Page 93 of The Ripper

Whatever Arella was hiding, it had nothing to do with me or what was growing between us, it had to do with her past and why she ran away from it, and I was going to turn the world to ruin until I found the one who was coming after her.

If what Hannibal told me was true, and the men who were following her were truly her protectors, not stalkers, that meant whoever was coming for her didn’t want to hurt her.

However, since the whole doorknob thing happened after I made our relationship public, I could safely assume the people behind it wanted me out of the picture.

She was safe until I showed up and messed up her life.

It was my fault. For everything.

“Can we order in?” she asked as I parked the car in the garage and turned off the engine.

“Yeah, sure.”

I got out of the car, and for the first time — without even realizing it — I didn’t open the door for her. She didn’t seem to mind, but she could tell I was on the verge of breaking. I guessed that was why she didn’t say anything to me during the elevator ride, and I tried hard not to lose my shit and start questioning her, especially since part of me wondered why she was never the one to initiate a kiss.

~ Because she doesn’t want to kiss you. She does it because she has to.

“Grimm, what’s wrong?” She grabbed me by the arm as I took off my boots, forcing me to turn and face her.

“You tell me,” I sighed. “You’re the one keeping secrets.”

She gulped and let go of my arm as if it burned her. Admittedly, my tone wasn’t the one she was used to.

It wasn’t the soft voice I used to whisper fucking poetry to her, nor the demanding one I used for dirty talk. It was the one I used with everyone else in my life, and she wasn’t accustomed to it being directed at her.

But I had to know.

I had to know what the hell was going on, because I had never been so confused in my entire life.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied, turning her head to the side and avoiding eye contact.

Just like she always did when she was fucking lying.

“What’s your name?”

“W-what?” she stuttered, looking up at me.

“What. Is. Your. Name?”

“Grimm, you know my name,” she shook her head and took a step towards me, and for the first time, I was the one who took a step back.

Not because I was scared of her or because I didn’t want her to touch me, but because I was afraid of myself. I was afraid of hurting her because of the anger that kept burning brighter inside me.

Fear was another feeling I’d never known until I met her, and I shoved my hands in my pockets to avoid hitting the nearest surface.

“I know the name you told me. I know the name you wrote in your notebook three years ago. I know the name you use, but I don’t know the name you were fucking born with,” I raised my voice.

I could see the fear in her eyes, but it wasn’t directed at me. She was afraid of what I’d found out, afraid of herself and of the people coming for her, and her reaction raised another line of questions.

“I can’t tell you that,” her voice softened as she started shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“Why the fuck not?” I shouted, stepping closer to her.

“Because she’s fucking dead,” she yelled right back, and I almost flinched.

Almost.

All that pain in her voice, the way it cracked, and how fast the tears ran out of her eyes, which she wiped away as if they disgusted her.

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