Chapter 20
The Prey
T he bar is alive with the hum of excited chatter, the clinking of glasses, and the faint scent of spilled alcohol. I’m nursing my first drink, a sour apple martini that’s gone warm in my hand, while my fellow students are already on their second or third round, courtesy of Valentine.
“So how come you never go out with us?” the guy next to me asks.
I scrunch up my nose. “I’m not really a going-out person.” My reply is flippant, and I hope he doesn’t notice the way I’m discreetly edging away from him.
My choice to put some distance between us isn’t only because of the daggers Valentine’s shooting through his eyes. I don’t like people this close.
“And why is that?” the guy asks. “Is it because you get wild when you drink?” He lowers his voice and gives me a smile I’m sure is meant to be charming.
Holding up my hand, I show him the wedding band. “It’s because I’m married,” I state flatly.
The change in him is almost comical. He quickly makes his excuse and gets up, joining some of the others that have formed a secondary group closer to the bar.
Their laughter is loud, free, uninhibited—everything I wish I could be right now. They’ve let the excitement of the day carry them away, but for me, every sip of alcohol feels like I’m inching toward a dangerous edge I don’t want to cross.
Valentine’s presence dominates the booth, effortlessly magnetic. I keep stealing glances at him, trying to decipher the subtle changes in his demeanor. There’s something different about him tonight. Something more relaxed, more unguarded.
His usual aloofness is still there, but it’s softened around the edges, like he’s letting himself enjoy this moment more than usual. His brown eyes—particularly the left one with that almost imperceptible heterochromia—glint with an intensity that makes it hard to look away.
Another round of drinks arrives. Glasses clink together, and my classmates cheer, toasting to the thrill of being inside a real courtroom today. I smile, playing along, but my martini remains mostly untouched.
When no one’s looking, I discreetly pour it onto the floor, watching as the pale green liquid pools beneath the table. My heart races, but I feel a small victory in regaining control. Alcohol lowers inhibitions, and I can’t afford to lose control. Not with Valentine watching.
I make my way to the bar under the guise of needing a refill, asking the bartender for water, but having it garnished with lime and mint. It looks convincing enough to pass for a cocktail when I return to the booth, sliding into my seat as the conversation flows easily around me.
Valentine is now at the center of it, effortlessly weaving his insights about the trial into the conversation, captivating my classmates. His voice rises above the din of the bar, commanding and smooth.
“I would never have taken you for a beer drinker,” one of the girls says, batting her long, dark eyelashes at Valentine.
The way she unashamedly eye-fucks him as he wraps his lips around the top of the bottle gets under my skin. “What did you think he’d be drinking?” I find myself asking.
She looks at me, widening her eyes. “I don’t know. What do you old people usually drink?” she bites back, rolling her eyes.
I snort-laugh at her. “The blood of younger people so we keep lookin g young,” I deadpan.
To my surprise, most of the table bursts out laughing, Valentine included.
“Never mind what he’s drinking, I didn’t think he knew how to laugh,” someone interjects.
Valentine’s eyes crinkle with laughter. “What can I say? It’s freeing to know that justice has been served, and that our streets are now a little safer.”
At his words, I busy myself with my drink, not able to look at anyone. The fact that the Hunter holds any regard for safety or justice is downright laughable.
As the discussion deepens, my classmates become more animated, dissecting every detail of the trial. Valentine entertains their theories, but I see the way his eyes flicker over me now and again, like he’s assessing me, waiting for my input. I’m silent at first, content to let the others soak up his attention, but eventually, I feel his gaze linger too long.
“Ruby,” he says suddenly, his voice cutting through the noise. The way he says my name, low and intimate, sends a shiver down my spine. “What did you think of the prosecution’s case today?”
The booth falls quiet, all eyes turning to me. My throat tightens as the weight of his attention presses down on me. He always does this—calls on me in these moments when I’m least prepared. But tonight feels different. His eyes are sharp, but there’s a softness too, something almost encouraging. It throws me off.
“I think they had a strong case,” I start, my voice barely audible over the noise of the bar. “But the defendant screwed it all up with his testimony.”
Valentine’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. “Interesting,” he says, leaning in just a little, as if to close the distance between us. “And why do you think that?”
I swallow hard, feeling the heat rise to my face under his gaze. “The evidence was circumstantial,” I say, trying to sound confident. “And the witnesses were inconsistent. The defense could’ve easily planted seeds of doubt… but the defendant’s testimony sealed the deal. His arrogance showed through, and it was enough to sway the jury.”
For a moment, I think I’ve said something wrong. Valentine just stares at me, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile. “Very good,” he finally says, his voice a low murmur. “You’re not wrong. The prosecution was teetering on a fragile foundation until the defendant cracked under pressure. And you caught that.”
His approval hits me like a wave, unexpected. I feel a strange warmth spread through my chest, a kind of thrill that comes from knowing I’ve earned his respect, even if just for a moment. The rest of the group starts talking again, but I don’t hear anything they say.
I sip my water, the cold liquid a welcome relief against the heat building inside me. I know I should pull away, create some distance between us before things get too intense, but I’m already in too deep. His presence is intoxicating, and despite every warning bell going off in my head, I’m drawn to him like a moth to a flame.
At some point, the conversation shifts again, as do the bodies in the booth. People change seats, some even moving away, while they laugh and argue over trivial details of the trial. I haven’t even noticed I’ve moved as well, until I find myself next to Valentine.
He doesn’t even try to hide that his eyes are fixed on me as if the rest of the table has faded into the background.
“You seem different tonight,” he says quietly, just loud enough for me to hear over the chatter. His tone is casual, but there’s a gravity to his words that makes my pulse quicken.
I force a laugh, hoping to deflect. “Maybe it’s just the atmosphere. Or maybe it’s you.” I’m pretty sure it’s him that’s different.
He raises an eyebrow at that, a flicker of amusement crossing his features. “Me?”
“You’re… more relaxed,” I say carefully, choosing my words. “You’re not usually this carefree.”
His gaze sharpens, and for a moment, I wonder if I’ve overstepped. But then, to my surprise, he smiles—a genuine smile that reaches his eyes, softening the harsh lines of his face. “You’re observant, Mrs. Simmons. I like that.”
The use of my formal title sends a jolt through me, reminding me of the roles we’re supposed to be playing. Teacher and student. Mentor and mentee . But in this moment, those boundaries feel blurred, as if we’re standing on the edge of something far more dangerous.
“Carefree,” he repeats, the word rolling off his tongue with a hint of bemusement. “Maybe I’m just enjoying the evening.” His voice lowers, becoming almost conspiratorial. “Or maybe I’m celebrating.”
His words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication. I should pull away, shut this down before it goes any further, but I can’t. The pull is too strong, and I’m too far gone. “I didn’t realize you could enjoy yourself,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. Then, instead of asking why he’d be celebrating, I add, “Or that men like you celebrated anything.”
He laughs, a low, rich sound that sends a shiver down my spine. “Everyone has their moments,” he says, leaning in just enough that our shoulders brush. The contact is brief, but it’s enough to set my skin on fire.
The noise of the bar fades into the background, and for a moment, it feels like it’s just the two of us, caught in this strange, electric current that crackles between us. His gaze drops to my lips, just for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough to make my breath hitch.
“Tell me, Ruby,” he says, his voice a soft purr. “Do you think the defendant deserved to lose today?”
The question catches me off guard, but I manage to keep my composure. His tone is soft, almost seductive, yet the question is harsh. He’s basically asking for my judgment. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I think the more interesting question is if he thought he deserved it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I believe that he sabotaged himself,” I reply, giving voice to a thought I’ve had since we watched the trial.
Sure, he admitted to what he’d done. But it’s more than that. Since the debate in the classroom, Valentine has been giving us more information about the case. He revealed that the real case was about a man, not a woman, and that the arsonist got sloppy. But not in an ‘oops I forgot’ kind of way. No, his sloppiness was more like carelessness—as though his reasons didn’t matter anymore.
Valentine nods, his brown eyes never leaving mine. “Self-sabotage,” he mur murs. “It’s a fascinating thing, isn’t it? The way people can be their own worst enemies.”
His words hit a little too close to home, and I feel a pang of discomfort. He’s talking about the trial, but there’s something more beneath the surface, something that feels personal. It’s as though he’s trying to tell me something, something I’m not sure I’m ready to hear.
Before I get the chance to respond, one of my classmates breaks the spell, laughing loudly and nudging me with her elbow. “Ruby, you’ve been quiet. What’s going on in that head of yours?” Unwillingly, I flinch as she touches me. My hope that she doesn’t notice is squashed when her laughter fades and she narrows her eyes on me. “Are you okay?”
I force a smile and look at her. “Yeah, sorry.” I gesture at my empty drink. “Maybe I’ve had enough to drink,” I say, trying to sound casual.
She smiles, but this time it looks forced. “Do you need me to get you some water or something?”
The shock of her offer makes me gape like a fish out of water. I don’t even know her name, haven’t cared to learn it, and here she is, offering to get me something as simple as a glass of water. Tears prickle behind my eyelids, causing me to blink furiously to get rid of them.
Jesus, it’s messed up when a simple act of kindness is enough to engage the waterworks. “It’s okay,” I say. “I think I’ll go to the bathroom and then head home.”
As I stand up and excuse myself, I realize it’s probably a good idea. My mind is still spinning, caught in the web Valentine has woven around me. Putting some physical distance between us might be exactly what I need to regain my wit.
The bathroom offers a brief sanctuary from the clamor outside. The flickering lights cast erratic shadows across the floor, adding to the eerie stillness of the space. My hands grip the edge of the sink as I stare at my reflection, my pulse still racing from the alcohol-fueled energy of the bar.
I take a deep breath and splash cold water on my cheeks. It’s a feeble attempt to calm the chaos in my mind. I’m not even sure why I came here with them. That’s a lie; I do know. But being near Valentine tonight feels danger ous—exhilarating, but dangerous.
Shaking my head, I turn to leave, stepping into the narrow hallway that leads back to the bar. I expect it to be empty, a few stolen moments before I rejoin the others, but instead, I find Valentine standing there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his eyes dark and fixed on me.