Page 9 of The Ripper

“Yeah?”

“What is your name?”

I stopped breathing for a second, and a smirk ghosted my lips before I answered, one she couldn’t see as it lay hidden under the mask.

“Grimm.”

She shook her head, laughing, then she disappeared down the hallway, taking whatever laid inside my chest with her.

CHAPTER 3

THE WOMAN IN WHITE

GRIMM

3 years ago

I always hated flying, but somehow, I was always on an airplane.

A professional flaw, I supposed, only this time it was intentional, as she was going to be on the same flight, in the seat right next to mine.

When I reached my row, I opted for the window seat, even though my ticket indicated the middle one. I liked seeing people squirm when they had to sit next to me, especially when I deliberately took their spot, but so far no one had ever had the courage to ask me to move.

I understood why, though it disappointed me a little.

I didn’t look like an approachable person, and my behavior screamed psychopath. Undiagnosed, but still, I had all the traits except the difficulty in recognizing emotions.

Anger, disgust, hate, apathy, frustration, annoyance… were all emotions I recognized and felt on a daily basis.

Happiness, on the other hand, not so much.

Not for lack of trying, but how was I supposed to learn about happiness when all I knew was carnage?

I think I’d felt it once, for those twenty minutes when I danced with her and every drunk, loud, annoying student faded into the background, leaving nothing but me and her, swirling in a space that was entirely our own. It happened no more than a year ago, but it felt much longer than that.

Was happiness even a feeling that could be learned?

If so, I hoped she would teach me someday, because if there was anyone who wore happiness like a second skin, it was Arella.

I was good at learning things, having been taught from a young age that knowledge was power, and while physical strength was an important asset in my profession, I needed more than that to defeat my opponents.

Sure, I could inflict a lot of pain and was familiar with all kinds of physical torture, but some were strong enough to withstand.

Emotional torture, on the other hand, playing with a person’s mind, breaking them until not even a fragment of who they were was left… That was my favorite work.

The manipulation. The cat-and-mouse game. It made me feel powerful, gave me a sense of fucked-up happiness that was gone as soon as the adrenaline rush subsided, then I went back to feeling numb and bored.

Stuck in the same pattern as always.

She didn’t fit in that pattern.

Ever since my father gave me my first assignment, I made sure to keep human interaction to a minimum. I didn’t talk much unless it was dirty talk with a woman while she was under me or, on very rare occasions, on top of me. Not that I didn’t enjoy a woman on top, but I liked being the one in control. I liked to have them at my mercy. I liked dominating them, seeing how long it took to make them shatter, how loud I could make them scream in pleasure.

How loud could I make her scream?

I found talking overrated — unless I was talking with my fists — and although communication seemed to be the foundation of any healthy connection, I preferred to act. It wasn’t my fault that people didn’t understand the reasoning behind the action, since most of them were too stupid to even function properly, anyway.

Everyone rushed to find their seats around me, and there was still no sign of her. Had I made a mistake?