. The Hunter. No name. No identity. Just a whispered title that has carried weight in certain circles for nearly two decades.

I glance at the screen before the call cuts off, leaving a voicemail. When I finally press play, a voice, low and edged with desperation, fills the air. “Hunter, I need your services. My wife—Ruby Simmons—needs to be… removed. Name your price.”

It’s short, clinical, like every request I’ve heard before, but there’s something different in the way he speaks. I listen to the message again, intent on finding out what it is my body has picked up on, but my mind is yet to process.

“Hunter, I need your services. My wife—Ruby Simmons—needs to be… removed. Name your price.”

His voice shakes slightly as he utters his wife’s name. Hmm. There’s something about his wife that he either fears or hates, it’s hard to tell which. Both? Neither?

I don’t reply immediately. Instead, I press the blade harder against the whetstone, feeling the steel bite into the stone with precision. Something about the way he speaks intrigues me. And I don’t do anything unless I’m intrigued.

Finally, I get up and stretch my body, my neck cracking when I turn it this way and that. Then I walk over to my old-fashioned vinyl player and put a record on. It’s Beethoven. I move the needle until I find Symphony No. 7. The music fills my quiet loft, and while I let the notes engulf me, transporting me to a place and mindset where I feel most myself, I text him back.

The Hunter: Meet me later today.

When he agrees, I send him the location and exact time before turning the phone off.

“Ruby Simmons.” I say her name out loud, focusing on the way it tastes on my tongue. It’s almost electrifying.

This woman, that I don’t yet know, is already promising excitement.

With a smile on my face, I start doing my research. I dive into the on line footprints left by Mr. and Mrs. Simmons; Michael and Ruby, and… well, isn’t that interesting. Ruby’s maiden name is Knight. The old pictures of her standing with her dad, Caspian, and her oldest brother, Nicklas—the current leader of the Knight empire, confirm my suspicions about Michael potentially fearing her.

Only a fool wouldn’t fear the Knights.

For a moment I contemplate calling off the meeting, but then I decide against it. I want to see how honest Michael is going to be. Will he tell me about his wife’s family? Or will he pretend that’s a nonissue?

My lips pull into a sharp grin; Christmas Day just got a lot more interesting.

With that thought, I start getting ready for my meeting with Michael. I change the music to something different; equally classic, but more upbeat. Then I disappear into the bathroom, where I quickly shower and get dressed.

I stand in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection with the same cold detachment I use on my victims. The dim light barely touches my face, casting shadows that exaggerate the sharp angles of my jaw, the ridges of my cheekbones.

My dark hair falls slightly across my forehead, tousled just enough to appear effortless, though I know better. Everything about me is calculated.

Chance is not a game I indulge in. Not ever.

Buttoning my black shirt, I watch how it fits over my chest—perfectly tailored, no excess, no mistake. The fabric stretches over the hard muscle underneath, my body a tool as finely honed as my mind. I roll the cuffs of my sleeves just enough to expose the veins in my forearms, the slight tension in the muscle beneath the skin. I know how to use this—everything about me is a weapon.

My eyes meet my own in the mirror, dark and unflinching. I see the predator lurking behind them, the same one my prey sees before their last breath. A faint smirk pulls at my lips—there’s no warmth in it, just the quiet satisfaction of knowing I am in control. Always.

The long coat slips over my shoulders, heavy and smooth. I adjust it, rolling my shoulders to feel the weight settle against me, grounding me. A knif e is already in my pocket, cold steel pressing against my thigh, a silent reminder of who I am and what I do.

I pull the hood up, and my face vanishes into the shadow it casts. Only my eyes remain, dark and unrelenting, staring back at me. For a moment, I’m nothing more than a ghost in the mirror, a shadow that moves in silence.

Turning away, I leave the reflection behind. The Hunter doesn’t linger in mirrors. He has work to do.

The meeting place is a forgotten corner of the city—an underground parking garage near the docks. The kind of place where no one asks questions, where shadows thrive and the concrete walls are stained with decades of silence.

The perfect place to remain unseen.

I park a few streets away, cutting the engine of my car. Stepping out, I make sure my scarf is wrapped around my face. There are no cameras around here, but there’s no accounting for random people being nearby, snapping a picture of something inconsequential and somehow capturing my face.

Michael is already waiting for me as I reach the garage, standing near a rusted metal support beam. His posture is tense, the air thick with his discomfort. Can’t say I blame him; he doesn’t know who I am, not really. He only knows the legend of the Hunter. He has no idea what I look like, and he never will.

I move silently through the darkness, stepping into a sliver of dim light just enough for him to see the outline of my form. My face remains hidden in the shadows.

“Hunter,” he says, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. He shifts nervously, his breath visible in the cold air. “You got my message?”

I want to scoff at the stupid question; I’m here, so clearly that would be a ‘yes’. This idiot doesn’t get an A+ for conversation openers.

Reaching into my pocket, I grab my phone and pull it out, holding it in front of my face. “I did,” I respond. Despite the app I use to distort my voice, I keep it low.

Michael flinches slightly. He’s nervous. Fear radiates off him like heat in the winter air. He hesitates before speaking again, his eyes darting around the empty garage as though someone else might be watching.

“It’s about my wife. Ruby. She’s… a problem. I need her gone.” He forces the words out.

Pretending he didn’t already tell me this, I move on, anxious to see if he’s going to tell me the truth, whatever it may be. “Why?” I ask. One word. That’s all I need.

He swallows hard, his hand tightening on the railing beside him. “I just do.”

“And what exactly do you want?” I prod, keeping my voice low and even.

“I need you to take care of her. Permanently. Make it look clean. An accident, maybe. Or something that can’t be traced back to me.”

There it is—the real request. A clean kill, no mess, no connection. He wants his wife erased. Yet, he isn’t honest with me about who she is. That alone is enough to make me want to kill him outright. He isn’t worth it, though, and my curiosity is winning out.

“I’ll consider the job,” I say after a long pause, “on one condition.”

He looks up, his eyes meeting the shadow of my face, searching for something he can’t see. “What’s that?”

“I want to shadow her for a week. I need to know her routine. Understand who she is before I decide how to proceed. This isn’t about just killing someone. It’s about knowing exactly when and how to strike.”

Michael shifts uncomfortably, the silence pressing in on him. He wasn’t expecting this. He thought I’d agree outright. But I don’t work like that. I’m not just a killer. I’m a hunter. I need to understand my prey before I make my move.

Unlike the other apex predators of the animal kingdom, I don’t have centur ies’ worth of skills presenting themselves as instincts to rely on. Hunting humans isn’t nearly as effortless or smooth as when the lion takes down the gazelle, or when the crocodile drags the unsuspecting zebra into the water.

Michael glances around the empty garage, weighing his options. Finally, he nods, his breath misting in the cold air. “A week, then. But it has to be done. I’ll double your fee if I have to.”

I let out a cold laugh. “You’re trying to rush something that can’t be rushed. Tell me, Michael, do you not know who I am?”

“O-of course I do,” he replies.

Although I doubt he can see the movement, I nod. “Who am I?”

“You’re the Hunter,” he says, and I’m amused by the awe lilting his tone as he says my name.

“And who is the Hunter?”

He gulps, sweat beading on his forehead. “You… you’re a killer for hire.”

“Is that it?” I ask, my distaste for his words evident in my words. “If that’s all you’re looking for, you’re wasting both of our time.”

“N-no. You’re the best. It needs to be you.” I cock my head to the side, wondering if he really thinks flattery is going to win him any favors. “I know you only kill in February, but, ahh… I was hoping for an exception.”

“No exceptions,” I state coldly. “If the time frame is a problem for you, you’ll have to find someone else to get rid of your wife.”

I purposefully don’t let on that I know I’m the only one he’s willing to outsource the job to. The Knight family rules New York City supreme, so he’d be a fool to risk asking someone who is either on their payroll or would use it as an opportunity to get a leg up and earn themselves a favor.

Everyone answers to someone, even me.

Arthur Hatt is one of only two people, not including myself, who knows my true identity. Eve, my therapist, knows everything about me because I want her to. But Arthur only knows it because of his dad, the previous King of the Hatt empire.

The politics between the Hatt and Knight families doesn’t interest me, so I stay out of it. All I know is that I once did Arthur’s dad a favor, and when I called it in, the Hunter got free rein one month a year. With my name, I couldn’t resist the irony of picking February. Which is when New York City turns into my deadly playground.

“No problem,” Michael rushes out. “February is fine.”

I don’t acknowledge his words. Instead, I turn and slip back into the shadows, disappearing as quickly as I arrived. He won’t see me again until the week is up.

As I step back into the cold air outside the garage, the snow continues to fall, coating the streets in a thick layer of white. The streets are empty as I move through the city, my breath visible in the cold air. The job intrigues me, and that’s not something I say often.

Ruby Simmons… formerly Knight. She’s more than a liability. More than just a wife to be erased. By the time the week is up, I’ll know her. Inside and out. And then, I’ll decide how this story ends.