Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 161: She Wants Him Dead

Damon Sharp stood frozen as if immobilized.

Cillian Grant finished coughing, feeling as if his chest was being torn apart, like blood and pus merging, surging up to his throat. He repeatedly swallowed to suppress it, the taste of iron and rust filling his throat, ready to burst out like a sword of blood.

The blood spewed out in thick streams as he forced his jaw open.

The doctor, though an obstetrician, had emergency instincts ingrained in him.

He shouted commands to the nurses to flatten the bed, prepare oxygen equipment and relevant medication, while positioning Cillian Grant forward to facilitate the expulsion of clotted blood.

In the flurry of activity, the doctor left the area near the door.

In those few breaths, Damon Sharp shifted from being dumbstruck to instinctively reaching out to support Cillian Grant, and then turning back to look at the hospital room with a connecting thought.

The door had silently opened from the inside.

The corridor light spilled in, mingling with shadows to trace a gaunt silhouette.

Leaning against the door, her extreme pallor emphasized her frailty, accentuated with each breath like a gentle flutter.

Damon Sharp subconsciously moved to support her, yet the person he was supporting suddenly stood up straight, yanking his hand away and pushing past the doctor, taking one, two trembling steps to embrace her.

Eleanor was not tall, at one meter sixty-five, nor heavy, at eighty-nine pounds.

But now she was even thinner.

Eighty pounds.

Cillian Grant was tall, with a broad and powerful frame filled with solid and developed muscle.

In their shared weakness, she seemed like a mere wisp of smoke trapped in his embrace, his burning temperature consuming her, his pounding heartbeat pressing against her ear, exploding, destroying, but not leading to her demise, though the experience felt akin to death.

Eleanor remained quiet in his embrace, as if detached from her body entirely.

Or perhaps truly detached, excessively numb.

She should have screamed, plunged a knife into him, precisely piercing his heart, to see if the blood in his core was the color of a devil’s, matching the red he coughed onto the floor.

But she had no knife, and even the sharp infusion needles had been cleared away by the nurses.

She could only stab him with words, "You’ve coughed up blood. When are you going to die? Why aren’t you dead yet?"

Her voice was weak, hoarse, fragmented.

Eleanor doubted he heard her, the man’s back hunched, his face deeply buried into her neck, heavy but seeming so light.

Eleanor felt no weight from his body, only the blood-scented breath spreading damply on her neck, vaguely mingled with other cold wet traces.

Then she realized she was shaking.

Fourteen weeks.

What does a fourteen-week-old fetus look like?

Elaine White said, at fourteen weeks, her daughter’s organs were well-developed, with distinct facial features and limbs, hair and eyebrows growing. The other day, she felt fetal movement, just in the lower left abdomen, a light flutter.

Like a gentle comforting touch.

It turned out to be a farewell.

A farewell indeed.

She was always saying goodbye.

To this person, to that person, until now, Eleanor only wished for his death.

After building up her strength for so long, she suddenly withdrew her arm and squeezed with all her might around his throat.

Cillian Grant’s breathing became labored, but not strangled to the point of suffocation; she was too frail, losing weight too rapidly. Her fingers cramped with the effort, her thin shoulders trembled violently, her eyes red and on the verge of collapse.

He lifted a protective arm around her, the other reaching to touch her hair.

To soothe her, to admit his mistake.

He shouldn’t have handed her over to someone else, her hatred and resentment were justified. In those four years when his wings were not fully developed, she had been fine while by his side.

Yet unable to support her steadily, his limbs lost the strength to hold her, crashing backward.

Cillian Grant, physically robust, with great self-control, had kept up his fitness regime year after year. Through storms and cold winds, he hardly fell ill over those four years, full of energy and vitality.

Yet here he was, deteriorated and destitute, his complexion dull, his usually neat hair disheveled and disorderly, revealing streaks of gray at his temples.

Eleanor’s eyes were burning red, tears twitching and trailing from the corners, rolling down her cheeks one by one, not out of pity for him, as her grip tightened.

In the blink of an eye, changes happened. Previously blocked by Cillian Grant’s back, it was not visible, but when he fell heavily, Damon Sharp was jolted awake, frantically rushing forward.

The foreign man and the doctor next to him were shouting, waving hands, all rushing to save Cillian Grant.

Eleanor was utterly furious; why should he be saved, why should a devil be saved.

She kneeled on Cillian Grant’s chest, knees like sharpened sticks, wanting to pierce through her own flesh, pierce and emerge, substituting for the absent knife to pin the devil to the ground.

Why was it her daughter that was gone, why wasn’t it him who died.

Damon Sharp half-dragging, half-embracing Eleanor, while behind him the doctor received a sedative hastily handed over by the nurse.

Eleanor felt a pain in her arm.

The chill seeped into her veins, spreading a terrible Feebleness, tethering her feet, seizing her shoulders, the surging darkness swallowing her heart-wrenching pain.

Damon Sharp barely caught his breath when the doctor on the other side exclaimed, "Mr. Grant has fainted—"

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

Meanwhile, back in the country.

Phoebe Grant’s car left the Grant family home, driving through the typically congested third ring road and into the Sterling Sinclair’s estate.

Damian Sinclair was hastily packing and heading downstairs.

Phoebe Grant intercepted him, "Where are you going?"

Recently, she lost control of her appetite and her weight surged, her belly high and round like a cantaloupe, swaying with each step. Damian Sinclair dared not advance further, his voice cold, "Froskar."

Phoebe Grant’s expression hovered between outburst and restraint, her tone inevitably prickly and sharp, "Now you can’t be bothered to pretend anymore? My brother went to Froskar; do you think you still have a chance to curry favor?"

Damian Sinclair said nothing, changing direction to bypass her.

Phoebe Grant spread her arms to block him, "You can’t go to Froskar. My father just publicly announced your obituary and canceled your registration. You’re now a dead person, a dead person who ran himself into a dead end and can’t return home."

Damian Sinclair’s face was shadowed, tinged with absurdity, touched with ridicule, "Your father was driven home by Cillian Grant, and now his measures are so juvenile and farcical?"

He signaled to the steward who had rushed over to intercept Phoebe Grant, "Eleanor doesn’t want to return home, much less stay on your Grant family registry—"

"Ah—"

Phoebe Grant suddenly sat down on the ground, the steward reflexively raised his hands, "Third Young Master, I didn’t even touch her."

Damian Sinclair had seen it before; Phoebe Grant had caused trouble at the Sinclair home previously. The Sinclairs’ staff knew her temperament well, avoiding any contact whenever possible, always keeping a three or four-step distance when blocking her.

He took steps toward the door.

Behind him, the steward suddenly cried out, "Third Young Master—"

He turned back, keeping the steward in mind, fearing Phoebe Grant’s outburst.

The steward frantically pointed at Phoebe Grant, who sat with her legs splayed on the skirt, slowly soaking with blood, not much, yet the area steadily expanded.

Damian Sinclair grew suspicious, the bleeding tactic for Phoebe Grant is akin to crying wolf. Despite stabilizing the fetus after care, she continuously used it, and though he fell for it time and again for the sake of the child, the frequency had worn his patience thin.

Before he spoke, Mr. Sinclair suddenly descended the stairs, his demeanor abnormal, "Damian, something’s happened."

For the first time, Mr. Sinclair discarded The Grant Family’s face, instructing the butler to send Phoebe Grant to the hospital.

Damian Sinclair clutched his suitcase handle tightly, not stepping forward, "Father—"

"I know you want to find Eleanor," Mr. Sinclair suddenly burst out, regret, hatred, resentment, infuriation intertwined, "What’s at stake is the African project you managed, implicating the entire Sinclair Group."

Damian Sinclair frowned deeply, "The African project has been on hold since I returned, it couldn’t possibly go wrong now, much less implicate Sinclair Group."

Mr. Sinclair’s expression twisted, enunciating each word, "What if the disaster was sown when you managed it at the start?"

He spoke with hatred, "You still don’t understand? The world is so vast, why would Cillian Grant force you to Afreia, your project was under his covert guidance all along, preparing to take you down since that time, did you think each threat he made was just an empty intimidation?"