Chapter 14
The Prey
T he words hang in the air for a moment, heavy with implications. Michael’s grip on my arm tightens painfully, but I force myself to stand tall. “I told you not to embarrass me,” he snarls under his breath.
“Get your hand off of her.” Jack’s tone is pure ice, his eyes daggers as he pointedly stares at where Michael is squeezing me.
“I can touch my wife all I want to,” Michael sneers, not budging.
Their voices fall into the background, becoming nothing more than a constant buzz as I once again look at Valentine. There’s a darkness in his eyes as he looks at my husband, and I’m not talking about the dark shades of color. No, it’s the kind that almost eclipses the whiteness, the stuff nightmares are made of.
But then he blinks; once, twice, and when he opens his eyes again, they’re filled with curiosity as I tentatively take first one step, then another. I don’t even notice Michael letting me go, I just continue letting my feet carry me to the stage.
The closer I get, the heavier my legs feel. Every instinct screams at me to retreat, to crawl back into the safety of invisibility. But Valentine’s presence behind me feels like a shield, urging me forward.
With each step, memories of Michael’s cruelty battle against the intoxi cating possibility Valentine represents. I’m acutely aware of the weight of expectation pressing down on me, threatening to crush me.
Yet, as I ascend the steps to the stage, a strange calm washes over me. For the first time in what feels like forever, I’m making a choice for myself. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
The MC gives me a quizzical look as he first spots me, but as he realizes who I am, he beams. “Mrs. Simmons, what an honor. Do you want to say a few words?”
My throat feels like it’s clogging up, and all I manage is a small nod. While he introduces me to the crowd, I take deep breaths, doing my best to relax. Then I forge on, turning to face everyone. My heart pounds so loudly I’m scared everyone can hear it.
As I open my mouth to speak, I catch Valentine’s eye in the audience. He nods almost imperceptibly, and in that moment, I feel invincible. I take another deep breath, my gaze sweeping across the sea of expectant faces. The spotlight feels hot on my skin, but I refuse to let it melt me.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I begin, my voice stronger than I expected. “We live in a world of predators and prey. But tonight, I want to challenge that notion.”
I pause, letting the words sink in. Some audience members shift uncomfortably, while others lean forward, intrigued.
“In nature, survival often means taking from others. But we, as humans, have the unique ability to thrive by giving.” My eyes find Valentine’s, drawing strength from his approving nod. “Charity isn’t just kindness; it’s a powerful survival mechanism for our society.”
Despite Michael’s glare burning into me, I press on.
“When we support those in need, we’re not just helping them. We’re strengthening the very fabric of our community. Like a pack that protects its weakest members, we become stronger together.”
My words flow with a passion I didn’t know I possessed, fueled by Valentine’s influence and my own desperate need to make a difference.
“By lifting others up, we elevate ourselves. It’s not about prey becoming predators, but about breaking that cycle entirely.”
As I conclude, the room falls silent. For a moment, I fear I’ve made a terrible mistake. Then applause erupts from one corner, spreading like wildfi re. Relief washes over me, but it’s short-lived.
I catch glimpses of varied reactions as I descend the stage. Some faces shine with inspiration, while others remain skeptical. The tension in the room is palpable, crackling like electricity.
My legs feel wobbly as I reach the bottom step. The mix of exhilaration and anxiety makes my head spin. I’ve done something I never thought possible, but at what cost?
As the crowd’s murmurs grow louder, I realize I’ve set something in motion that I can’t control. The predator-prey dynamic I spoke of feels all too real now, and I’m not sure which role I’ve cast myself in.
The words came easier than I thought they would. I can’t take credit for the analogies, they all come from Valentine. From his class, from his books. It’s clear that’s how he views the world, which, in my experience, is all there is to it.
As I look around for Valentine in the crowd, I’m disappointed when I don’t see him. But said disappointment quickly morphs into fear as I lock eyes with Michael. His nostrils flare as he dramatically slides his index finger across his throat. I’m in so much trouble.
I slip away from the buzzing crowd, my heart still pounding in my chest. Finding a secluded alcove behind a heavy velvet curtain, I lean against the cool wall and close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing.
The words I spoke on stage replay in my mind, each one feeling like Valentine’s puppet strings, guiding my every move. His influence over me is growing, and it both thrills and terrifies me.
So why is Michael so angry? He wanted me to make Valentine happy, didn’t he? Yes, he told me that outright. This is becoming so confusing.
A rustle of fabric startles me. Carolina emerges from behind the curtain, her blue eyes wide. “Ruby,” she says, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “That was… unexpected.”
I brace myself for her usual barbed comments, but what comes next catches me off guard.
“It was actually really moving,” Carolina continues, a hint of admiration in her tone. “I never thought you had it in you.”
Studying her face, I search for signs of mockery, but find none. “Thanks ,” I manage, unsure how to navigate this unfamiliar territory between us.
Carolina shifts uncomfortably, clearly as thrown by this moment as I am. “Look, I know we’re not exactly friends, but… that took guts. And your words about lifting others up? They hit home. Willow would have liked that speech.” Her voice cracks as she mentions her sister.
A thick silence settles between us, heavy with the weight of unspoken grief. For once, there’s no snark, no sharp-tongued retort from her. Just pain—raw and real. I feel my throat tighten as I glance away, trying to gather my thoughts. What do I say to that? What can I say?
“She would’ve liked that,” Carolina repeats, her voice barely above a whisper.
I nod, a lump forming in my throat. This new, tenuous connection between us feels surreal, like a soap bubble that might burst at any moment.
“She... she always believed in doing good, even when it wasn’t convenient,” Carolina continues, folding her arms around herself, suddenly seeming smaller. “It was something I never quite understood.”
I swallow hard. “I-I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t.” She shakes her head, a bittersweet smile curling at the edges of her lips. “I just wanted you to know that you surprised me tonight, Ruby. In a good way.”
I don’t know what to say. For so long, I’ve worn the armor of bitterness, resentment, and guilt around her. But at this moment, it feels like a truce is being offered. A small one, but a truce nonetheless.
“How did it feel?” Carolina asks, genuine curiosity in her voice. “To have all those people listening to you?”
I swallow hard, considering my answer. “Terrifying,” I admit. “Exhilarating. Like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, about to fly or fall.”
Carolina’s lips quirk into a small smile. “I think you flew, Ruby. Even if just for a moment.”
Giving a speech like that wouldn’t be a big deal to some people, but it’s monumental for me. It’s one of the few things I’ve ever done of my own accord, because I wanted to. So the sincerity in her words catches me off guard, and I feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. But then I blink them away, not wanting to show weakness.
“Thank you,” I whisper, meaning it more than I ever thought I could.
Carolina nods, the moment of vulnerability passing. She straightens, her usual demeanor returning. “Well, don’t let it go to your head,” she says, but there’s no real bite to her words.
I watch her as she walks away.
Before the curtain can fall back into place, Michael pushes through it. “Ruby.” His tone is sharp, demanding. I flinch involuntarily, all too familiar with that sound, that expectation of immediate obedience.
His face is set in a stony mask of rage, the edges of his smile twitching with barely contained fury.
“You embarrassed me out there,” he hisses through clenched teeth, his hand clamping down on my wrist with enough force to bruise. “You think you can just prance up there and make a fool of me? In front of all these people?”
I feel the familiar stir of panic rising in my chest, but I force it down, meeting his eyes. “It was just a speech,” I argue.
He leans in closer, his lips brushing my ear in a way that makes my skin crawl. “You’ll pay for this later,” he whispers, his breath hot and venomous. “You’ve been getting a bit too comfortable, haven’t you, Mrs. Simmons? If you’re not careful, you’ll forget who you belong to.”
My pulse quickens. Every inch of me screams to push him away, but I stand still. “How could I ever forget?” I hiss. “I didn’t make a fool of you, Michael. I showed my support, which is what any good wife would do.” I don’t know where the words come from, or what has inspired the fire in my chest that demands I stand my ground.
Another two people come through the gap in the curtain, their presence saving me from having to endure the consequences of my outburst.
The first one, a woman, smiles widely at us, and her presence is enough to diffuse the moment like a burst of fresh air. “Michael!” It’s one of the event organizers, dressed in a sleek black gown. “Congratulations, Mrs. Simmons’ speech was a hit. We’ve raised even more than expected for the cause.”
Mic hael straightens up, his mask of charm snapping back into place as he turns to her. “Right? I knew my wife would be the perfect addition to the lineup,” he says. My skin pricks with irritation as he takes credit for my performance. “Did you need my help with anything?”
She mutters something in response, and the two of them quickly excuse themselves. I’m left alone with the second person that came through; Valentine.
His dark eyes fixed on me with an intensity that steals my breath away. My heart races, desire and uncertainty warring within me as I wonder what he’ll say, what he’ll do. I remain rooted to the spot as Valentine approaches, his steps measured and graceful. The air between us crackles with tension, and I find myself holding my breath.
“Ruby,” he purrs, his voice low and intimate. “That speech was captivating.”
His praise washes over me like a warm caress, and I feel a flush creeping up my neck. “Thank you,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
Valentine moves closer, close enough that the scent of his cologne—a heady mix of sandalwood and something darker, more primal—makes my nostrils flare. His eyes never leave mine as he reaches out, fingers ghosting along my bare arm.
“You have a gift,” he continues, “a way of drawing people in, making them listen. It’s intoxicating.”
My skin tingles where he touched me, and I fight the urge to lean into him. “I just spoke from the heart,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
Valentine’s lips curl into a smile that’s equal parts predatory and approving. “And that’s precisely what makes it so powerful. Your vulnerability, your passion—it’s delectable.” A shiver runs down my spine as he licks his lips.
His words ignite something within me—a desperate need for more. More praise, more touch, more of him. I step closer, eliminating the little space between us.
“Valentine,” I breathe, my hand coming to rest on his chest. It’s just above his heart, which is beating strong and steady beneath my palm. “I-I want…” I trail off, unsure how to articulate the maelstrom of emotions swirling inside me. Desire, yes, but also a craving for validation, for connection, for something I don’t know the name of.
His hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing across my lower lip. The touch is electric, sending sparks of pleasure through my body. “What do you want, Ruby?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that I feel more than hear.
I swallow hard, gathering my courage. “You,” I whisper, pressing my body against his. “I want you.”
For a moment, Valentine doesn’t move. His eyes search mine, as if weighing my words, my intentions. And then, ever so slowly, he removes my hand from his chest and takes a step back. “Ruby,” he says, his voice firm but not unkind.
My heart drops; I know what’s coming. Men like Valentine don’t need words to reject someone; it’s all in their body language. I take a shaky breath, willing myself not to break in front of him.
He cocks his head to the side. “What do you want me to do?”
I gape at the question, which is so not what I expected. “W-what do you mean?” I ask, hating how my voice trembles.
Shrugging, he takes a step back. “If you can’t even say what you want, you’re not ready.”
“Fine,” I say, injecting as much steel as I can muster into my voice. “You’re probably right. It was just a fleeting thought, anyway.”
He chuckles darkly. “I’m sure it wasn’t.” His voice is laced with a wry tone.
With that, he turns, leaving me to my racing thoughts.
His words haunt me, twisting themselves into knots in my mind. What did he mean by that? Was this all some sick game to him? Or did I really misread the situation?
My mind is torn in two; one side stating that it doesn’t matter, Michael told me to seduce him, so that’s what I have to do. But if I’m completely honest with myself, nothing I’ve done when it comes to Valentine has anything to do with my husband. It’s all me; what I want.
As I stand there, I bring my hand up to my lips, brushing my fingertips across the spot where Valentine’s thumb was. The ghost of his touch lingers, a phantom caress that sets my skin tingling. I close my eyes, losing myself in the memory of his touch, his words, his presence.
The rejection stings, even more so because it’s Valentine who’s rejecting me. I don’t know why, but his words cut deeper than they should, burrowing into my mind and heart like a poison.
“If you can’t even say what you want, you’re not ready.”
I close my eyes, tension builds inside me, the need for validation and something more from Valentine, almost too much to bear. My body hums with unresolved tension. Suddenly, anger explodes in my veins, making me see red as it bubbles up inside me. I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms.
Who the hell does he think he is to tell me what I want?
I’ve had enough of men telling me what I can or can’t do. What I do or don’t want.