Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 7: A Moment’s Mercy as Charity

Cillian Grant ignored everything else, his eyes fixed on Eleanor, their gazes locked.

His pressure was relentless, like the dark sea under a thunderstorm, swirling into a bottomless whirlpool, sucking her in, crushing her.

"If you’re not pregnant, what are you doing at the hospital?"

Eleanor replied firmly, "I’m here to find Elaine White."

Cillian didn’t buy it, "Then why did you appear alone in the maternity ward just to find her?"

Elaine White yanked Eleanor back, "Because she came to me to talk. Phoebe Grant bullies her every day, you keep her under your thumb and make her suffer. She’s drowning in grievance, crying so hard she soaked my clothes. I went to change, is it such a crime I came down a step late?"

Cillian Grant looked at Eleanor. By nature she was proud, never turned to anyone to vent, and never cried for others.

Especially since she’s not like other people.

Other women, bullied, cry desperately and put on airs; she’s like a hedgehog, pricking back at injustice right away, never letting it fester inside.

Yet a flash crossed his mind of her eyes red-rimmed this morning, and Cillian fell silent for a few seconds, shot a look at Elaine, then at Eleanor, "Is that true?"

Eleanor was a bit dazed—Cillian... was this him being reasonable? He actually believed it?

Almost instantly, Elaine squeezed her hand hard, jolting Eleanor to reply, "Yes."

"What are you upset about?" Cillian’s expression was seventy percent cold, thirty percent strangely emotional. "Every time you argue, you bite back sharp as knives. Phoebe ended up so pissed she went to the hospital. Where’s your injustice?"

Eleanor thought she was used to it, but her insides overturned, blood surging backwards, her eyes flushing red.

She couldn’t stop the watery streaks, sliding down her cheeks, pooling on the floor.

Cillian suddenly pulled her over with force, tightening her into his arms.

Elaine tried to intervene, but he brushed past her with a sharp impatience, ice cold, "Second Master White, if you’re not scared of me, maybe you should ask your father—see if he’s afraid."

A threat.

A naked threat.

Elaine didn’t care for business, she was fearless, free of shackles.

But Mr. White was in the same industry as Cillian—on the surface, Mr. White was the elder, naturally holding an advantage in seniority.

But in reality, how many times had Mr. White returned home shouting, ’The wolf is coming! The wolf is coming!’—he feared Cillian Grant like a tiger.

.........

Phoebe had Damian Sinclair to deal with, Eleanor was shoved into Cillian Grant’s car.

The windows were sealed tight, the air inside stifling, Eleanor felt even more suffocated, keeping silent.

The car rolled past the intersection, where the greenery by the road was being replanted, traffic clogged, speed crawling.

She turned her head, leaning against the window to distinguish the new types of trees, when from behind, Cillian handed her a handkerchief, "You’ve cried three times today. Your tears aren’t worth a dime now."

Not worth a dime.

Eleanor clenched the hem of her clothes until her knuckles went pale.

Just how much did he despise her, how much contempt for her, to value a woman’s tears so low?

She ignored the handkerchief, raised her sleeve and wiped her eyes rough and haphazardly.

Cillian’s hand hung awkwardly mid-air, his face darkening, then with a sharp snap, he tossed the handkerchief onto the center console.

Aaron Chase glanced cautiously at his mood in the rearview mirror, quickly raised the partition.

The car went dead silent for a while. When his voice sounded again, the man was even colder: "Anything you want to come clean about?"

Eleanor knew he was referencing her asking for leave under false pretenses.

The right response would be for her to immediately confess her mistake and firmly promise to correct it.

But this time, Eleanor hesitated in silence.

She didn’t want to, didn’t dare speak.

Everything at the hospital had happened too fast, she hadn’t had time to coordinate stories with Elaine, and if there was something inconsistent in the details and Cillian caught on, this rare leniency would instantly spiral out of control.

Seeing she’d turned her head yet again toward the window.

Cillian’s jaw tightened; suddenly, his arm swooped in, pulling Eleanor into his embrace before she could react.

His fingers threaded into her hair, fingertips pressed against her scalp, right down to the injury—Eleanor gasped.

"It hurts?"

Cillian parted her hair.

Eleanor’s hair was thick and soft, strands woven right down to the roots. In that small patch, you could see it—naked, red and swollen baldness.

Clearly, Phoebe Grant had been ruthless.

He rubbed it, his fingertips rough as sand scraping heat across the spot, grinding over and over, the pain rising, but soothed by his warmth. "This time you pissed Phoebe into the hospital, I won’t hold it against you."

As if he were dispensing grace.

Eleanor’s blood rushed to her head, glaring at him in fury.

If she’d laid a finger on Phoebe Grant, whatever Phoebe wasn’t happy with, she’d be punished tenfold, a hundredfold—there’d be no end to it.

Now, when it’s her turn, he brushes it off, and she’s expected to thank him for his generosity?

Humiliated, trampled like a brute animal.

Cillian was unmoved by her anger, his voice still deep, "Is it true you promised Phoebe and Damian to stay away forever?"

"Yes! Yes!"

Four years now, countless times, she’d sworn it so much she was sure her next hundred lives would be struck by lightning—never rich.

But every time, he doubted her. Eleanor snapped, "A good horse doesn’t eat old grass. I’d rather jump off a building than be a cheap mistress. I have zero feelings for Damian Sinclair. Every day I’m under your nose—work by day, under your eyes by night. Are you just senile, or is it full-blown Alzheimer’s—"

Suddenly a large hand gripped her waist, lifting her up. Her legs parted, straddling him face-to-face.

Chest pressed to chest, noses almost touching, close enough that she could see every strand of his lashes.

Eleanor froze, her mind instantly clearing.

"With that attitude, you still want your ID back?" His words clipped and tight, his body heat rising in palpable waves, like wildfire burning in his eyes.

Eleanor panicked. "I’m on my period."

"Funny how you forget when you’re tough-mouthing me." Cillian’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t relent. "Kiss me."

Cillian Grant never hit women. His punishments were ambiguous and cunning.

’Kiss’ was really ’bite’—enough to hurt her, enough to make her remember.

Eleanor turned her face, pressing her lips to his cheek.

Just a fleeting touch.

The man didn’t even have time to grab her.

His face hardened, refusing to let go, "Again."

Cillian Grant—handsome, sharp brows, clear eyes, high-bridged nose, lips on the thin side but far from mean—just always pressed together, which made him seem stern, authoritative, absolutely oppressive.

Even with tinted glasses, you couldn’t call him ugly if you were honest.

But Eleanor didn’t want to kiss him.

For a long moment, as he saw her unwillingness, he reached a hand into his suit pocket, pulling out an ID card.

Facing her, a photo of her with a ponytail stared back.

Eleanor snatched at it.

She lunged left, he switched it to his right; she went right, he moved it back to his left.

Once, twice... five, six times.

Eleanor, both scared and furious, was now thoroughly annoyed.

She wriggled to get off his lap. Just as she slid halfway down, the ID appeared before her eyes again.

Within arm’s reach, Eleanor clapped her hands together—smack!—the ID caught between her palms.

Cillian suddenly laughed, "Can you really take it?"

"If you don’t move, I can."

Cillian actually didn’t move, only pinched it tight between two fingers, while Eleanor tugged with both hands and couldn’t budge it at all.

Now Eleanor was shaking with rage, her eyes burning with fire.