Chapter 9
Dante
I AM ALL ALONE and that’s my only certainty when everything is fickle and stuck under a film of guarded distance. Everything but my Ophelia.
She's abundance and famine, her essence and blood itself flowing underneath my skin, even when I peel another’s.
This woman is going to be the death of me.
And what a glorious way it would be to go.
"You bastard," Sullivan slurs through the few teeth I've left him with, a stream of dried blood marking the lower half of his face in a grotesque display of his misdeeds.
My eyes travel over his hunched form, not with disgust or pity at what has become of him, but with an indifference on the brink of saturation.
His outer appearance has finally achieved the same foulness hidden on the inside, signifying that my work is close to an end, even though there is always room for improvement; especially for filth such as him.
Muddied orbs are full of apprehension for the next treat I’ve prepared for our early dinner and although he’s all bravado and feigned superiority, the fear that seeps from his pores covers the side of my blade in patches.
Too bad my hunger has long gone; not yesterday or even two years ago. These days my sustenance comes from principle alone, solidified through withheld tears and drained blood, not their screams or pleas. Humans are dreadfully simple with their pain, but tightly entangled in what makes them less than human by choice more readily than nature.
The pain he feels now is not necessarily for my benefit, but rather a consequence. An execution of the evil that stains the world along with the very last name crossed off a long list that slaughtered not only what I loved most, but also my former self without a second thought.
My ego isn’t fed by his maggot like squirming at my feet. I don’t feel a sense of peace at the thought of him swallowing his teeth or an idea of self-righteousness as I inflict my revenge hour by hour, day by day on and under his skin.
No, I do it because I know no any other way. Because I made a choice to let my humanity drip through my tightly closed fist, just so I can pretend that it will make the emptiness lighter.
What I know without a doubt is that when night comes, nothing changes and my glass is more likely to be shattered to pieces rather than half empty. I no longer fight my conscience or control the filter of my guilt. Life is a fraction more bearable that way.
The outcome of my course has yet to be decided; so far, what has been done thoroughly taints me as I deliberately destroy myself while tearing down what killed my past. And my hands stay cold while my soul hurts often as if it were perforated by a knife constantly sticking out of my ribcage whose blade I never even tried removing. Not once.
The pain is also always there and I accept it for what it represents; because in the moments when I witness the fear that blinds their eyes, I am reminded of my vow uttered with a blood-soaked mouth, and through that, the strength, the incentive to keep standing takes over.
"If you're going to waste your words, at least try to be creative," I say with detachment as I drive the blade deeper into his Achilles' heel; cutting into the contracted tendons slowly, methodically, like carving into tree bark.
I am determined to make sure that his hollow image remains in my memory for longer than my freshly sharpened skinning knife can currently provide.
Preserving the sanguine essence of the moment is crucial for those of us who have chosen this path. I need to remind myself of my baser nature; that perhaps I may still have a heart – however polluted it may be despite the fact that my pulse is not always present.
It matters little to me for how long their agonizing screams permeate the walls of my barren existence; how many helpless tears they shed in anger, how much blood I have to scrape from under my nails each one of the nights I let the knife take over while my mind empties.
Nothing alleviates the loss; death cannot be undone, not even by something as malignant in its simplicity, as painfully human as revenge.
However, it's easier to contain it than acceptance, than to move on to nothing.
For all intents and purposes, I'd like to escape this crippling idea. I'm acutely aware that at the end of the day, whatever hell I unleash, it's all just a testament to what I'll never have again. All that remains are writings on the walls of an empty room with no light and no door in sight. And I prefer it over the emptiness that would certainly follow.
The seconds pass, but it still hurts. And I remain distant.
Despondently, my knife cuts like butter through the last of his resistance, my mandatory trademark leaving the last of them, unable to visit even in his dreams, the faintest possibility of ever escaping me.
"Fuck you," he mumbles on a labored breath, with the little strength that still clings to him as he uncontrollably coughs a mosaic of saliva and blood on my granite floors. The very same ones he left me for dead all those years ago.
"Is that the best you've got? Your reputation's taking a beating. Try harder, do better," I say numbly, as I dig under the nail bed of his pinky finger and the last one left intact on both hands.
I wince at the sting on my side from the partially healed wound this parasite himself has inflicted on me as I rise from my crouched position.
Ultimately, I've lived to see the day when his blood coats the soles of my boots, causing them stick to the floor and suddenly the pain doesn't bother me nearly as much.
"Stop, fucking stop you psychopath! I should’ve put you down first instead of – "
Before he can finish my blade is already handle deep into his thigh, blood spraying all over my face, as he screams and trashes violently. The familiar coopery smell both delights and revolts me as I take it out swiftly, only to sink it harder into the same wound I had just provoked; the implications of his words igniting more venom than my body can carry.
Focus , I whisper into the void, needing to calm my demons. Sullivan may have played the main component that day, but my priorities had suffered great alterations when it comes to him.
He took my girl, used his fists until her pale complexion changed several shades, traumatized her to the point of dissociation, ripped her hair in chunks – the soft dark strands clinging like vines all over his suit.
Just like I promised that night, he is hers and I can’t, won’t let myself be selfish with my need to end his miserable life. Until then, he can call himself lucky for living another day in my choice of hell I created specifically for him.
I clean the blade on his pants, slicing easily through the soiled fabric, his anguished screams echoing tenfold as I pour over the cut vodka straight from the bottle.
Refraining doesn’t come easy as I roll a handful of gauze around his throbbing leg while applying unnecessary pressure just for the sake of it, the leather belts around his torso straining once every second.
"How did it feel to hurt yet another woman, huh? Did it make you feel like the man you never were?" I question him in a far calmer voice than the one that howls deep inside me as I circle him.
He doesn’t say a word; instead he spits near my boots with a look of disdain on his face. Wrong move.
I kick him with all of my internalized rage right in the center of his chest. The shock knocks the wind out of him, his bound body along with the chair hitting the cold floor hard. Hopefully he still has some intact bones left in his body, so the impact won’t be for nothing.
Sighing, I lean down, resting an elbow on my bent knee and scratching my cheek with the blade now coated in his blood.
"You’ll die like a coward, weak and worthless. I’ll throw your corpse to the rats in my sewers, then grind your bones to dust and flush them out. And you know what the best part is?" I ask, resting my foot on his sternum.
He spits more blood, this time too dazed with pain to defy me, yet still filled with rage. It makes me wonder if, in spite of his current predicament, he’s more frustrated with himself and the fact that he could’ve prevented it all rather than with his imminent ending. To me, it makes no difference.
"If someone does notice you're gone, they won't care enough to even lift a finger," I say with indifference.
His face grows redder with visible desperation to do something, anything to retaliate. "Fucking kill me already if you even have the…the guts!" he stutters through naked gums, chocking on his saliva.
Seeing him in this weak state, beyond helpless, feels like reaping a bittersweet fruit after a long harvest, although I can’t indulge fully for my girl’s sake. That's the only reason he was kept in a cell for the last two weeks, instead of him floating in the sewers and being ingested in chunks by pests.
"Count your blessings. Your clock is ticking and I promise you'll beg for another day much like this one compared to your dying hour," I say with finality, stumping on his soon to be corpse as I leave him behind.
As much as I’d like to have him rot away, I nod in Kane’s direction to patch him up, making sure he stays alive for at least a few more days.
I head towards the austere command center, located at the front of the cave, where we usually discuss and plan most of our operations at night and our dealings during the day.
This particular underground open area is part of a large subterranean group of caverns, reinforced with concrete to secure the structure of the house above; generations of Malfermos having lived here since it was inherited almost a century ago.
I find Tommy with his feet propped up on the far left side of the twelve-seat solid table that's been here long before I was born, watching a video that's apparently too grainy for further use.
Given the stubborn look in his eyes, he will have the information about the car's template and its driver by the throat after dinner.
"Done for the day?" he asks distractedly while typing with the speed of a seasoned coder, which he actually is when he’s not under a car and giving it a thirteenth life.
"Are we ever done?" I reply tiredly as I crack my knuckles after removing my rings, most of which being in dire need of a good wash after the bloodbath I've put them through.
"I need a glass of something strong for that kind of talk, brother," he yaws as he lifts his thick, muscular arms high in the air, "Going to your girl?"
"Yeah, soon. Had anything to eat?" I ask as we head for the circular staircase connected to the upper floor. With her in mind only, I drag my feet up the cobbled steps as I run my hands over the cold, uneven walls that have seen the unspeakable for countless decades and counting.
"Not yet, but Aurora ordered some food earlier and promised to surprise us with one of her concoctions. I’m telling you, it’s a wonder I am still alive after the last one," he laughs goodheartedly, the love for his six years old daughter seeping through every word leaving his mouth.
"Even on your deathbed, sick with a stomach virus you wouldn’t have the heart to critic her food," I retort as I open the hidden door and I spot my niece leaning on a chair as she stirs in a bowl with a serene expression on her angelic face. "As you should," I add before she comes running towards us with a wooden spoon dripping with batter.
"Uncle Dani, is it done? Can I see?" she asks with wondrous olive eyes, untouched by the world and its ugliness.
"What are you talking about, principessa?" I ask, crouching down to her eye level and tensing inwardly at the sting in my side.
"Last time, remember? You came up smudged all over in red and told me you were painting. Can I see it, please? I promise to lie if I don't like it," she asks in that voice that could get her anything.
She's getting increasingly perceptive and I should be more careful.
"It'll be finished soon, until then I have to clean up," I say, pretending to tap her nose, not wanting to touch her while still wearing someone’s blood. The double meaning doesn’t escape me, yet everything seems to be layered these days.
"Hurry up, dinner will be ready in five," she bellows, twirling like a ballerina towards the counter as I head to wash my hands in the downstairs bathroom. I leave the door ajar for Tommy, who, from the curious look in his eyes, seems to want to discuss something.
"Damn, I've got to hurry with that time machine. They grow up so fast," he says while rubbing his cheek, though I get the feeling he just wants to get his hands closer to his tear ducts, just in case. Aurora is, naturally, the only one capable of reaching that sensitive spot in him.
"What is it?" I ask bluntly, too tired to play along with his effort of uncharacteristic nonchalance.
"How's your girl reacting to you so far? You bulldozed into her life like a hellhound," he asks with genuine intrigue, as if I'm some uncanny creature he's just encountered at a crossroads.
Unblinking, I take a moment to ponder his question as well as his perspective. There's a good chance I would have seen my actions in the same light if I were to observe myself from a distance. I'm nothing if not obsessive, but my subjects of interest have never consisted of women.
Not since Ophelia.
I have never considered the ones before disposable, as if they were an object; my mother raised me better than that. However, none of them ever lit even a whisper of fire in me and carnal pleasure never surpassed cold and dry territories; their minds were not places that inspired my need to delve deeper, all because they were not her and could never be.
Besides, my efforts to pave my own justice have been both the centerpiece and the damnation of my existence for as long as I can remember. Then, by a narrow margin at the end of my crusade, she appeared like an abyss without end or beginning, stealing my nights and consuming all that I had fought so hard to master in order to keep my sanity. Yet, she gifted some of it back just by simply existing in the same room as me.
I know that deep in the basement of my soul, where no one else has ever reached nor entered, that she is what I have always longed for – from the very foundation; there is a sense of belonging that I felt with Ombra from the first second I laid eyes on her that cannot be explained by logic or reason alone.
Therefore I couldn’t stay away from her call; haven’t even tried to begin with. I know myself well enough. That’s why, over the past week, Tommy has made sure I had a plethora of information pertaining the mystery Ophelia Grimes has imposed on my barren life since that day so long ago.
He found everything there could be discovered through both public and hidden data, the word of mouth circulating through the entire country playing a big component in her less than visible affairs.
I gave myself an entire day to devour every crumb, every trail of information at my fingertips about her past, even if the act was nothing but invasive on my part considering she doesn’t even know my name.
I’m not ashamed to admit that I am a selfish man with selfish needs, who craves control more than any vices that could ever be bought or in my case stolen. Mostly because it had been ripped from me with an indifference that still haunts me to this day and probably always will. Even in afterlife and beyond.
The sharpest of teeth sunk into my heart as I read countless headlines dating from over a decade ago, speaking so matter-of-factly about the life of a young girl cruelly torn apart by her own blood. Even the mental image captured in ink on paper painted a scenario so harrowing that even now I find it painful to digest.
After the violent early days of her life, information about the years that followed is sparse and seemingly carefully selected. I can only presume that she learned her craft through her grandmother, who was considered the town's witch. To this day, rumor has it that she enjoyed playing with dark magic and organized rituals once every full moon.
These claims must have contained a grain of truth, given that Ophelia is now one of the most sought-after mediums in the country, both by the desperate and the police.
I can’t help but feel a sense of pride at her resilience and passion that drove her to become this remarkable woman she was always destined to be, despite the immense loss she suffered; of what life has taken from her.
Instead, she chose to be the selfless hand in the dark for those who need her most, rather than the one who abuses her own power on the principle that she has been bitten down to the bone more than once.
Besides her being a woman who could only inspire devotion, whose beauty could be an artist’s muse in any timeline – Ophelia had only a few short-lived relationships that didn't carry much weight. The faint hearted fuckers run for the hills as soon as they've discovered her proclivities for the morbid and love for the unusual. Having the guts for something extraordinary wasn’t in the cards for them, not that it would’ve matter once my eyes landed on her for the second and last time.
The more I feel her seeping through my crevices, the more I feel the all-consuming need to see beyond the dark corridors of her mind; to unlock the doors no one ever dared to enter, to taste the forbidden fruit of what consumes her when the lights are out.
When I walked into her home for the first time I didn’t look beyond the obvious, her cat’s entrapping eyes holding me still in the dim hallway as if she were her protector and I the predator invading her territory.
All it took for her to see past the exterior was for me to show the inside of my palm and ever since she trusted me because, much like Ophelia, she felt me beyond appearances.
That night in the kitchen was a particularly tough one and I needed to be near her; the fact that she woke up and followed my trail of nicotine and misery was as unexpected for her as it was for me.
Ophelia's initial reaction remains a mystery to this day. I never had a specific plan when it came to approaching her; all I needed was to have her by my side in any capacity, regardless of conventionality. However, keeping my identity hidden was an intentional choice on my part.
I didn't give much thought to how she might react to my presence, to my insistence on invading every facet of her being and life. Yet, just like an exception in a sea of people ruled by fear, my shadow chose to perceive me purely by instinct and, to my bewilderment, was as fascinated by me as I am of her.
The call, the crashing waves on the rocky shores between us is a force too great to be ignored, too powerful to be devalued by conformity and rules. We are two individuals with personal histories abounding in blood, too contorted in themselves for societal norms to be applied.
I am well aware that I am a fortunate man, given that the woman who has captured my mind and soul has a profound inclination towards the unseen, unpaved side of life.
Our peculiar bond suits us; at least for the present moment, even if she will remain confused and grow thirstier for a while longer.
I sleep well, at least when the rare occasion arises, knowing I make her as restless and needy as I am for her. And if she gets too caught up in our maze, she has the means to find out more about me from her own sources, until the time comes to unravel it all.
This dark path, although conquered individually, is ours and she is mine to have, to possess until the blood in me no longer flows. Just as I am hers.
Time. I will let it sift through my fingers until I become the air she breathes, until she understands that the questions are futile, since the answers are already deeply woven into our shared roots.
Mine, she has always been mine, and now that I have found her, not even death itself could keep me away from her. This is the only notion I know and trust with unshakable conviction.
"I think any other woman would have reacted entirely different in the context I created for us. But Ophelia is special. She actually sees, feels the world differently than we do. She has her own compass and perceives the world beyond the obvious," I answer Tommy, as we head back into the kitchen.
Once there, we are assailed by pure chaos at its finest. Through apparent trials and tribulations, Aurora has already laid out the cutlery, placing a covered bowl in the center and a sofa cushion on top of her chair at the end of the table.
I give her a proud smile as she tears off a handful of napkins, while I pour myself and Tommy a few fingers of aged bourbon.
"She’s already got you wrapped around her finger," he laughs, downing half his drink in one go. "How much did she see of you? Not that it matters, you’re a good-looking fella but far from prince charming."
"Not a thing," I answer simply, amused by his baffled expression.
"What do you mean?" he asks, rubbing his chin.
"I didn’t let her see anything beyond my eyes; she heard my voice while we shared that room at Marizia’s and nothing else ever since."
"Oh boy," he says while shaking his head in disbelief.
I don't blame him. Between my body that has gone through countless hours of extensive full expanse tattoo sessions and my burnt lower face also covered in ink, I’m far from being an ordinary sight.
My vocal box has been almost entirely cut, the jagged scars still very much visible and palpable to this day – as a direct consequence my voice has been damaged almost to no repair. Thankfully, the years took care of most of the healing and nowadays I only find myself in a deeper and lower vocal timbre.
I am well aware that the sight of me will at least shock her, like it does to most people at first sight. Her genuine reaction remains to be seen, but deep down, I know the matters of the material and physical will be the least of her worries where I’m concerned.
My life, my doings, the way I choose to deal with my demons is what truly weights me down when it comes to her. That is the reason why I want Ophelia to feel me, darkness and all, without the distraction of my outer appearance; with no empathy linked to what had happened to me. Only then the walls between us can be demolished for good.
"Indeed," I note while swallowing the last of the hard liquor.
"Well, you have my blessing, but between us, what I’ve found about her creeps me out," he says in a conspiring tone, side eyeing me while he makes himself comfortable at the table.
I'm not surprised. Even though I know he means well, Tommy has never been much into the paranormal. Perhaps it's because he fears the unseen and chooses to ignore it, or because he's always preferred to keep a safe distance from what's transpiring beneath the surface; although, in my eyes, these comforts come at a hefty price that I have never been willing to pay.
Life is too short to be lived in fearful perceptions.
"Careful," I caution as I help Aurora into her chair while my eyes are on her father, making sure he understands the meaning of my message.
No one, not even my closest friend has the right to judge or bad mouth her, especially at my table.
"Fratello, the girl talks to ghosts more than people. She is known in certain circles as the 'Bearer of Death' because she usually finds those she is looking for beyond a state of decay. Imagine getting a call from her after asking for help. It gives me the chills," he whispers heatedly in Italian for Aurora's sake, the images he just conjured up probably scarring him more than any gruesome acts we've ever committed out of sheer need for revenge. The biting paradox of fate is not to be ignored.
"I find it remarkable; her abilities are rare in a world of money hungry scammers. She’s helping families find peace, offers the victims the chance to rest after a proper funeral and vindicates the last moments they were forced to endure at the hand of their murderers by finding and stopping them. What she does is extremely selfless and brave," I state colder than I intended, the need to protect her fiercer than the one to accommodate Tommy’s sensibilities even though he’s the closest thing to a brother I ever had. Be that as it may, what I feel for Ophelia goes beyond blood, selfish and flat as it may sound.
"Yeah, I get it, but be careful. You’ve already been through enough," he says with eyes that speak of nothing but care and in spite of his moot point, I appreciate it more than I show it these days.
"I know what I’m doing brother," I say, nodding my head and letting him know that all is good between us.
"Dinner is served!" Aurora sing songs, clapping her hands once in order to silence us, before lifting the lid covering the bowl. Fried chicken dipped in caramel sauce.
Well, it’s a feast for the wicked given by the innocent and the only thing missing is my Ophelia – licking her fingers while I get drunk on her.
principessa, it . n. (feminine) princess.
* * *
Drained down to the soul, I linger in the garage, feeling robbed. The irony.
I sweep my fingers over the smooth frame of my bike, the unbearable urge to go back into the underground and end Sullivan’s poor excuse of an existence, taking hold over me all over again.
He stole one of my only freedoms, leaving me able to ride for no more than one time, before the stiches broke open from the constant strain I put them under.
Nothing compares to the unhinged power it exudes, the fluidity of utter lack of restriction at the mercy of my fingertips; the way I dominate the road in a blank state of mind when nothing becomes everything.
There has always been this constant intoxicating mix of anxiety and desperation, bargaining with me to go faster until the smell of burning rubber reaches my nostrils; this need to feel the temperature gradually drop with every second I push it harder, as if encased in a parallel dimension with its own climate.
In those moments, an inch away from the edge, each bump in the road forces me to become hyperaware of both my transience and mortality as I escape the clutches of death – which has followed me closely without slowing down ever since I became aware of its imminence.
As a consequence, the nearer I get to its shadowy silhouette that has been haunting me since that day, the more alive I feel.
There are seconds when I touch the border between delusion and reality, crossing both my own and my bike's limits as I hear along the current the echo of their voices; blending, sometimes screaming or laughing erratically with an alien joy. Those nights grant me the greatest relief and the bitterest of tortures.
I sigh resignedly as I fish out the keys of my good old muscle car. As soon as I exit the garage and roll down the window, I relax under the cool air cascading down the side of my face as I drive into the city tunnels, the stark lights occasionally clashing with the darkness.
The second I reach her apartment complex, I take off my mask and gloves, making sure not even a strip of my skin remains visible. In a way, it has become a ritual. One I've come to treasure since I do it just for us. Even though I know how badly she wants me to give it up.
With the replica of the apartment keys I made a few days ago, I quietly unlock the door as if it were my own home. Coblina greets me in the hallway as per usual, her curious eyes scanning me from head to toe. Somehow, I think she sensed my presence long before I stepped into the elevator.
"Hello there, topolina. How's my ombra?" I whisper as I stroke her chin, wanting to find out from her only companion how she is feeling.
Coblina yawns in response as I take out a treat, which I find myself buying every time I walk into a gas station.
I leave her be as I silently make my way to the bedroom where I instinctively know I will find my shadow – the familiar scent of burnt herbs and old Victorian furniture already etched under my senses like an invisible map.
My steps halt in the doorway as I drink Ophelia in. She's in her bed, propped up against the headboard, covered in a burgundy blanket and surrounded by a plethora of papers and open books. The large canopy makes her appear as someone from another time who mistook the way and landed in our era.
God, the image of her in the soft glow of the candlelit room never ceases to steal the air from my lungs.
Ever so achingly beautiful. So very mine.
I would give her my blood right this moment – every last drop of it, if she would let me live under her skin, until I become as vital a part of her as she became my oxygen.
Out of my mind with overflowing need, that's what she reduces me to and I wouldn't change a thing.
"Oh, God!" she cries, pressing herself higher on the bed frame before meeting my eyes with her stormy ones as she wraps her hand around her neck. My neck.
At the sound of her trembling voice, I can't help but imagine the same words coming out of her plump lips in an entirely different scenario. How she'll scream them amidst chanting my name like a prayer. Just then getting to understand the hunger and emptiness I feel when I don't have her by my side.
I lean against the frame, my left hand resting on the top part; wanting her to know that there's no getting away from me.
"If you'll continue intruding my home, at least take your shoes off," she says lightly, trying to subdue the contradicting emotions written all over her regal face.
Trepidation. Turmoil. Desire.
She swallows, observing with knowing ease my dark form. I love the way her gaze travels over my body and always lingers on my eyes of all places. The way she tries to read me between the lines, deciding for herself what she sees in me, what I represent to her beyond the apparent.
Anything for you , I think to myself; hoping that she sees the bare emotion written all over me as I bow down before her bed frame and unlace my boots unhurriedly.
"Take your mask off," she demands in haste while leaning her body forward on her fingertips. My daring bargainer.
Anything but that, ombra.
At least for the foreseeable future.
I shake my head once, leaving no place for further discussion.
A heavy silence follows; the sight of her disheartened eyes, making me feel like a pile of bricks had fallen over my shoulders in thousands – their weight leaving my body along with my battered soul on her oak floors.
I need her fiery, burning with emotion, flooded by the fervor simmering between us.
I’ve seen her from afar. She’s dormant, hiding, pretending not to be numb for the sake of others. And although I adore her every facet all the same, I want her to feel, to simply be when she’s with me.
I’ve also observed how, when we are together, another side emerges and I’d hate to be the reason she retracts back into her shell just because I’m momentarily denying her the inevitable.
At the sound of my repressed breath finally escaping me, she leaves her blanket behind and crawls on all fours without holding back the power she unknowingly has over me.
"What happened?" my shadow asks with a tender voice. A voice, that resonates in my chest louder than a pipe organ in an abandoned cathedral ever could.
Without giving me any time to react or interpret the thread of emotion behind her eyes, she takes my hand in hers as she quietly guides me towards the window.
I firmly doubt an entire lifetime will ever be enough for me to get used to the soul consuming feeling of her skin on mine. To the delicious current traveling between the two of us that is both a wild fire heating my veins and a monsoon making me desire to hide her into my chest while the world goes to ruin.
I pause, watching puzzled as she moves the heavy curtains that separate the intimate universe of her space from the world outside, followed swiftly by her opening the window.
The city sounds below us seem deafening compared to the utter silence of her home, as if the space in itself has its own life, far removed from everything false and cruel – the very things that make life as I know it a predictable constant.
She lets go of my hand, looking at me with vehemence before propping her body on the edge of the window sill, further provoking me with those haunting eyes,
Ensnared, I watch the blood-red sunset behind us transform her silhouette into nothing more than a dark shadow.
I still and so does the blood in me.
My heart pumps twice as fast at the sight of her turning around and letting her legs hang eleven stories high.
Utterly mad, that’s what she is. How…touching. Bewitching.
Instead of taking hold of her waist and dragging her back to safety, I clench my fist and grit my teeth; fighting to resist my innate need to control in order to protect. Because, above all, I want to see her darkness, to understand and trust her beyond my needs.
And also given that I'm just as madly unstable when it comes to this fascinating woman.
So I let her do what she needs to in spite of reason, even though my veins are knotting and untangling in distress at the sight of Ophelia raising to her full height on the building’s edge. She looks down at me for the briefest of seconds, with a silent dare in those dark grey eyes as her fingers let go, one by one, from the window frame.
No more than two seconds pass before she disappears from my view, only the sight of her robe fluttering in the wind cementing my conviction that she might as well not be human.
The things I’ll do to you for this stunt, Ophelia Grimes.
I follow her, lost in a feral trance and slightly relieved seeing that the structure of the ledge between the brick fa?ade and the edge is wider and safer than I initially imagined it; being framed by a low iron fence, given that it's the penthouse. The people below seem nothing more than insects from up here, the molten lava of the sky casting a devilish glow over the building's fa?ade.
As it has always been with us, I don’t need to look at her in order to feel her moods, her hunger. She's on the edge, but not the kind that's currently burning the soles of my feet with a rigid numbness.
No, my Ophelia trembles like a wounded animal and I have the feeling that by only giving her what she wants, I’ll be able to lick her into healing.
You stubborn, majestic woman.
She's an arm's length away with eyes filled with anticipation, clinging to the wall with steady hands and leaning against the pillar separating the apartments.
Oh, you better be shadow of mine, 'cause I am starving and you’re my last meal.
That midnight black robe, which must have been created to doom me to all hells until I tear it from her body, undulates in the late autumn wind; baring the side of her thigh and making her appear like a ghost at the edge of the world, the dying light of day casting her in a forbidding shadow.
One of the mortals – from the distance she may appear like one, but I know better. Ophelia is anything but that, especially at this moment suspended in time, as she lowers her body until she is seated and crosses her feet unhurriedly before me like nothing is out of the ordinary.
No more than three fingers stand between us and the void below, waiting intently for a misstep.
She looks for danger and I’ll gladly give it to her.
And Dio mio, that gaze – whom I recognized early on for the carnivorous flower hiding in plain sight that she is, eats me alive as if I were now her prey and she the hunter.
"Give me your name," she breathes in that velvety seductive voice, before moving her leg toward the edge and through the gaps in the fence, letting it fall under the abyss beneath her.
Hmm, my bold girl likes to play with fire and hopefully she is prepared for a bathtub worth of kerosene.
I give her a sharp look, letting her know that she’s getting close to my limit; that by threatening me with her life, no matter the context, does nothing but make me want lock her between my ribs until she understands that no one, not even herself can even think of such blasphemy.
It takes no more than four steps before the tips of our toes touch; my eyes ravening her elegant form lying still at heights greater than any structure ever built by man.
She waits for me there, motionless and trusting – that vein in her neck that never fails to tell me everything her words refuse to, beckoning me to follow with its rushed pulse.
And I comply, because as much as I want to bite into that mind of hers for taunting me I can’t tell her ' no ' . I don’t think I’ll ever be able to.
I lower my body slowly over hers, rejoicing in the pure hunger mixed with a dash of fear pooling in her eyes.
She appears so small under my much larger frame, so frail yet all quiet power and female. The only one able to destroy me with the flick of her tongue, with a simple batting of an eyelash.
I hover above her on my forearms, lowering my lips and letting them pave their own path from her neck to her ear.
At the sight of goosebumps that never fail to appear every time my breath grazes her skin, the blood in my veins starts to slowly burn me from the inside, awakening the animal in me that wants to consume her until she is fully integrated in my system.
To the point of bruising, I sink my hips into hers with sinful roughness, moving us considerable inches closer to the edge. Although a sound doesn’t leave my lips, internally I am screaming in pure, unadulterated bliss because damn it all, she was made for me. Body, mind and fucking soul.
"If you ever do that again," I whisper, my already deep voice reaching devilish territories, "Mia ombra, there will be consequences that will leave you speechless yourself," I say pushing into her again, needing to make my point clearer and that much more delicious.
"It's you," she whimpers in disbelief at the realization, splaying her trembling fingers across her breastbone, those long sharp nails marking her skin as she chokes the words, "The man who held my hand…who saved me."
topolina it . n., little mouse
"Dio mio", it . n. my God.