CHAPTER 1
HOW IT ALL BEGAN
GRIMM
6 years ago
I was an unfeeling ghost.
I ate the same meal almost every day, slept the same number of hours, drank copious amounts of vodka, drove the same car – though I had a dozen of them – and I was bored out of my mind.
The only thing that kept changing was the woman who warmed my bed, and I was slowly getting tired of sleeping around as well, because they were all so… tedious. They never argued, never talked back. Nothing was new anymore. There were no shivers running down my spine, no conversation to keep me interested before or after the no-thrill sex, no fucking essence.
Empty shells, devoid of personality, fucking barren, and I was so sick of it that I considered going celibate.
And I put an end to that “considering” phase,
because in reality sex was one of the two ways I could feel the slightest amount of pleasure these fucking days.
The other was killing.
Sadly, the relief I got out of watching the life drain out of someone’s eyes came less and less lately, since my missions now consisted of sending messages to rival families, threats and such. Brutal ones, not going to lie, but not even those thrilled me anymore, as I missed the thrill that killing everyday used to give me.
Nothing tickled my interest.
All I wanted was a bold woman to push me around a little, keep me on my toes and call me out on my bullshit, and a nice, warm bloodbath. Was that too much to ask?
~ You’re such a pretentious ass.
~ Guess who I learned that from?
~ Not me, I’m a people person.
~ Yeah, a dead people person.
~ Still, it includes the words ‘people’ and ‘person’.
I was dead inside, and barely living on the outside.
That’s what happened when you grew up surrounded by death from day one, given the fact that my father made it his mission in life to toughen me up, prepare me for the future and such, therefore not hiding any of the many bloody ways in which someone could bite the dust.
I was a necessary child, born to carry on his name, raised in his image, meant to rule over his empire and be as ruthless and cunning as him. The fucking heir to his ever-growing organization, ready to kill on command and not question the reason for it.
I was introduced to murder at age five, and almost every day since then. He molded me into the perfect killer, turned me into a machine, and that is all I knew for most of my life.
~ Lucky you have me.
~ You’re a thorn in my side.
~ I’m what makes you interesting, you moron.
I rarely felt things, and when I did, they were usually emotions that would make me sick to my stomach, that would make my hand curl into tight fists, which is why I couldn’t understand what was happening in my body and my brain when I first saw her.
It wasn’t logical, really, since what attracted me to her was the fact that she stumbled on her feet and fell to her knees a few feet away from me, the contents of her bag spilling out onto the grass. I remained unmoved, pushing the sunglasses up on my nose as I watched her gather the various things that fell out.
Something shifted in me when she quickly grabbed the butterfly knife and threw it in her purse, looking around to see if anyone noticed she was carrying a blade around with her. Weirdly enough, she didn’t see me, because I was lurking in the shadows, inconspicuously leaning against a tree.
Why would a college student have a butterfly knife? Did she ever use it? Did she even know how to use it?
~ Why, you want her to use it on you?
~ Maybe.
Maybe indeed.
I clicked my tongue as I watched her stand up, following her steps as I brought a cigarette up to my mouth and lit it, then frowned when she stopped next to my sister, also known as the reason for my presence on campus.
Granted, Willow was only my half-sister. My birth mother, Olivia Moore, gave me away without even looking at me after finding out what sort of monster my father was, and she got married around the time I shot my first gun. I was eight years old.
I had no idea why I looked for the woman who gave me life, considering that she only agreed to keep the pregnancy after my father – never dad – swore that she never had to see either of us ever again.
Maybe I was just curious about what she looked like, maybe I wanted to confront her about abandoning me, but I never interacted with her, as there was a promise to be kept.
And so, imagine my fucking surprise when I found out she was happily married and had another child. One whom she adored, because Willow was born out of love, not out of threat.
Maybe I should have resented her for receiving all the motherly love I never did, but one look at Willow and all the hate I was prepared to feel towards her evaporated into thin air. From that moment on, I decided to stay hidden in the shadows, always keeping an eye on her. She was blood, and it wasn’t her fault that I was given away, so I couldn’t treat her differently just because I didn’t know her, right?
Truth be told, maybe I just liked the feeling.
The sense that I was helping someone for a change, that I was doing something good on top of all the bad, or maybe I was just selfish.
~ You are definitely selfish.
I hit the side of my head with the bridge of my palm to shut him up. It didn’t work, though. It never did.
I checked on Willow once a month, making sure she was safe and healthy, dropping a few hundred dollars in her bank account here and there without raising suspicion, and generally looking after her well-being.
~ Look at you, being all kind and shit.
Boston was shit, to be honest, but whatever, as long as I knew she was alright, I could go back to Chicago, back to murder and chaos.
Cue the intriguing blonde with a knife in her purse, who was now talking to my sister and somehow making Harvard less shitty.
I was supposed to make sure Willow got to her dorm safely, then leave, but this time I found myself lingering a little longer.
~ You’re not making any sense.
~ Then maybe you should just shut up.
It happened sometimes.
My brain would fixate on someone out of fucking nowhere, man or woman, for no reason whatsoever, trying to understand what made them who they were, picking them apart until there were no secrets left, and then it would get bored and move on.
Granted, I had always had a predisposition to obsess over things and people when they spiked my interest – which didn’t happen very often – but this time, my God, this time the air seemed to turn toxic around me as I took her in. It felt like a slope into sin to look at her.
Right now, that same brain fixated on her.
I wondered why a college student was carrying a weapon in her bag, especially during the day. I understood the need to feel safe at night, when walking alone, but why on campus? Didn’t they check for things like this? Wasn’t there a rule against sharp objects? Was she a safety risk for my sister?
Did something happen to her that made her feel like she needed that knife? Was she scared of something? Someone?
What happened to you?
I nearly flinched as they shook hands, exchanging what I assumed were their names, because I noticed a long scar on the inside of her arm.
I tilted my head to the side and frowned, taking off my sunglasses as if that would have helped me see better.
Who did that to you?
~ Maybe she did it to herself.
~ Why would she do that?
~ Why do people do anything?
~ To feel something?
~ Or to stop feeling once and for all.
The line was surrounded by a tattoo I couldn’t figure out from the distance, and I licked my lips as I allowed my eyes to hover over her.
She was wearing a pair of jean shorts that hugged her perfectly full bottom, not the kind that revealed half of it, but those that reached mid-thigh, rather modest, and a peach-colored shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a few buttons undone, showing the perfect amount of cleavage while still being tasteful. Her hair was tied in a high, messy ponytail, long strands falling out of it as she elegantly wiped her sweaty forehead with the back of her hand, then used a tissue to wipe her hand and sprayed hand sanitizer on it.
So much grace in one single person.
She seemed so happy, so carefree, and I wanted to know what made her like that.
I took out my phone and snapped a quick zoomed-in photo of her, then looked at the pixels on the screen and narrowed my eyes.
Was she pretending to be someone she wasn’t? Was she truly and undeniably happy or was that wide smile a well-practiced mask? If that scar was self-inflicted, how did she become such a ray of sunshine?
Who are you, beautiful creature, and why are my palms sweaty when I look at you?