Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 135: Cillian Grant: Snowy Night Romance, You Are My World

Chapter 135: Chapter 135: Cillian Grant: Snowy Night Romance, You Are My World

Cillian Grant had sharply defined features, deep and sculpted, more impactful up close than from a distance, especially when expressionless, leaving only his eyes, cold as ice, as the sole focal point. When he stared at someone, his gaze was oppressive, piercing through one’s soul and leaving a chilling sensation.

Eleanor had faced this gaze for so long, she’d developed a resistance to it.

No matter how much Cillian Grant tried to see through her, he never imagined that she arose from her despair. In these four years, regardless of the situation, she resisted until the last moment, never uttering a word about death.

At most, he thought she had discovered an opportunity to leave and was ready to depart.

Yet, she didn’t leave on the boat, and as he stayed on in Húsavík to create opportunities for himself, she showed slight signs of departure, which made him furious and resentful.

It was as if she was urged to leave quickly but couldn’t express her joy, couldn’t run, yet still needed to leave swiftly.

Eleanor stood up, brushing off the fine grains of snow covering her pants, and as she turned to pat them off, the man stopped her, securing her shoulders, bending down to carefully brush off each bead of snow. Some snowflakes melted into water, splattered, soaking his cuffs.

In the snowy and windy haze, streetlights were blurry, snowflakes adorned his hat and hers alike, creating an inexplicable atmosphere.

Eleanor escaped his grip, continuing to walk down.

Cillian quickly caught up, embracing her tightly from behind, as the sounds of wind, snow, and crunching footsteps created a cacophonous silence on the long snowy street.

His voice was close by her ear, with an utterly penetrating steadiness: "Have you thought of a name for the child? A girl’s and a boy’s name?"

The hand in Eleanor’s pocket clenched unconsciously, "Aren’t you cold?"

Cillian watched her profile; her skin was delicate and thin, blushing conspicuously red in the wind and snow, "I’m not cold."

Eleanor immediately muttered, "I’m not cold either, just a little shaky."

Cillian remained silent, his gaze swirling with deep, surging tides that now seemed empty and desolate, as if a landslide had occurred – the tide flowing back within him, into his heart.

He knew the chance to escape was imminent; she saw hope and didn’t want to discuss anything deeper about the child with him.

Their flesh and blood intertwined, nurturing a sacred miraculous life, and yet she went to great lengths to hide it from him, determined to take the child and head for a future far from him.

Resolute and cold-hearted, she severed the connection between him and the child, clearly placing him on the enemy’s side.

"If you pretend not to understand, I won’t repeat myself."

Eleanor’s heartstrings tightened to a single line.

His words had a bitter taste, as if helpless against her, yet conceding, mixed with endurance and tolerance.

But Eleanor understood Cillian Grant; this was both a forewarning and a warning.

For four years, she had witnessed Cillian Grant’s steadfast determination and unwavering decisiveness once he set a goal, merciless and relentless toward his objective — the kind of fierceness that prey fears most.

He had a controlling desire; Mr. Grant pushing him into a corner this time, the only way to break the deadlock was to indulge her by letting her take the child and leave his realm.

With Cillian Grant’s pride and personality, he found it absolutely intolerable, so he felt stifled, angry, while any hints from her spurred his fury, though he didn’t want to scare her into suspicion, causing her to stop running.

Eleanor guessed his true intention was that regardless of whether she understood, he wouldn’t repeat or relent.

"I understand." Eleanor looked up at him.

She’d always been like this; after multiple escapes, Cillian Grant surely saw her as a woman who rises with hope, daring and never following the same path in critical moments.

Now, her silence contradicted her usual portrayal.

"A snowy night, an empty street, people are more or less influenced by the environment. Don’t you find it romantic? Naturally, thoughts wander, even to the child."

Cillian abruptly stopped, brushing the snow off her cheek. The snow on her nose tip melted, fine droplets soaking the tiny mole. His thumb wiped it away gently, incredibly lightly, before finding that mole again and dropping a careful kiss on it.

"Indeed romantic."

Eleanor shivered, both from that kiss and his unusual demeanor tonight.

Cillian Grant was sharp and oppressive. He was suited for pressing step by step, winds and swords, not for three parts tenderness and two parts doting, making one fear what those remaining five parts concealed — perhaps deceitful, insidious, devouring everything until no bones remained.

"Snowy night romance, you are the daylight."

Eleanor’s face twitched involuntarily, nausea rushing up to her throat.

Snow was a small romance; he was the real abyss.

His words broke through her defenses; mental resistance was still bearable, performable, but physical rejection was truly insurmountable. Eleanor quickly wiped her mouth with a tissue, pretending as though nothing had happened.

Cillian’s eyes were eerily cold and dark, yet it seemed some invisible force clashed against his aloof shell, cracking it slightly, revealing his repressed, shadowy tides.

Eleanor felt that from those cracks, untraceable threads extended, as the child was not enough of a binding force, entwining around her, burrowing into her skin, flesh, a connection impossible to sever.

"This Jade Button was carved by my own hands." He clasped Eleanor’s right hand, lifting it up. The gloves tucked into the sleeves, overly snug, obscuring everything, yet the sense of reality was palpable, searing her skin.

"Returning from Indigo Province, it’s not as if I didn’t bring a gift for you."

Eleanor’s muscles tensed all over, feeling the scene was even harder to manage than after her escape, upon first meeting.

She suspected this was Cillian Grant’s way of following a veiled ’big stick’ threat with a ’sweet carrot.’

Pushing and pulling, using kindness and intimidation was how he controlled and reclaimed people.

Blood ties were the hardest to sever, yet she acted overly cold and merciless.

Women are creatures of sentiment and sensitivity, whether love, family, or friendship, all entailing emotions; lifetime lifeline. If Cillian Grant couldn’t grab the latter two, holding onto the first one also meant capturing her heart.

Binding her faithfully at his side fulfilled his ravenous, wild possessiveness.

Cillian Grant silently awaited her inquiry about whether the injury on his hand was related to the Jade Button.

Just like every time in these four years, Eleanor was like a snail detecting danger, retreating into her shell, not uttering a word, hiding her cunning, leaving him only a rigid, numb appearance.

All the while, Cillian continued to stare at her face, as if black sea water overflowed from his unfathomable expression, washing away her heavy defenses, making her personally experience his emotions.

"I’ve longed for this child a long time."

Still, it was about the child.

Eleanor barely slackened, no education is an opportunity for learning, ugliness can be remedied, but a wicked heart is incurable.

Sometimes, men are truly laughable creatures. They seemingly never learn to respect a woman as they respect themselves. Deep down, in their world exists only their own gender as true humans, while women are considered accessories.

They are toys bullied in childhood, prey pursued in adolescence, and growing up, this pursuit intensifies, evolving into transformation, using love, leading into marriage, to legitimately obtain a slave.