Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 30: Make Her a Dog

Cillian asked her, "What are you so happy about?"

Eleanor’s heart skipped a beat—had he seen her with Tilly?

Then she remembered: after they left The Alabaster City’s gate, she’d stopped asking questions, afraid that if she probed too much, Tilly would get suspicious.

Now she couldn’t help but feel relieved.

Cillian’s mind was a tangled net—she’d tried running away so many times, and her ID, in his eyes, was nothing but a radar to track her. If she ever brought it up for no reason, he’d be instantly on guard.

"I’m not happy."

Cillian’s gaze was dark. "Singing and dancing late at night—you think I’m blind?"

He’d seen, all right. Probably watched for quite a while.

Eleanor kept quiet.

Cillian’s face grew even more dangerous, the lights shifting from red to blue, casting his skin in a ghostly pallor. "Is it shamelessness in the lounge that makes you so cheerful? Or did you suddenly realize you like playing dog for Phoebe?"

Eleanor’s face went slack. "If I’m the dog, doesn’t that make you happy?"

"Ecstatic." Cillian’s sneer was gone, even the pretense had faded. "If you want to keep being a dog, go right ahead. But if you think being a dog is going to win you protection from Damian, you might as well kill that hope now."

Eleanor fell silent.

So, even after the show was over, he found the time to corner her—just to issue Phoebe’s warning himself.

Why did she ever get the illusion, in the lounge, that Cillian was sticking up for her?

Let someone stomp on her face and ask, "Does it hurt?" She’d almost believe they cared.

Eleanor suddenly laughed, pathetic—God, she was pathetic.

"What’s so funny?" Frost crept over Cillian’s face. "Thinking about Damian saving your ass, so happy you can’t help but laugh?"

"No." Eleanor stared at him. "Just think you’re being ridiculous. If you’re worried my last promise wasn’t strong enough, I can go make an even grander one right now."

Truth was, Eleanor was superstitious; life and death were too weighty to invoke lightly.

She’d skirted oaths before, always believing it couldn’t come to that.

But why couldn’t it?

It was just her own delusion, chanting "heart’s dead, I’m calm now," but still nursing some ridiculous shred of hope inside.

And these past few days, Cillian had slapped every last illusion clean away.

If she couldn’t let go now, Eleanor figured she might as well stop running altogether, just lie on the bed, part her thighs, be Cillian’s sex doll, then get passed around—spend her whole life bouncing from one bed to the next.

Cillian’s face relaxed a little.

He meant to say something, but caught the tiny shivers running through Eleanor, and frowned, about to scold her.

But he glanced at what she was wearing.

The sharp cold of early winter—she’d bundled herself in layers, inside and out.

Black and grey from head to toe, only her pale little face exposed. It wasn’t like she was dressed thin on purpose, not trying to freeze.

And with clothes, she was always reliable, dressed modest, never showed off her shape or charm—only ever let the seduction out on the bed.

A bloom for his eyes alone.

"Cold?" His voice softened. "Get in the car."

Cillian picked up the remote, turned up the car’s heater.

"I still have coworkers—"

"Do I have a good temper?" His hand paused, boring through her with his gaze. "Get in."

Eleanor didn’t argue. She climbed in, sending the Jolly God an apologetic text on her phone.

The car slipped out the intersection, heading straight for Westborough.

Eleanor felt a sheet of cold sweat break out on her back. "This isn’t the way home."

She spoke first, shattering the silent deadlock.

Cillian couldn’t hold it in any longer; he yanked her into his arms, thumb grazing her lips.

His eyes surged with inscrutable dark currents, like he wanted to say a thousand things.

Eleanor went rigid, an icicle—was he about to settle scores over what happened in the lounge?

Then, in an instant, he tamped his emotions back down.

"We aren’t going home tonight."

Eleanor’s heart sank all the way down.

Cillian might look ascetic, but really he was a slave to desire—she’d faked her period for seven days, then stretched it another Friday.

Now, staying out all night... He must’ve run out of patience, all pent up, ready to unleash it.

He hated the restrictions at The Grant Family home, couldn’t get his fill there.

Better to settle the accounts with her elsewhere.

Eleanor said, "My mother doesn’t let me stay out overnight."

It was really to keep her from sneaking off to Damian at night—afraid something would happen.

Eleanor had fought against the rule before. Funny how, now, she was almost grateful for it.

"Why not call her ’mom’ anymore?"

Eleanor paused. She’d let it go, accepted that Mrs. Grant wasn’t her mom anymore, but hadn’t expected even a simple shift in address would get called out immediately.

Just showed again how sharp and impossible he was to fool.

"Grown-ups don’t use ’mom’—that’s for kids."

Cillian gave a muffled laugh. "So you’ve got some self-awareness now, or are you blaming your mother for not taking your side?"

Self-awareness...

Eleanor looked at him. If there was anything she had now, it was self-awareness.

So he was spelling it out: don’t go fantasizing about being a Grant, and definitely don’t expect the Grant Family to accept you.

Eleanor agreed to the former.

Two streets had flashed past the window; she steered the topic back. "Let’s go home. Your sister can’t sleep unless she sees me at night. If she gets another scare and bleeds, that’s not good."

"She won’t get scared." Cillian’s brow arched—he took out his phone and dialed. "She knows you’re with me. She’s not gonna get the wrong idea."

Eleanor panicked, clutching his hand. "Are you fuckin’ insane—"

She didn’t get the words out before Mrs. Grant’s voice came through the phone. "Cillian? Something up?"

Cillian looked at Eleanor. "I’m with—"

Eleanor frantically covered his mouth.

Mrs. Grant seemed to pick up on something. "You’re with who?"

Eleanor’s heart was hammering out of her throat. Mrs. Grant and Mr. Grant had been happily married for decades; she was gracious and gentle, but that didn’t mean she was soft and kind.

All the socialites in their circle took cues from Mrs. Grant—partly for the family name, but also because she herself was shrewd, quick-eyed, hard-hearted, and could smooth over anything.

If Mrs. Grant ever caught wind of Eleanor getting up to anything shady with Cillian, she’d come down on her at once—Eleanor wouldn’t even get a chance to run.

"Please—" Eleanor was shaking all over, mouthing words desperately.

Cillian’s eyes darkened.

In that brief silence, Mrs. Grant’s voice sharpened. "Cillian, who’s with you?"

Cillian yanked her hand away. "I’m with Eleanor—"

He really said it.

Eleanor collapsed, all color draining from her face until she looked paler than paper.

Those upturned, foxy eyes—dead, no glint left, her whole body shriveled and numb.

Cillian gripped his phone; neon lights swirled through the city outside, but he was as dark and silent as a dead sea.

"...We’ll be home soon. Tell Phoebe not to overthink."

Eleanor jolted, the unreality of escape mixing with the numbness in her bones, hitting her from all sides so hard it left her blank.

The car looped three blocks around Westborough, then got stuck in traffic. By the time they reached The Grant Family’s home, it was nearly ten.

Phoebe Grant and Mrs. Grant were both still up, waiting in the living room.

Eleanor braced herself, changed into slippers in the coatroom. Cillian moved faster, leaving first.

As he passed her, his detachment and coldness was even deeper than when they’d hung up in the car.

Eleanor couldn’t read his mood at all. She dropped her gaze, followed quietly behind him, passing through the foyer screen.

Mrs. Grant stood up, stepping around Cillian, her eyes drilling straight into Eleanor—part anger, part ice.

"Birds of a feather flock together, dogs run in packs. Cillian’s got the heart of a wolf, Phoebe’s a bully among dogs—so tell me, in your eyes, what does that make me, and what does that make your father?"