Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 141: Come, Fall Into Me

Love?

Who does he love?

What does he love?

Where is his love?

Eleanor felt the wind scraping past the glass, the whole world letting out a loud, maddening laughter.

Then she felt the body holding her, scorching.

She couldn’t describe how scorching, too much like ashes scattered to the wind.

To the point where she floated aimlessly, like a gray area between life and death, soul emptied, emotions vanished.

She looked blankly at Cillian Grant’s eyes, the abyss in his gaze always impenetrable.

But now it was open.

The thick fog said, come, fall into me.

I am here for you.

"I’m a—bit sleepy." She stammered, a response from her body’s self-protection, "Lunch—I’ll skip it, I’m going to sleep."

Cillian Grant released his arms, only to tighten them again the next second.

She was pregnant, three months, yet even more frail.

Already slender, now she’s just a small, frail bundle held in arms, so fragile as if a touch would shatter her.

Pain spread in Cillian Grant’s chest cavity, densely packed, from the inside out, plain to see today what was usually hidden in his face and eyes.

He kissed her forehead affectionately, wet lips landing on the skin, distinctly warm, yet so cold.

Eleanor shivered from the cold, body sluggishly producing heaviness, reality never quite catching up.

Cillian Grant noticed her confusion, disbelief, lightly pecking along her brow and eyes, sucking away the despair in the lines of her skin.

Then sweeping from her eyebrow to her cheek, returning to the bridge of her nose, that small mole, was endlessly kissed by him.

A heart full of sincerity and value, millions of words over four years, all converged in this moment.

Finally, the lips.

A long process.

Eleanor finally reacted, raising her hand.

Gave him a slap.

Without hesitation.

Carrying delayed anger, resentment, incredulity.

"You love me? I distort you? Cillian Grant, can a person like you have love? Do you know what love is? Don’t let your upper lip touch the lower lip and suddenly talk of love, a scumbag’s talk of love would be struck by lightning, a person like you, a person like you—"

Eleanor was at a loss for words.

Her strength in shock, calling it a slap is rather calling it a tap, a light tap.

Fingertips cold, brushing past his cheek, like a handful of clear spring water, you’re madly in love with her purity, longing for her to stop and stay until madness, using every method, she denies even your most basic emotions.

Cillian Grant’s wide hand, strong and slender bones, slowly closed, able to wrap tightly around her two hands.

"Even the love of a coward like Damian Sinclair, you can accept." He tightened his hold, seamlessly pressing against her, "Why not mine?"

Eleanor felt even more adrift, unable to feel grounded.

The air didn’t have enough oxygen for her to breathe, lungs suffocating in stifling pressure, sensed emotions, sensed feelings, also seemed to be vacuumed dry, not even one-tenth of her true experience.

Presenting a detached, missing calmness, without explosion, not intense.

She asked calmly, "What makes you worthy?"

Cillian Grant slightly bent his head, came closer to her, gaze capturing her up close, yet enough for her to see him clearly.

"I don’t care about family background, don’t need a marriage alliance, if there’s conflict, I have and will only choose you. You hate the smell of smoke, I’ve quit for four years, alcohol, I refuse when I can, when I can’t, and the smell is strong, I won’t appear before you unless you call for me."

"I am still clean. No chaotic complex relationships, all subordinates are the same sex, meet once for a blind date, sign the contract in business meetings, walk away in romantic dealings, those entangled and unclear, I deal with them all in advance." He murmured softly, his voice particularly rich, deep, with an unrestrained warmth and longing.

Lastly.

He pursed his lips, whispering softly in addition, "I haven’t touched any woman other than you, nor has any woman touched me, physically or mentally."

Eleanor stared at him.

Cillian Grant lightly kissed her lip corner, "Eleanor, I’m more loyal than Damian Sinclair, his care and gentleness, I can do it too, in Froskar these days, haven’t we been good?"

Eleanor broke free from him, stood on the ground, maneuvered away from the couch, she walked quickly, staggered, yet struggled to reach the farthest point from him.

"What was good?" Her uncontrollable shivering raised goosebumps on her skin. "Monitoring me, restricting me, cutting off my contact with the outside world, daily meals, sleep, watching TV, film choices even have to listen to you, what do you take me for? A person?"

She strained to breathe, distancing herself from Cillian Grant, her unprecedentedly chaotic thoughts finally coherent, shell gaining a sense of reality.

"And what is this love you speak of? Absolutely ridiculous, I’ve never felt it, what I felt all along, only your hostility, oppression towards me. Now with a child, you’re challenging a high-difficulty game against the world, heading for a big climax, right?"

She retreated step by step to the door, "You want to close the net. So you started using love, talking about marrying me, to justify these four years with a dignified, beautiful facade, and deceive me in the process. Unfortunately, though I’m not as clever as you, at least I’m not foolish, can distinguish good from bad, and even more distinguish love and hate, remembering all the pain you inflicted on me."

Cillian Grant stood up, his stature tall and imposing, broad shoulders robust, with the living room light spilling down, him backlit, cloaked in shadow, extraordinarily intimidating.

Adding his deep and chilling face, chest rising vehemently, anger about to erupt, making his gaze dangerous, dark to the extreme.

Eleanor’s fingers touched the door handle.

Next second, Cillian Grant commanded to stop her, "Eleanor, if you can’t accept it, you can go upstairs."

Eleanor ignored him, twisted the door handle, and pushed the door open.

The icy wind from Froskar mixed with snow rushed fiercely into the doorway, Eleanor still wearing her loungewear, thin double layers of cotton.

Outside was like a sheet of paper, the cold pierced through instantly, infiltrating her body, every vein cold, every bone freezing.

Eleanor couldn’t feel it.

She stepped barefoot onto the snow, the snow soft, her footprint a small, sunken snow nest.

On the pristine snowfield, like plum blossom just begun on white rice paper, extending a few steps, obliterated by another powerful, defined foot.

Cillian Grant scooped her up, covered her head with a duvet jacket, wrapped tightly in his embrace, his breath warm, condensing into mist in the air.

The fire in his eyes as well, boundless, urgent, angry, hateful to the brink of eruption, "You’re always calm, barefoot on snowy days with a child inside, how far can you run, this meaningless impulse, you—"

"I won’t do it right?" 𝒻𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝘯𝘰𝑣ℯ𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝘮

Eleanor’s voice came through the duvet, muffled, with a tremor, a kind of regret eating at her insides.

"I always weigh pros and cons, always endure. But because I can endure, also willing to endure, no matter how you pressure, I won’t go mad, playing a game of pretense and deceit with you, pretending some bullshit peace. I was wrong, terribly wrong, every time planning to retaliate, you must find it amusing, how this toy never breaks, always fresh."

Cillian Grant shut the door with his hand, face shadowed and did not answer.

Straight to the second floor, into the bedroom, Eleanor was wrapped in his arms into the bed.