Page 100 of The Ripper

Strong forearms covered in intricate tattoos I couldn’t understand, stained with my name and the red scratches I left on him three years ago. Large palms that could carry me as if I were a feather, though I was anything but. Protruding veins running down to his knuckles that did unholy things to my brain every time I saw them. And those fingers, those deliciously long fingers that could push me up to heaven and hold me there for as long as they wanted, then catch me on the way down.

It was contradictory how the same hands that touched me with the utmost gentleness were capable of absolute carnage. That the hands that were capable of bringing my body to life in the most decadent, unimaginable ways, were the same hands that took life without hesitation and remorse. That the hands that soothed my pain were those of a ruthless criminal.

And the most fucked-up thing was… I didn’t care. I wasn’t disgusted or afraid of him, quite the opposite, I felt safer with him than I ever had with anyone else.

I loved him.

I loved the man he was with me, but I also loved the killer in him and everything that came along with it. His world, the constant adrenaline, even the damned voices in his head that could one day take complete hold of him.

I knew he considered himself a psychopath, but he wasn’t. Not in the pathological sense, at least. Not in my eyes.

A psychopath wouldn’t have worried about my safety and certainly wouldn’t have looked so devastated at the prospect of losing his brother. I chose to believe that he wouldn’t be so good at faking emotion, that his feelings for me were as true as mine were.

I knew that a psychopath could learn to fake empathy and use it to manipulate others into doing what they wanted, but in my heart I knew that the empathy I read on Grimm’s face was real, as were all the other emotions he displayed.

I saw grief, sadness, and so much pain.

Not physical pain, he could take that without even batting an eyelid, but psychological pain. It hurt him down to his core that I had secrets, it made him howl inside, it made him ache more than a broken bone or even a bullet wound.

I wished he really was a psychopath, though.

I wanted it, because then he wouldn’t have to endure the emotional torture that I was putting him through. He wouldn’t have felt it if he was one. He would have been indifferent to it, and he would have been able to think clearly and methodically, as he did in every situation that didn’t involve me.

I wanted it because when we got out of the bathroom and tangled ourselves between the sheets, lost in sweet whispers and gentle caresses, I knew he no longer used his rationality to think about how to protect me, he used his heart. And he would tear it to pieces if his plan didn’t work.

*

“Mamá…”

My cry echoed through the gunshots, louder than I ever thought myself capable of. “No, suéltame!”

I fought against the man who held me in his arms, trying to take me away with him. I scratched at his face and neck. I punched and kicked and screamed at the top of my lungs, begging him to let me go to her because she needed me.

More shots rang around us, their sounds etched in my brain forever.

Faceless men began to run, fleeing the scene.

The army behind me chased them away one by one, shooting as many as they could in the process, but reinforcement arrived much too late.

Finally, when the gunshots faded away, leaving nothing but the ringing in my ears behind, he let go of me and I ran to where her body had fallen.

I tripped over my own feet and fell on the pathway, scraping my knees and palms on the sharp stones.

Sobbing, with my eyes burning from the tears that streamed in rivers down my face, I stood up and barely managed the steps that separated me from her.

“Mamá…” I sank to my knees beside the woman who gave me life and gently pushed the long blonde hair that stuck to her skin out of her face.

She coughed.

Blood spurted out of her mouth while her eyelids fluttered frantically as she struggled to keep her eyes open. My hands shook as I wiped it off, but it kept dripping, and dripping…

Dripping…

“No, mamá, no me dejes, por favor[11],” I cried, trying to turn her on her side so she wouldn’t choke.

“No llores, mi pequeño sol[12],” she said softly, as she always spoke.

The brightest light, the warmest day, my only ray of sunshine, lying between life and death, and my heart sank. The sun burned down on us, but ice began to envelop me as I touched her skin and felt her warmth fading into cold.

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