Chapter 5
The Prey
O n day three, I once again arrive early according to my watch, but with everyone else already in class, and Valentine busy talking, I appear late. I don’t get it. Once more, I take the seat in the front row, the chair empty as though it was just waiting for me.
During class, Valentine’s gaze lingers on me like a ghostly touch. I glance up from my textbook, catch his eyes—dark and deep as an abyss—before I wrench mine away, heart hammering with an emotion I can’t name.
Today, the fifth day, I arrive ten minutes earlier than the other times, but I’m still late… somehow. I really need to ask one of the other students how his classes work because clearly I don’t get it. And this is exactly the kind of thing that would embarrass Michael, which, in turn, would make him punish me.
Coldness slivers down my spine at the thought. I’ll do anything to avoid any of my husband’s punishments, even showing up at the crack of dawn if I have to.
Try as I might, there’s no way I can concentrate on today’s lecture. Valentine’s presence is a magnetic pull I struggle to resist. When class ends, I linger, contemplating if I should ask when to arrive for the next class, but when his gaze finds mine, I chicken out. I don’t think Valentine and Michael know each other, but I won’t risk looking incompetent if they do.
I reach for my bag, my fingers fumble, and my notebook slips, thudding to the floor. Bending down, I retrieve it, and when I rise, I’m ensnared by Valentine’s dark orbs.
For a heartbeat, our eyes lock—an electric current zips through me, igniting something nameless inside me. My lips part as though I’m about to speak, but I have no words. Neither of us speaks, and when I try to pull myself away, I’m unable to. It’s like… like he’s keeping me in place with his eyes alone. My breath hitches, and my palms grow clammy. Normally, those things would be a sign of discomfort, maybe even fear. But with Valentine… it isn’t.
“Clumsy today, aren’t we?” Valentine’s tone teases from across the room, and I’m surprised by the flicker of humor in his otherwise stoic demeanor.
“I… I…” What the hell is going on? “Seems so,” I finally manage, my throat so dry my voice comes out hoarse. Every cell in my body is acutely aware of him, a predator lying in wait.
Shaking my head at myself and my lack of confidence, I grab the book and rush out of the classroom.
Normally, I’m only this subdued around Michael, and even that is only outwardly. Mentally, I scream and cuss at him, tell him all the ways I want to end his miserable life. If I’m completely honest with myself, I think it’s because of Jack being shot.
The curse of three heirs has always seemed more like a twisted tale than reality, though after my brother actually died, it’s become very real. Sure, he was brought back to life, but he still died. Left this earth, if only for a short while. And that has shifted something inside me. I know I will be the next one to die, know I’m living on borrowed time.
The week winds down, and with each passing day, the game—because that’s what it must be—intensifies. The glances grow more charged; the air crackles with unspoken words, and the space between us thrums with… something. I’m not sure what it is, but it’s definitely something potent.
At least that’s how it is for me, however, judging by the borderline bored expression on Valentine’s face half the time, there’s a very good possibility I’m making all of this up. My mind reaches for something that doesn’t even exist, or maybe it’s just one-sided.
Shit, I don’t even know anymore.
All I know is that despite Michael wanting me to seduce my professor, there hasn’t even been an opening or opportunity to do so. And somehow, I don’t think Valentine would welcome it.
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 awaren ess.
“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 really meant 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.
“I mean, does it really matter?” Someone laughs from somewhere in the ro om.
Another student laughs as well. “Personally, I’d rather someone like Dahmer open the door for me than lobotomize me. But hey, to each their own.”
“God, can you imagine?” A girl giggles. “Please no, Mr. Serial Killer. Don’t hold the door for me.”
Jesus, what was I thinking? They’re right to ridicule me. There’s no power in opening the door, and such ideas aren’t going to keep me in Criminology 101. I really don’t belong in this class, with these people who are probably used to engaging their minds for more than just nodding at the right time.
All Valentine has to do for the room to quiet down is clear his throat. The second he does it, all other sounds vanish. “Criminology isn’t merely the study of serial killers, Mr. Malone. It’s crime and deviant behavior, and the relationship between crime and society,” he says.
“But still,” someone insists. “I’d rather have my door opened than being beaten.”
The look on Valentine’s face morphs from polite to… well, it’s still polite, but there’s also a coldness in his eyes that wasn’t there before. “And what about domestic abuse, Miss Calder? Do all such relationships start with a, how did you put it so eloquently…” he makes air quotes with his fingers. “… a beating? Or do you think the abuser is smarter and starts by seeking control in areas that are harder to monitor?”
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I turn around to see who Miss Calder is. It doesn’t take me long to find her, she’s the nervous-looking girl who’s shrinking back in her seat. “I suppose,” she relents.
Turning back to Valentine, I watch him as he swallows, my eyes tracing the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple. “So, if someone wanted to gain complete control over you, how do you think they would go about it?” When no one answers, he sighs. “Anybody?”
“My aunt had an abusive husband,” a voice says. “But he never actually laid a finger on her. He played mind games and isolated her from everyone. He did it slowly, so no one suspected anything.”
Valentine nods. “And do you think your aunt would notice him taking control by opening the door?”
“ No, Professor Grant. She told me that all the signs were there, but she never noticed them because they started small.”
“Exactly.” Valentine turns to the whiteboard, picking up the black marker and begins to write. When he’s done, he reads the words out loud. “Sociology, psychology, anthropology, biology, economics, psychiatry, and statistics. Those are all words that are relevant in a multidisciplinary field such as criminology.”
I don’t speak for the remainder of our double lecture. I’m content with listening and analyzing what the hell just happened. It’s clear some of the students tried to make fun of me, but did… did Valentine save me?
The lecture draws to a close, and I get up, leaving with everyone else.
“Mrs. Simmons,” he calls out just as I reach the door, my heart stumbling over itself in response. “A moment, please?”
I turn to face him. “Yes, Professor?”
“Your insights today were provocative,” he says, closing the distance between us with measured steps. “I was impressed.”
My eyebrows shoot high up my forehead. “You were?”
He nods. “Absolutely. It was a very astute comparison.”
My heart does its traitorous dance. Thump. Thump. Too loud in the quiet. I want to look away, but my mind won’t let me. It’s like he’s magnetic, and I’m nothing but iron filings drawn to him by some unseen force.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“In fact,” he says, striding toward me. “There’s this book I want you to read. I think you’ll find it very interesting.”
Glancing down at my watch, I go to pull my phone out of my coat pocket. But when I notice Valentine frowning, I leave the device alone. So what if I’m a couple of minutes late? I know my driver will tell Michael, but I’m not doing anything I shouldn’t. Besides, I’m not heading straight home, so it’ll probably be okay.
“Yeah, okay,” I agree.
Valentine leads me to his office, but instead of holding the door open for me, he closes it—almost completely. For a split second I consider following him inside, but then I talk myself out of it. If he wanted me in there, he would have left the door open, right? The more I think about it, the more I fret, worried I’m overthinking this, or failing some kind of test I’m not aware has started.
Only a few moments later, he reappears, holding a book in his hand. “Here you go,” he says.
Maybe it’s just my imagination running wild, but he appears disappointed, or annoyed. I don’t know him well enough to know which one. “T-thank you,” I stammer, hating that I’ve done something wrong.
I read the text on the front cover.
Anatomy of Control: The Psychology of Crime and Power by Valentine Grant.
Turning it over, I read the synopsis on the back.
In this chilling exploration of criminal psychology, Valentine Grant delves into the minds of those who manipulate, control, and destroy. From the subtle art of psychological domination to the violent outcomes of unchecked power, Grant dissects the intricate dynamics between predator and prey. With a focus on manipulation, coercion, and the human desire for dominance, Anatomy of Control unveils the dark motivations behind crime and explores how power becomes both a weapon and weakness. Drawing from case studies, historical events, and psychological theory, Grant offers an unflinching look into the shadowy depths of human nature.
“You wrote a book?”
To my surprise, he chuckles warmly. “I’ve written several books, Mrs. Simmons.”
Oh, right. I knew this. Hell, I’m carrying two books written by him in my bag. “Of course,” I mutter, not sure what else to say.
“This one isn’t on the curriculum, but I still think you’d find it… enjoyable.” As he says that, he moves his hand to my shoulder, squeezin g it.
My body reacts immediately. Caught between wanting to lean into his touch and years of cruelty that’s made me skittish when I’m randomly touched like this, I end up wobbling. My hands shake so hard I drop the book.
“Oh no,” I gasp. My teeth chatter as I immediately drop to the floor, picking it up. I look at it intently, searching for any marks. Luckily, I don’t see any. “I’m so sorry.”
Valentine crouches down in front of me. “It’s just a book,” he says. His tone is warm, reassuring. “No harm, no foul.”
“I… I…”
“Are you okay, Mrs. Simmons?” he asks, his brows furrowed. Out of my peripheral, I notice him lifting his hand, slowly moving it toward me.
Closing my eyes, I brace myself for the contact, knowing it’s nothing more than what I deserve. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “You can hit me. Just please don’t tell Michael… umm, my husband.”
“Hit you?” he asks, and when I open my eyes, his head is tilted to the side. “For dropping the book?”
I have no words. My brain has shut down, abandoned me to fend for myself in this critical moment. My eyes jump between his and the hand still raised in the air, and I don’t… I just don’t know what to think. So instead of dealing, I clutch the book to my chest and stagger to my feet. Then I spin around, running from him.
The Hunter
When I finally leave campus, the cold air cuts through my jacket, but it doesn’t do a damn thing to cool the heat thrumming in my veins. So instead of getting a cab, I decide to walk to where I’m meeting Nicklas Knight.
My hands are clenched into fists inside my pockets, knuckles white, nails digging into my palms. I need to let this out, this… anger that’s spreading like poison through my blood.
Her face, her voice—it’s still echoing in my head. “You can hit me.” Only a fragmented person offers themselves up like a broken doll. And that’s what makes Ruby Simmons a riddle of the best kind.
The words she speaks, the way she’s constantly in flight mode, and the… well, everything about her screams victim and broken. But she’s not. All she needs is a little encouragement and nourishment in terms of kind words. So far, she hasn’t disappointed me, and I think I’m getting addicted to her reactions.
Ahead of our first day of class, I’d emailed all my students except for her, asking everyone to show up half an hour early. I wanted to see how she would handle herself when the cards were stacked against her from the beginning. She didn’t disappoint, and when she beat us all to class this morning, I could feel the elation roll off her in waves.
Ruby passed a test she wasn’t even aware I created for her.
For the first time in my thirty-eight years of being alive, I’m glad I have a month with my prey before I have to kill her. Ruby is far too intriguing for me to rush anything.
As I reach a secluded area, I do a double-take as I notice… Michael? No, it isn’t him. Just someone that looks like him. And just like that, my anger is back, the Hunter begging to be set free.
I follow the guy into an alley. The streetlights don’t reach this far, and I move quickly, silently. The man never sees it coming. He doesn’t even have time to turn around fully before my hand is on the back of his head, smashing his face into the brick wall.
The crunch of bone against stone is sickening, satisfying. Blood sprays, warm and wet, splattering across my knuckles. The man drops, limp, but I don’t stop.
I crouch beside his body, twisting his head until I hear the crack of his neck snapping. The street is silent again. No witnesses. No hesitation. This man was nothing, a shadow of Michael, but it was enough. Enough to quench the thirst for now.
Standing, I wipe the blood off my hands with a handkerchief, methodical as always. My breath is steady, my pulse even. There’s no remors e. There never is. It’s just what I do—what I am.
It’s inconvenient, though. It’s only January still, so I need to pay some kind of tribute to Arthur Hatt for violating the terms of our agreement. As I walk away from the alley, I slip my hand into my pocket and pull out my phone. I tap the messaging app and send the King a message.
Me: I owe you for a life. What’s your price?
Though I could probably get away with the kill without Arthur ever knowing, I prefer honesty. Especially since he could shut the Hunter down for good if I get on his bad side.
The King: Is this going to be a regular thing or was it a one off?
Me: I’m not sure yet.
The King: If you take one more life before your month begins, you’ll owe me a favor of my choosing.
Since there’s nothing more to say, I don’t acknowledge his last text. Instead, I hail a cab since I’m already running late. For the first time since Nicklas Knight asked me to attend the meeting, I’m glad I have to go. Hopefully, whatever he needs will take my mind off my prey.