Eleanor suddenly thought of Leona Lewis.
Cillian Grant discovered she was missing, tracking the surveillance near the bus station would be easy, and Leona’s appearance couldn’t be hidden from him.
Could it be that he threatened Leona again, and, frightened, she sought out Mr. Grant?
When Eleanor had delayed Leona before, she had considered that the evidence in Leona’s hands was no longer important in light of Mr. Grant’s four-year investigation into The North.
Since she wisely left, Mr. Grant wouldn’t bring her back unnecessarily just because he had solid evidence.
The only thing that could spur Mr. Grant to take action was the rumor that, by chance, Leona went to a black-market clinic for a maternity check-up.
After figuring it out, Eleanor felt a chill all over her body.
No wonder.
No wonder Cillian Grant wouldn’t let her return ho, with the family line at stake, The Grant Family must now be in turmoil.
Then... what about Cillian Grant?
What does he think, would he again suspect she’s pregnant?
Eleanor felt her lower abdon twitch again, painful but not sinking, like a needle lightly pricking her, silently touching her stomach.
Eleven weeks.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor, steadily stopping at the door, followed by a knock, a gentle two knocks.
Eleanor thought it was the translator, unsuspectingly opened the door.
A step away from the door, the man stood against the light of the corridor, the chill on his down jacket heavy, the blazing white light casting down, his silhouette was icy to the extre, with only a trace of warmth at the corner of his mouth, curved upwards, an indistinguishable smile, but definitely not pleasant.
Instinctively, Eleanor slamd the door shut.
With a bang, the door fra shook.
Behind the door, Eleanor was trembling, shaking all over.
Then, the knock sounded again, still lightly twice, penetrating through the door board, stirring a massive upheaval inside, tumultuous.
Like a tsunami raging, engulfing the sky and earth, yet from head to toe, she was heavily shackled, unable to escape.
"Knock knock," again, two light knocks.
Light, slow, calm, undeniable.
Eleanor’s heart sunk, why would Cillian Grant appear here?
If Mr. Grant suspected she was pregnant, he would surely stop him before anyone he sent could catch her.
What did she overlook?
"Eleanor." Cillian Grant’s voice was low, his tone asured and precise.
In a foreign land, there should have been a sense of closeness.
But Eleanor’s heart was gripped, with a mont of tinnitus, she bit her lip and reluctantly turned the doorknob.
Cillian Grant still stood there.
Inside, the room was warm, he had taken off the black down jacket, draped it over his arm. He was left wearing a light gray half-turtleneck sweater, soft and finely woven.
Under the corridor light, infinitely gentle, blurring the solid, robust outline of his chest, also blurring the undulating breaths.
Creating an illusion of serene calm.
Eleanor’s gaze moved up, over his jaw’s stubble, directly into his eyes, both black and deep, silently watching her.
"Co here," he opened his arms, revealing a full embrace.
Eleanor clenched her fists, not moving.
Cillian Grant did not rush her, standing poised, the bright lights cast over his features, shadows from his brow bones and nose took up a third of his face, further enhancing his depth, inscrutability.
"A thousand miles across, you’ve sailed the winds and waves. Can’t take this step?"
Eleanor lowered her eyelids, not moving forward, instead stepping back, "You have the sll of smoke."
Cillian Grant paused, catching her off guard, stepping out of the corridor light, shadow overcasting. His broad chest pressed against her nose tip, step by step, forcing her into the ambiguous glow of the floor lamp.
Eleanor faced a burning bronze wall, no smoke sll, no alcohol sll, only the bitter sweetness of cedar, the heaviness of ebony blended with the cold of Froskar’s unlting snow.
Chilling and intense.
Eleanor held her breath, her calf hit a single sofa, her movents were small, easily stabilizing her posture, the man continued to press in.
Unable to bear it any longer, Eleanor raised her hand, pushed him, "Kill or torture, do it quickly."
"Do you still sll smoke?"
Eleanor, both scared and bothered, gritted her teeth, "No more, you’re very fragrant, even a Netherlands piglet wouldn’t sll as sweet as you."
Cillian Grant was not angry, his deanor since appearing was calr than ever before.
As if his anger level was calculated by distance, the closer she ran, the more furious he was, the further away, the more he cooled down.
Eleanor’s mind ran wild, but she stopped in ti.
Cillian, though always on edge, was intelligent, shrewd, and deep as an abyss, utterly inscrutable.
Anger was anger, not being angry might be even more so.
Eleanor glanced at his expression.
Cillian Grant was also looking at her.
Inside, the air was dry with the heat, and with doors and windows closed, the light cast a halo on her face, but her complexion was poor, pale and dull, chin sharp, eyes dry like stagnant water, defensively cloudy.
"Where’s my gift?"
Eleanor keenly caught the anger in the depths of his eyes, briefly leaked, disappearing quickly.
She did not speak.
Cillian Grant knew why she kept silent, clever and quick-witted. Responding to him, testing, probing, exploring bit by bit.
When he showed no danger, she advanced. A hint of it, she would wait on the spot.
If his anger surged, once she estimated she couldn’t cope, she’d overturn the table decisively.
Eleanor clenched her hands, feeling as if she were dancing on her own grave, uncertain if she’d end up lying inside tonight, even gods couldn’t tell.
"I want to upgrade for you, my father sponsored two million, I’ll buy you a bigger ring, how about it?"
Cillian Grant’s Adam’s apple moved, gaze fixed on her face, as if he wanted to bore a hole, see through to the truth.
Sweat continued to seep from Eleanor’s palms, "Diamonds don’t suit your aura, I’ll get you a jade one instead."
Cillian Grant’s eyes suddenly sank, every nook, corner filled with waves, "Why did you think to give jade?"
"Then what should I think of, man—"
Her vision blurred, the man’s lips and tongue intruded.
Damn it, he was pretending to be calm all along.
The next second, her tears welled up.
Cillian Grant’s countless unforgivable sins list, stubble ranked in the top ten.
Grows fast, dense, each hair solid, like iron wire.
"Cillian Grant, you didn’t shave yo—"
A rare chance to breathe wasted on a single sentence.
Eleanor’s eyes were open, watching as the man’s eyelids closed, his lashes thick, venting fiercely, wildly, each second of entanglent suffocating each other.
Addictive.
She also felt the solid outline of his waist and abdon, the tyrannical confinent.
In a man, anger directed at a woman easily transforms into other flas. The more contradictions held within, the post-transformation is a thousand arrows fired at you.
Either rge with his flesh and blood, or be rged by him.
Eleanor knew too well, what Cillian Grant looked like after anger converted to desire, these matters between n and won, n too frenzied, won would die.
She struggled urgently, bending her body to push him away. Thinking that a desire-driven man wouldn’t easily be tackled.
Yet, in an instant, Cillian eased with her struggles, his lips and tongue softened.
Eleanor’s heart sank uncontrollably.
If he doesn’t let go, she’s in danger.
If he lets go, even more so.
Does he know she’s pregnant? Or suspect?
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