Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 127: Mutual Probing Between Father and Son

Chapter 127: Chapter 127: Mutual Probing Between Father and Son

Eleanor adjusted her seat angle and lay over the car window.

The glistening snow, boundless and endless, filled her eyes. The vast wind continued to howl past the glass.

This was the second time she’d watched the sunrise from the car since arriving in Froskar.

On that previous occasion when mercenaries had caught her, she had watched the radiant glow over continuous ice mountains. The coastline was paved with golden light, dazzling to the extreme, and all she thought of was to stride forward, to reach new heights.

Now, the snowfield was expansive, each ray of bright white sunlight sprinkled down, making the snow grains shine like pearl diamonds, radiant yet serenely linking the horizon with white clouds, as if the sky lowered a heavenly path.

In the Bible, the book of Matthew speaks of a narrow gate.

[The gate that leads to destruction is wide, and the road is broad, and many enter through it.

But the gate that leads to life is narrow, and the road is small, and only a few find it.]

She now saw the road leading to the narrow gate. What she lacked was a way to brave the thorns and make her way through.

Eleanor’s eyes involuntarily curved slightly.

Cillian Grant caught it from the corner of his eye, "What are you thinking about, looking so happy?"

Eleanor didn’t turn, deliberately avoiding direct eye contact with Cillian Grant.

His eyes were too sharp, seemingly penetrating like nails with their piercing force, at times ambiguous, at times exposed, a silent confrontation that left one defenseless.

"Thinking about whales." She breathed a mist onto the car window, tracing a long oval with her finger, dotting an eye at one end, adding a tail at the other.

"Humpback whale, sperm whale, I’ve heard there are also harbor porpoises and white-beaked dolphins. Can we see them all?"

As Eleanor became more outrageous, nearly turning her whole body away from him, facing the car door with her waist twisted halfway, the seatbelt strained to its limit, Cillian Grant steadied the car’s speed, reached out with one hand, and turned her shoulder back, "Behave, if anything happens, I won’t let you off easy."

Eleanor adjusted the seatbelt, "Without an accident, would you let me off?"

Since the pregnancy was revealed, the child became the most lethal minefield for both, each glance, action, or even a word ready to explode, fracturing the atmosphere.

Even in those rare moments of restraint and silence, the air seemed to be laced with invisible sharp blades, an incremental torment by a thousand cuts, each retreat a dull ache.

Cillian Grant gripped the steering wheel tightly. He preferred dark tones like black and grey, colors that naturally gave him a stern look. When his anger showed, paired with his deep-set eyes, it was even more intimidating, a commanding presence.

Eleanor tensed up quietly, knowing it wasn’t wise to anger the driver. With reason, she prepared herself, willing to endure whatever Cillian might unleash.

Likely, Cillian had the same thought, restraining his temper, "In Húsavík, the chance of seeing whales on a clear day is as high as ninety percent. But you mentioned too many species; the odds of seeing them all are slim."

Eleanor found a way out, the despair that permeated her veins subsided, the confusion and anxiety gone. If he didn’t act up, neither would she. Her tone eased, "Seeing any would mean the trip wasn’t wasted."

This was their first moment of respite since the pregnancy had been uncovered, each giving a little to reach peace.

Cillian couldn’t help but glance at her; Eleanor looked straight ahead, her long hair tucked behind her ear, her cheeks porcelain and serene, exuding a unique calmness. Calm enough that the air in the car flowed gently, softly, like the warmth of a March breeze.

Only her curled long lashes fluttered, lively and charming.

Suddenly, Cillian smiled slightly, "The auroras of Froskar, whale-watching at sea, this counts as our second date."

Eleanor didn’t provoke him nor wanted any deeper connection, even in words. "A meeting is a meeting; if it’s not, it’s not. What does ’date’ mean?"

Just then, they passed a sharp S-curve, the suburban roads poorly maintained, layer upon layer of ice and snow. Even with anti-skid chains, the tires slid uncontrollably.

Cillian slowly reduced the speed, his focus entirely on the road conditions.

Eleanor, instead, felt completely at ease, closing her eyes to rest.

............

At 1 PM, they arrived in Húsavík.

This city had clearly developed whale-watching into an industry, mature and well-structured.

Before even reaching the city limits, the roadside was a flurry of advertisements for local whale-watching tours. The images colorfully depicted various-sized boats, tourists in orange life vests, and the tail fins of elusive whales in the water.

Last night Eleanor had done her research; tourists going to sea could choose the type of boat according to their preference. Traditional boats were large, accommodating many tourists, allowing free movement on deck, offering a comfortable and relaxed experience.

The other option was a speedboat, a small vessel with a maximum of six passengers, fast and convenient for getting close to whales, a thrilling and adventurous feeling.

With Cillian’s way of doing things, he would likely book a large traditional boat entirely.

He wasn’t a fan of crowds or noise. In the arena of fame and fortune, at his age, those who achieved his level of success would more or less have undergone several national interviews, attended large charity galas,

No matter how low-key or averse to the limelight, enjoying the glory was inevitable. It was about the human nature of seeking fame and fortune, the sense of deserving and accomplishment when successful.

A level of understated, personal empowerment even Mr. Grant might not have.

It was almost reclusive, solitary, where others were ousted by the world, he ousted the world itself.

At the whale-watching point dock, the mercenary leader got out first, handing Cillian the tickets after retrieving them.

The blue-green ticket paper, following the cursive English, showed it was for one person, for the large boat. Eleanor couldn’t help but take another look.

Cillian, while holding her shoulder close, handed her the ticket, "We’ll head to sea in half an hour. Let’s take this time to grab something to eat."

Eleanor had no appetite, despite the dishes’ color, aroma, and taste, worthy of the name ’delicacies.’ But now, no matter how rare the delicacies, the color, aroma, and taste were disregarded by her, hard to swallow.

"I’d be stuffed if I eat more." She confirmed the tickets and gazed out across the ocean, "Are we going to sea with other tourists?"

"Don’t you like it?"

Cillian taking her whale-watching already defied conventional logic, and choosing a crowded big boat was like having an ulterior motive written all over his face.

Eleanor smiled, "Could it be dangerous?"

Small vortices appeared in Cillian’s eyes, gradually deepening, dark, "No, we’ve brought bodyguards."

A salty sea breeze blew, Eleanor’s hair dancing, brushing past her eyebrows, a few strands catching on her lashes. Cillian hooked them gently behind her ear with his index finger.

Eleanor’s brows lowered, part of her suspicions confirmed.

She initially thought Cillian was planning to use her as bait to lure out the people Mr. Grant sent to Froskar, to deal with them.

Once that’s settled, he would prepare to return home.

But after much contemplation, she realized it wasn’t so simple.

With Mr. Grant’s nature, he wouldn’t just stop after one group was thwarted. Cillian wouldn’t be foolish enough to return home just after dealing with one group.

Was this trip a test between father and son?

Or was there another motive?

............

Cillian decided to take her to eat first. Naturally, he wouldn’t just adhere to her objections.

There was only one restaurant at this dockside port, and it was bustling with business. Guests waiting for a table had gathered into a tide at the front desk, but Cillian had made a reservation in advance.

The waiter led them to a seaside window seat, soon serving their meal.

Eleanor numbly forced down half a bowl of chicken soup, turning towards the pan-fried fish steaks.

The fish was crispy on the outside, tender on the inside, a vivid golden yellow, not overly fishy, with the inner layers of fish soft and chewy, unlike anything she’d had recently.

Seeing she liked it, Cillian gave her two more pieces, "It’s Faroese, caught on the same day, served within two hours to maintain the freshest taste. If you like it, I’ll arrange for someone to send more later."