Chapter 19
The Hunter
T he morning light filters through the windows of my loft, casting sharp, angular shadows across the room. I stand in front of the full-length mirror, carefully adjusting the cuffs of my tailored shirt. Every movement is deliberate. There’s a method to my routine, one that has been perfected over years of practice.
I smooth the collar of my shirt and pull on my suit jacket. The rich fabric hugs my frame, accentuating the controlled power I radiate. I take my time, savoring the ritual—preparing for the role I will play today.
In the mirror, my dark eyes meet my own reflection, gleaming with the barely concealed darkness beneath. There’s a thrill in the deception, in the artful mask I’ve crafted.
To the world, I am a respected professor, a mentor to eager minds, but beneath that veneer lies the predator. It’s a game I play with finesse. I move through life unnoticed, a wolf among sheep, and today is no different.
I adjust my tie, the silken material gliding through my fingers. It’s a small, final detail, but perfection lies in the details. The sharp crease in my slacks, the polished leather of my shoes gleaming under the morning light, the scent of my aftershave—each element is part of the perfor mance.
By the time I leave my loft, I am Valentine Grant, a man of stature, poised to step into a day of instructing young minds on an outing to the courthouse.
A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as I step out into the biting air and head toward my destination.
Today is unlike any other day. The reason for my good mood is the class excursion we’re doing. Once a year, I like to take my class to witness a real life trial. While it’s all masked as an opportunity to observe their studies in the perfect environment, it’s so much more than that beneath the surface.
The grandeur of the Thurgood Marshall U.S. Courthouse stands before me, a towering symbol of justice. To me, it’s merely another theater, another stage for humanity to play out its little dramas without having an inkling who walks amongst them. To my students, it represents the law.
They gather around me, wide-eyed and eager as always, unaware of how close they stand to a wolf in disguise. I lead them inside the building, my footsteps echoing off the marble floors.
“Remember,” I say, my voice calm but authoritative. “This is an opportunity to observe a real life case. Take detailed notes, and pay attention to the nuances. What you see here is just the surface. There’s always more beneath.” I catch Ruby’s eye as I say this, her green gaze sharp and penetrating.
We enter the courtroom, a space designed to inspire awe with its dark wood paneling and high ceilings. My students settle into their seats, their pens at the ready. I want to laugh at the absurdity of it.
When my class first started, they all showed up with their laptops and tablets. But after observing me using old school pen and paper, they’ve defied technological evolution and reverted to using dated tools.
“Wow,” one student mutters.
“This is exactly what I imagined,” another adds.
Many of them look around with awed expressions, and I have to remind myself that to them, this trial is an exercise in justice. To me, it’s a reminder of the system’s futility. The court may put criminals behind bars, but the real predators—the ones like me—remain unseen, untouched.
The trial begins with the prosecutor’s opening statement, his voice ringing out through the room as he lays out the case against the defendant—a man accused of arson.
I listen with half-hearted interest, my attention divided between the theatrics unfolding in the courtroom and the reactions of my students. They hang on every word, scribbling notes furiously, while I lean back, absorbing the atmosphere.
Mentally, I scoff at how weak the arsonist is. His eyes dart around the room, sweat collecting at his temples. He’s made the cardinal sin of any predator; he got caught. I, on the other hand, am untouchable. The thought fuels the simmering excitement in my veins.
The prosecutor drones on, detailing the man’s failures, his foolish mistakes. I smirk. The law is designed to catch the careless, the impulsive, but those who plan, those who control their instincts, remain free.
I am the living proof of that.
As the defense attorney rises, I note a shift in the room. The students lean in, eager for a counterargument. The attorney’s words, however, fall flat. The jury isn’t swayed, and neither am I. This man has already lost, even if the verdict hasn’t yet been delivered. He’s just a rodent caught in a trap, scrambling for freedom.
But as much as I disdain him, I also recognize the kinship. He’s still a predator, no matter how clumsy. He burned what he couldn’t control, and now he’s here, begging for mercy. His desperation is palpable, his weakness plain for all to see. I feel a flicker of secondhand embarrassment. How pathetic.
As the trial continues, I focus on Ruby. She sits a little apart from the others, her posture straight, her face impassive. She’s taking it all in, but I sense the gears turning in her mind. Unlike her peers, she’s not content to accept what’s in front of her.
There’s a hunger in her, a need to understand the mechanics of power and control. It’s what makes her different. What makes her dangerous—and intriguing.
Whe n the prosecutor calls the arsonist to the stand, the courtroom falls into a hush. His voice trembles as he recounts the events, his hands shaking as they grip the podium. “I didn’t mean to do it,” he stammers. “I lost control.”
Pathetic.
I watch with detached amusement as he attempts to justify his actions. The jury remains unmoved, their faces stony. They’ve already made up their minds, as have I. This man is weak. But Ruby—she watches him with intensity, her gaze unwavering. It’s that depth that draws me in.
Leaning closer to one of my students, I murmur, “Pay attention to the defendant’s body language. Fear tells you more than words ever could.”
He nods eagerly, scribbling down my insight, but my thoughts remain fixed on Ruby. What is she seeing? What conclusions is she drawing? I wonder if she’s considering how easily a person can unravel when stripped of their control. And if she is, is she aware of how close she’s come to that edge herself?
After the closing arguments, the jury retires to deliberate. The students file out of the courtroom, buzzing with excitement and chatter. I follow them into the courthouse atrium, where they begin discussing the case amongst themselves. But I’m not listening.
I sense her before I see her. Detective Sullivan strides toward me, a confident smile on her face. “Valentine,” she greets me, her eyes flicking over the group of students. “Good to see you.”
I introduce her to the students, and they immediately swarm around. I stand back, watching her answer their questions with ease. She’s competent, skilled even. But unlike the students, she doesn’t captivate me. My gaze slides past her to Ruby, who stands on the edge of the group, her arms crossed, her gaze locked on me.
There’s something there—a challenge, perhaps. A shiver runs down my spine, but it’s quickly replaced by the thrill of her attention. She’s trying to see through me, to peel back the mask I wear. And that excites me.
“Detective Sullivan,” I say smoothly, “was instrumental in solving this case. Her ability to find the cracks in a suspect’s story is unpara lleled.”
Ruby’s gaze narrows slightly, and for the first time today, I feel a genuine flicker of something close to unease. But it’s fleeting. The challenge in her eyes only deepens my interest.
“You flatter me,” the detective smiles. “We couldn’t have done it without your help. Your insights and ability to pick up even the slightest pattern really helped us a lot.”
“Wait, you assisted with this case?” a student asks.
I smile. “I tried to,” I reply.
Both Detective Sullivan and myself know I did more than help, I practically solved the entire thing. But I don’t need credit, so I’m happy to pass it on.
The truth is that I don’t help because I’m a dogooder. I do it because I get a high from being right under their nose without anyone knowing. It’s reckless, but so damn intoxicating.
By the time we leave the courthouse, darkness has fallen, and the students are practically buzzing with the day’s events.
Still ecstatic that I’ve spent the day amongst the very people who would want to lock me up for good, without anyone realizing my true nature, I make an uncharacteristic suggestion. “Why don’t we all go for a drink?”
They hesitate at first, caught off guard by the offer, but soon enough, the prospect of drinking with their professor outweighs any concerns for about half of the group. I wish I could say it was a power play, a way to bend lines and make them question authorities.
But today, that would be a lie. The truth is much simpler, a lot less deviant; I want to celebrate.
At the bar, we settle into a large booth. The low hum of conversation, the dim lighting, and the alcohol create an intimate atmosphere. The students’ chatter fills the space, but I remain quiet, observing. I let them relax, let their guards drop.
I glance at Ruby again, watching her sip her drink, her eyes fixed on the people around her. She’s still calculating, still observing. The guy next to her strikes up a conversation, even slightly moving closer to her.
Our eyes meet as she looks away from him, and I shake my head, my mouth set in a grim line. Whether she knows it or not, she’s mine, and I don’t allow others that close to what’s mine.