Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 114: Cillian Grant Is Not Worth Her Lifetime

Chapter 114: Chapter 114: Cillian Grant Is Not Worth Her Lifetime

After Eleanor woke up in the morning, she got out of bed, washed up, had breakfast, and then went back upstairs to her room.

Her attitude was neither cold nor warm, and she responded to Cillian Grant’s five sentences with only two. In the past, Cillian would have already looked severe, forcing her to apologize and correct her attitude, but he didn’t; he was gentle and forgiving.

Apart from watching her eat more and ensuring she has enough nutrition, he acted normally, as if he never suspected she was pregnant.

Coming to this point, Eleanor had a thousand reasons to break things off, letting loose four years of pent-up hatred to unleash chaos. No matter his power and influence, no matter the cage and shackles, even if she’s locked up for the rest of her life, she would strike him whenever possible, denying him peace.

But in such a life, what does her four years of unwavering persistence mean?

One must be conscious of their own dignity.

Cillian Grant is a madman, a demon, unworthy of her sacrificing her future. 𝑓𝘳𝑒𝑒𝓌𝘦𝘣𝘯ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝑚

Eleanor had a stoic expression for the first time, harboring malicious thoughts. If only Cillian Grant smoked, drank, and didn’t exercise, with the stress of his four-year expansion, a cerebral thrombosis, lung cancer, or sudden death, the disease would soon triumph over him.

"What are you thinking about?"

Without warning, Eleanor’s back pressed against a chest, hard as iron, solid and warm with strength.

Cillian Grant’s physique was the most virile and intimidating among men, agile, with moderate muscles, smooth lines, long limbs, yet robust.

Wild sexual tension, formidable and mighty.

In a short time, diseases couldn’t conquer him.

Eleanor smiled, "Thinking about you never wearing a shirt, it’s so cold, how haven’t you gotten sick."

"A strong body." Cillian Grant’s chin rested in the crook of her shoulder as he tilted his head to look at her, "Are you cursing me in your heart?"

"What can I curse you for?"

Cillian Grant let out a vibrating laugh from his chest, "Can’t guess, your thoughts have always been unique."

Eleanor frowned, "Are you cursing me in your heart?"

Cillian Grant was surprised, "Where did this come from?"

Eleanor pushed away his head, turning around, "You curse me for being odd, not normal, so you can’t guess my thoughts."

Cillian Grant paused, furrowed his brow, gazing at her, "I didn’t mean that, ’unique’ was a compliment about your wonderful thinking."

"Ah, wonderful," Eleanor retorted sarcastically, "like the peculiar mewing of a cat, wonderful. You not only curse me for being odd but also call me an animal."

Cillian Grant’s expression stiffened, utterly baffled, "You’re overinterpreting."

Eleanor shrugged, "Really? But you overinterpreted me first."

Before the words were finished, she turned and left.

Cillian Grant hesitated for a second, relying on his long legs and arms, grabbed her with one arm, lifted her vertically, and glared at her, yet with a smile, "Holding a grudge again, how childish."

Eleanor, taking advantage of the moment, didn’t hug his head but fiercely pulled his hair to vent her grievances, "I’m childish, you’re mature, with hundreds of scheming plans each year bearing several harvests."

Cillian Grant, exasperated but letting her pull, circled the room, "Then what is childish?"

Eleanor, dizzy from his circle, "Adorably cute, let me down."

Cillian Grant stopped walking, looked up, his eyes full of laughter fixating on her, "Is it cute or should I let you down?"

Eleanor sensed a disgustingly subtle atmosphere in his eyes, released her grip, "Cillian, there’s eye gunk in your eyes, so gross."

This disgust was genuine.

The man beneath her indeed stiffened, the laughter fading in his eyes, replaced by a mix of embarrassment and cracks, turning his head to avoid her gaze, his arms loosening.

Eleanor slid down herself, slipping out the door.

Cillian Grant raised a hand to wipe his eye corner, eyelids, fingers clean with nothing on them.

He stared for a while and then let out a laugh.

.........

Eleanor went downstairs, looking around for people.

She had observed over the past two days. Among the seven mercenaries: the middle-aged team leader was taciturn, rigid and commanding, a staunch militant; the translator was the advisor, cunning, fluent in multiple languages.

The rest, either bad-tempered or hostile-eyed, difficult to get along with. Only the Slav who hung upside down at her window had a youthful aura, approachable.

Eleanor was aware of her situation; she only had twenty thousand euros, not enough compared to Cillian Grant’s wealth to buy someone to let her go.

She could only fish for information, trying her best to grasp her surroundings.

Just in case.

Avoiding several chatting mercenaries on the first floor, Eleanor wandered into the basement, discovering it has been transformed into a simple gym.

The Young Slav was doing pull-ups on a horizontal bar, alternating between hanging on one arm, right arm tattooed with a wolf head biting two crossed long guns.

Sweat drenched him completely, and the army green T-shirt clung to his body, muscles clearly contoured, where it should bulge, it bulged, and where it should indent, it indented.

Eleanor didn’t look much, approaching to greet him.

Raised in privilege, bilingual from childhood, developing other languages based on personal interest upon growing up; Cillian Grant mastered English and German, Eleanor knows English and French, Russian limited to ’Ura’ only.

But mercenaries are an international business, except they can’t work in Therasia, they go anywhere in the world where money calls, English is essential.

The boy on the bar seemed absent-minded, unlike before when he couldn’t smile, now sticking to a rigid smile, starkly different.

Eleanor paused for a second, trying to get close, "How did you hang upside down on the window that night? Did you have something tied to your feet? Or just hook with your feet? Really impressive."

Young Slav had no intention to talk, the Mr. Grant who hired them seemed not "generous," but he was particularly generous in giving money.

This generosity was enough for them to instinctively avoid the other aspect of him that wasn’t "generous."

Eleanor continued to push, "Are people from your place all so aloof? Not fond of talking to women?"

Not very polite in tone, with implied provocation.

Young Slav remained unmoved.

After three efforts to engage, it went beyond casual chat’s scope.

Eleanor retreated.

Just as she reached the first floor, she saw Cillian Grant with his back facing her, talking to the group of mercenaries.

He had changed into a dark blue sweater, holding a down jacket, his pants were thicker too, feet clad in snow boots, ready for a trip.

Eleanor’s heart stirred, she approached slowly.

Cillian Grant seemed to have eyes on his back, noticing her coming within a few steps, his arm naturally swinging to encompass her, "Okay, you all get ready."

The leader opposite gave a nod, waved to lead the group, swaggering out the door.

Eleanor looked up at Cillian Grant, "Are they leaving?" Then glanced at the clothes in his hands, "Are you going out too?"

Cillian Grant stroked her hair, "Weren’t you going to see the aurora?"

Eleanor had no interest in the aurora, but she seized every opportunity to step outside, "To see the aurora you need a specific location, check cloud cover and aurora index, where is it? Is it far from here?"

Cillian Grant toyed with her hair, smoothing it behind her ear, teasing her, "To the ends of the earth."

Following the pancake of engagement ring, now comes the hint of the ends of the earth.

Apparently, no matter how cold a man may appear, under the pretext of children, he lowers himself to coax women.

Eleanor’s stomach churned repeatedly, "Too far, without reaching the place, we’ll freeze to death first."

"There’s heating in the car."

"Then starve to death."

Cillian Grant’s smile faded from his eyes, he lowered his hand, "If you’re unwilling, then we won’t go."

Eleanor grabbed him, "If youth isn’t fun, dementia in old age."

Cillian Grant observed her, remaining silent.

Eleanor knew what he wanted to hear, she could muddle through. But the panic and despair from previously of facing execution mingled with the Young Slav’s obedience to his defensive orders.

In the moment, she couldn’t say a single word.

"I’ll go up to change clothes."

Without waiting for Cillian Grant to speak, Eleanor turned and went upstairs.