Chapter 9
The Prey
A fter leaving Valentine in the Holloway library, I rushed out of the university building and to the car already waiting for me. It’s on days like today I’m almost convinced my chauffeur never leaves.
Michael is back from another business trip today, and through a barrage of texts, he made it clear he expected his dutiful wife to have a home-cooked meal ready for him. My only solace is that he said for him, singular. I was afraid his brother, John, would join us for dinner as he usually does when Michael’s been gone.
Where Michael is… bad, John is pure evil. Luckily, I only see him once every few months or so, but it’s enough to know he’s evil incarnate. There’s something in his bottomless eyes and twisted grins. It’s enough that I’ll do whatever it takes to avoid his clutches.
I set the knife against the cutting board, trying to control the tremor in my hand. The repetitive rhythm of each slice fills the kitchen, but it’s not enough to drown out the ticking clock or the pounding of my pulse in my ears.
Though I force my eyes to focus on the task, they keep flicking to the kitchen door every few seconds, expecting Michael’s imposing figure to appear at any moment. The ticking clock on the wall seems to mock m e, each second bringing me closer to his inevitable arrival.
As I chop away, the sharp scent of onions stings my nostrils, making me blink back tears—from the fumes or from fear, I’m not sure anymore. I take a shaky breath, trying to steady myself.
Just get through dinner, Ruby. One step at a time.
I slide a hand under the counter and into the hollow area only I know about. My fingers graze the cork of the bottle of poison hiding there, and for a brief moment, I allow myself to consider adding some of its content to tonight’s meal. But… no. With a sigh, I retrieve my hand.
The air shifts before Michael even steps into the room. His presence is like a shadow stretching through the house, snuffing out what little light there is.
And then he’s there, filling the doorway, his cold eyes scanning the kitchen like a predator assessing his territory. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, my hands freezing over the half-prepared meal. He hasn’t said a word, but the weight of his disappointment is already suffocating.
He watches me for a moment, silent. When he speaks, it’s with a low, measured tone. “I’ve traveled all day, Ruby. All. Fucking. Day. And this is what I come home to?” His voice is calm, but there’s an undercurrent—like the quiet before a storm—and it’s worse than shouting. It’s controlled, planned.
Shit!
His calm words are worse than if he outright shouted at me, even worse than if he hit me. They’re a false comfort. I keep my gaze lowered, focusing on the carrots I’m frantically peeling. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “It’ll be ready soon, I promise.”
“It better be,” Michael growls, stalking closer. I can feel the heat of his body behind me, making my skin crawl. “I’m starving, and I don’t have time for your incompetence.”
I force my hands to move, though every muscle in my body screams to freeze or run. Faster. Faster. “Of course,” I reply, my voice softer than I intended. If I just keep moving, just keep working, maybe I’ll avoid whatever mood he’s in. “Would you like a drink?” It’s a desperate offering, a hope that whiskey will slow the inevitable storm.
He grunts an affirmative, and I hurry to pour him a whiskey, careful not to spill a drop. As I h and him the glass, our fingers brush and I have to suppress a shudder.
“Hurry up,” Michael snaps, taking a long swallow. “And try not to burn anything this time.”
I want to retort, tell him I’ve never once burned his dinner, but what’s the point? He didn’t believe me when the former chef blamed me, so he most definitely won’t believe me now.
Nodding, I turn back to the stove. I stir the pot twice before I turn my attention to the fresh peppers already lined up. While I cut them, I do my best to ignore Michael’s eyes, boring into my back. Every movement feels scrutinized, every action inadequate under his critical gaze.
“You’re cutting those peppers too thick,” he sneers, leaning over my shoulder. His breath, hot and whiskey-laced, makes me flinch. “Can’t you do anything right?”
My jaw locks, teeth grinding. Every inch of me is trembling—barely able to hold myself together under his gaze. My grip on the knife tightens, the cool steel a small anchor in a sea of terror.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, my voice so thin it barely escapes my throat. “I’ll cut them smaller.” My hands tremble as I grip the knife tighter, trying to slice the peppers into paper-thin strips. How I wish it was his skin I was cutting into instead. The blade slips, nearly nicking my finger, and I gasp softly.
“Useless,” Michael observes. “Absolutely useless.”
My cheeks burn with humiliation, and I feel tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. I blink them back furiously, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Instead, I focus on my breathing, on the steady rhythm of the knife against the cutting board.
“I’m doing my best,” I say, hating how small my voice sounds.
“Your best isn’t good enough,” he snaps. “It never is. Never was.”
I feel my frustration mounting, a quiet rage building in my chest. My fists clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms. The pain helps ground me, keeps me from lashing out.
As I reach for a plate to serve the appetizer, my elbow catches the edge of the counter. The plate slips before I even realize what’s happening. The crash of ceramic on tile echoes through the room, too loud, too final.
Everything freezes for the briefest of moments—just long enough for me to hold my breath. Then his hand is on me. Fast. Hard. Pain blossoms instantly where his fingers dig into my arm. My body ignores my attempts to move, I’m locked in place despite every instinct screaming at me to run.
“You clumsy bitch,” he snarls, his face inches from mine. “Look what you’ve done now.”
“I’m sorry,” I gasp, tears spilling down my cheeks. “I-it was an accident, I swear. Please, Michael, you’re hurting me.”
His grip only tightens, and I know bruises are already forming. At this moment, all I can think about is escape—from this kitchen, from this house, from this life. But there’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
I’m trapped, and the realization hits me like a physical blow. As Michael continues to berate me, his words blurring into a cacophony of hate, I close my eyes and try to imagine myself somewhere else. Anywhere else. With anyone else.
“Are you even listening to me?” he sneers, and I realize I’ve made a terrible mistake by letting my thoughts consume me.
“Ye—” I’m interrupted as his palm connects with my cheek. The slap is so hard my head snaps to the side as ringing starts in my ears.
Michael’s fingers release their vise-like grip, leaving behind throbbing pain where bruises will surely form. I stumble back, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The shattered plate lies at my feet, a stark reminder of my failure.
“Clean this mess up,” he orders, his voice like ice. “And if I find a single shard, you’ll wish you’d never been born. Understood?”
I nod, not trusting my voice. My hands tremble as I reach for the broom and dustpan. Each movement feels like I’m wading through molasses, my body heavy with fear and despair.
As I sweep, my mind races. There has to be a way out. Maybe if I could just reach my phone, call Nick or Jack… but no. Michael would catch me before I could even dial. And the consequences would be unthinkable.
My husband might play nice—or somewhat nice—in front of my brothe rs, but he’d do almost anything to stop me from contacting them.
I focus on the task at hand, carefully gathering every shard. One piece catches the light, its jagged edge glinting. For a fleeting moment, I imagine using it as a weapon, though I quickly push the thought away. I can’t. I signed the damn contract that linked our lives together in ways I never want to test.
When I’m finished, I stand, my legs shaky. “It’s done,” I murmur, keeping my eyes downcast.
Michael’s heavy footsteps approach. He circles me like a predator, his gaze burning into me. “I see you’re good for something,” he sneers. “Now, why don’t you freshen up? You look a mess.”
Relief floods through me. My bathroom. My sanctuary. I take a step toward the door, but Michael’s arm shoots out, blocking my path.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he taunts. “Did I say you could leave?”
My heart sinks. “I thought… you said to freshen up,” I stammer.
He leans in close, his breath hot on my ear. “Remember your place, Ruby. You do nothing without my permission. Is that clear?”
I swallow hard, fighting back tears. “Yes, Michael.”
His hand envelops my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Then why the fuck didn’t you ask for permission to go freshen up for me? You look disgusting. Is that really how you want to look for your husband when he’s been gone for days?”
I stand there, frozen, as he continues to list all the ways I’m useless, all the punishments he thinks I would benefit from. My mind screams for escape, but my body remains still. I’m a prisoner in my own home, in my own skin.
Hell, even in my mind, which absorbs every cruel and vile word, cataloging it somewhere in the recesses.
“For your sake, I hope you look more presentable at Holloway,” he sneers. “The professor made it clear that your body is the trade for your enrollment. Have you fucked him yet?”
“N-no,” I stutter. For a fleeting moment, I consider telling Michael that I let Valentine fondle me under the table during our dinner with Nick and Carolina. But I can’t bring myself to share that little nugget of inform ation.
I’m teetering on the edge of despair when a shrill ring cuts through Michael’s tirade. His phone. He scowls, fishing it from his pocket. “What?” he barks into the device.
My heart leaps. This is it. My chance.
There’s zero hesitation as I jump into action; turning the stove off before snatching my school bag from the counter and darting toward the hallway. My feet barely touch the ground as I fly past Michael, my breath caught in my throat.
I hear him curse behind me, but I don’t look back.
The bathroom door looms ahead. I run to it, slamming the door shut behind me. My fingers fumble with the lock until I hear the faint click. Safe. The word doesn’t settle right away. My chest is heaving, breath catching in my throat as I slide down against the door, muscles still tensed for a fight that isn’t coming.
Slowly, too slowly, the tightness begins to ease. The rush of blood in my ears fades, but the tremors in my hands remain.
“Ruby!” Michael’s voice booms from the other side. “You might as well stay there. I’m going out.” The sneer in his tone is all the context I need. What he really means is that one of his mistresses called.
“O-okay,” I reply. But what I really want to say is good riddance.
I lean my head back against the door, exhaling slowly. I know I won’t be able to stay here indefinitely, but at least for now, I have a reprieve. A night to gather my strength, to remember who I am beneath the fear and control.
Although I know Michael won’t come back for me, I stay on the floor until I hear him leave. Then I sigh a breath of relief and push myself up from the floor. My legs are shaky as I make my way over to the bathtub and run the water as hot as possible. Once the bottom is covered, I add bath salts until a fresh lemon scent fills my nostrils.
As the tub fills, I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror. I hesitate, then slowly peel off my clothes, letting them fall to the floor. My naked body stares back at me, a canvas of contradictions.
Curves that should speak of femininity and allure are marred by old scars, silent testaments to Michael’s cruelty. My green eyes, once bright with h ope, now seem dulled, shadowed by the weight of my circumstances.
Yet, as I trace the line of my collarbone, the slope of my breasts, I see something else. Resilience. Strength hidden beneath the vulnerability.
“You’re more than this,” I whisper to my reflection, voice barely audible over the running water.
Taking a few steps back, I look as more of my body is revealed in the mirror. My eyes trace the delicate lines of the tattoo that sprawls across my left thigh. The petals are soft, intricate, almost lifelike as they curl and unfurl, frozen in perpetual bloom. Magnolia flowers, my mom’s favorite, strong yet undeniably beautiful, captured in ink on my skin.
My fingers hover over the design, feeling the gentle rise of each line, each stroke etched into me. It’s strange, the way something so permanent can still feel so new. Every time I look at it, it feels like I’m seeing it for the first time.
There’s something about this tattoo—its placement, the way it curves along my body—that makes me feel… powerful.
It feels like armor, like a mark of something deeper. The flowers, so feminine and graceful, yet there’s a sharpness to the edges, like they’re ready to defend. It’s almost a contradiction, but it fits me. Soft and hard. Beautiful and untouchable. Vulnerable, but not broken.
I exhale, noticing how the black ink stands out against the pale curve of my hip, the contrast making it seem like the flowers are alive, blooming beneath my skin.
Michael hates the tattoo, I know he does. Yet he’s never made any attempt to make me get rid of it. I don’t know why, and I’ve never questioned it. Hell, maybe he does secretly like it since he’s covered it in his rank cum too many times to count.
Shaking my head, I refocus on my reflection. “You’re a Knight. You’re a survivor.” I whisper those words to myself over and over like a mantra.
There’s another contradiction for you; I’m not a survivor. I’m living on borrowed time. Just because death hasn’t found me yet doesn’t mean I get to survive. Sooner or later, the Knight curse will claim me as it’s done to countless others.
It alread y claimed Jack not long ago. His heart stopped beating. By all intents and purposes, he was dead, but thanks to modern medicine and swift action from the doctors, he survived. Something tells me that whatever my fate is, that won’t be in the cards for me.
Well, no point in dwelling on that shit. It’ll happen whether I want it to or not, and on evenings like this one, I’m almost ready to welcome it.
My eyes land on my red cheek, where Michael struck me. He must have been exceptionally pissed to risk leaving a bruise in a place anyone can see. For some fucked up reason, it makes me smile. I don’t know why, but there’s something to be said about misery loving company.
If I’m unraveling, it’s only fair my husband is too.
I turn away, sinking into the steaming bath, letting the water envelop me and soothe my aching muscles. Even though I close my eyes, my mind won’t stay quiet. The nightmare lingers, and yet, something else pushes through the fog.
A different kind of intensity. Not fear, but something… warmer.
His face forms in my thoughts unbidden—Valentine. That deep gaze, dark and intense, but so different from Michael’s. I try to push the image away, but it lingers, and with it, a strange feeling blooms in my chest. A spark of something I haven’t felt in years.
I find myself recalling things I didn’t even know I’d memorized; that intense gaze, the slight quirk of his lips. Even the timbre of his voice, deep and rich like aged whiskey. Of how he looks at me like… not just as though he’s really seeing me, but like I’m worth seeing. His mere presence always makes the air around me feel charged, alive.
Sinking deeper into the scalding water, I allow my mind to be pulled inexorably toward him.
A shiver runs through me, despite the warm water. I can almost feel his gaze on me now, intense and searching. In my mind’s eye, I trace the strong line of his jaw, the subtle curve of his lips. His eyes, those deep pools of darkness—one ringed with amber fire—seem to look right into my soul.
I think of the way he moves, confident and graceful. The breadth of his shoulders, the strength in his hand as he touched me at the restaurant. What would those hands feel like, touching my body with no clothes betwee n us? Would it be enough to make me come? Probably not.
Yet, I was so close, the orgasm was within reach, while I was so close to my brother and his wife. The memory makes me gasp, my eyes flying open.
This hero worship, this... desire. It’s dangerous. Forbidden. And yet, there’s no stopping myself from wanting more. “Valentine,” I whisper, tasting his name on my lips. It feels like a prayer, a plea, a promise all at once. For the first time in years, I feel something other than fear and despair. I feel... alive.
For a moment, I forget the bruises. The fear. The looming threats. My hand slides beneath the water, tentative at first, as if this body isn’t really mine. But it is. For now, at this moment, it’s mine. My hand slides lower, tracing the curve of my hip beneath the water.
Another small gasp escapes my lips as unfamiliar sensations ripple through me. This isn’t like before—not the cold, mechanical act with one of my dad’s bodyguards when I was sixteen.
That wasn’t about arousal or romance; it was purely a decision born of desperation, a foolish attempt to claim some control over my body before it was taken from me. And since my dad didn’t allow any men outside of his employment near me, I didn’t have many options. Luckily, no one found out.
But this feeling coursing through me at the thought of Valentine is different. It’s somehow deeper, rawer… realer than anything I’ve felt before.
The water is hot, soothing the ache in my muscles, and as my fingers drift lower, a quiet gasp escapes my lips. I’m not thinking of Michael, or of the nightmare outside this door. It’s Valentine’s eyes that burn behind my closed lids, the weight of his gaze that makes my breath catch.
Driven by pure instinct, my fingers drift farther south, taking their time exploring. I bite my lip to stifle a moan, acutely aware of how wrong it would be to really touch myself to thoughts of him… Valentine.