Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 64: Scorched to the Bone

She refused to wear it, her defiance showing her passive attitude and reluctance to succumb to the arranged marriage.

But if she wore it, it meant she compromised and obeyed.

Eleanor was both shocked and frightened, increasingly feeling that Cillian Grant’s scheming was unfathomable, with every move full of deep meanings.

"What do you want to ask?"

The slightly hoarse magnetic voice was just two or three inches near her ear, maybe even closer.

Eleanor shivered and came back to her senses. "I heard you mention a child, is it Liam Xavier’s child?"

After the impulsive incident in the fitting room earlier, given his previous response, Eleanor would definitely not bring up the arranged marriage again, nor the situation of The Xavier Family.

Only this question remained.

"Yes."

Compassion flashed across Eleanor’s face, opening her mouth to ask further, but whatever she asked would be prying into someone else’s tragic affairs.

The fate of a life, arriving in this world with excitement, wiped away by worldly interests, ultimately lingering as a topic on the lips of others.

Even if she wasn’t carrying a child herself, Eleanor found it unbearably cruel.

Cillian Grant quietly gazed at her.

In Damian Sinclair’s words, Eleanor was delicate and pure.

In his eyes, Eleanor was simply Eleanor.

In the pragmatic world of the elite, she was the only idealist.

Compassion, empathy, purity, morality.

"It’s because they didn’t plan well and an accident happened. For Liam Xavier, it’s the best way to handle it now."

So righteous and dignified.

Eleanor almost couldn’t maintain her expression, instinctively lowered her head into his chest.

Her hot breath burned on his heart, her messy hair gently tickled, seemingly carrying the warmth of her scalp, pressed against his most vulnerable throat.

The veins on Cillian Grant’s temple bulged, like a volcano that couldn’t be suppressed, when desire peaked, a spark gently touched down, igniting his entire being.

He suddenly said, "I wouldn’t do that."

Eleanor thought she heard wrong, lifted her head, the man’s eyes were thick and deep.

Her heart thundered, throat dry, "What if? Didn’t you say before that plans can’t keep up with changes?"

Indeed, Cillian Grant had said that.

During Eleanor’s sophomore summer, he was busy, had promised to let her return alone to The Grant Family, but after her things were packed and tickets book, he changed his mind the day before her vacation.

Without even providing a reason, he simply brushed it off with a domineering "plans can’t keep up with changes."

Cillian Grant clearly remembered too, smiled slightly out of irritation, "That time was teasing you. A child is so precious, I would never allow an accident like that to happen."

Eleanor’s tongue felt bitter, "True, you are always strategic."

......

Early the next morning, Eleanor obediently dressed in the outfit from the fitting room, washed up, and headed to the kitchen.

Auntie King was tidying the dishes and told her that Cillian Grant wouldn’t be having lunch there.

Eleanor frowned, "Is he going out?"

Auntie King, "Yes, he received a phone call while you were washing up, it sounded urgent, and he instructed me not to prepare lunch for him."

Eleanor’s frown deepened, pacing the house in hesitation, and when she passed the gym, she noticed he was sweating profusely on the treadmill.

Cillian Grant had a morning exercise routine, even when they lived in The North, never skipping a day. His usual training far exceeded the normal amount, running on a treadmill with lead weights as a warm-up.

After running, it was time for bench press.

His white T-shirt was soaked through, and as he lay on the weight bench, sweat dripped from his thick black hair, splashing onto the gray tiles, quickly forming patches of water.

Eleanor walked in, approached closely, "Breakfast is ready."

Cillian Grant remained silent, as if counting. His arms lifted and lowered, the barbell moving up and down. The muscles in his arms and chest contracted and expanded, every movement showcasing explosive masculine beauty.

Eleanor waited for him to stop, "Two hundred and fifty."

Cillian Grant paused his action of wiping sweat, looking up at her.

Eleanor suddenly realized it sounded like an insult, quickly correcting, "Two hundred and fifty-one."

You are two hundred and fifty.

It seemed more fitting.

Eleanor’s face froze.

Cillian Grant glanced at her again, with a slight downturn of his head as he wiped his hair, faint smile lines appeared at the corners of his eyes, "Is your bottom itchy?"

Eleanor’s bottom was definitely not itchy, purely her bad start,

In the current situation of enemy and ally, she was at an absolute disadvantage, so in strategy, she needed to be exceptionally proactive and determined, never to follow the enemy’s pace and fall into a passive position.

Cillian Grant had been avoiding when she asked about work, she couldn’t inquire every day, lest her intentions become too obvious and arouse his suspicion.

But with other things, she could subtly hint and prepare.

Like her phone, like contacting the outside world.

"Are you working today?"

The man stood up, carrying a towel in one hand, lifting the barbell in another, putting it back in place, "Is this your daily question?"

Eleanor watched him drink water, "Are you going out today?"

The man’s Adam’s apple stopped moving as he swallowed, putting down the cup, fixing his gaze on her.

Goose-yellow wool sweater, white straight trousers, clean and charming, with a rosy flush from sufficient sleep.

Full of energy, ready to dash out the door, yet trying hard to conceal it, resulting in a stammering eagerness.

Cillian Grant’s eyes widened in amusement, "Yes, I have matters to attend to."

Indeed, concise as always.

But this was typically Cillian Grant’s style.

Eleanor followed intently behind him, occasionally swaying left or right, observing his expression with a questing eye.

Hoping to find a chance to speak.

But Cillian Grant maintained a face of impassivity.

Upon entering the master bedroom, the man pulled off his shirt, baring muscular back muscles, shifting in his arms, sweat droplets gathered, flowing down the grooves of his well-defined muscles.

Eleanor stopped at the doorway, not following further.

Cillian Grant turned to look at her, untying the drawstring of his sweatpants, bending his back, sliding the pants down.

The only fabric left on his waist was soaked too, the black material, though opaque, however, pronounced the outline. From the root of his thigh, veins appeared, lying latent beneath the skin and flesh, tough, solid, and robust.

Eleanor’s hair nearly stood on end, her reaction possibly slow, but the man’s undressing was even quicker.

From the entrance before reaching the bathroom, he was fearlessly stripped, in merely the span of two breaths.

"Come here."

Eleanor’s spine stiffened, swiftly turning to flee.

But the door closed faster than she did, a fierce wind behind her, she was scooped up from behind, pinned against the door, trapped between a scorching, strong, burgeoning chest.

A barrage of kisses on her forehead, brow corners, nose tip, and that small birthmark on her nose.

"Cillian Grant, stop, stop—" Eleanor shook her head to evade, "I can’t—"

"I can."

The next second, the last word’s sound was sealed with lips and tongue, Eleanor opened her eyes wide, the numbing in her tongue, creating a fear of being consumed.

Outsiders couldn’t imagine, nor could they fathom, how dangerous the well-dressed Cillian Grant was once his clothes were off.

The surging ferocity, the aggressive dominion, that primitive predatory savagery.

No woman could resist, and no woman could endure.

The upper half of Eleanor’s body unexpectedly felt a chill.

Her sweater lay on the floor, and the man’s only remaining barrier, was lost in the reckless entanglement.