No Love For The Villain - Chapter 3
Sierra’s veil fluttered in the sharp wind. The cold gust grazed the back of her neck like a blade, and in that instant she saw him—the man standing behind the mourners.
His black coat whipped in the wind. He watched the funeral from a single step removed, apart from everyone else.
While the mourners closed their eyes and prayed for the dead, Sierra kept hers open, fixed on the man in the distance. Only Sierra and the man were not praying.
With languid eyes, hands slipped into his coat pockets, he observed the scene before him without emotion. It was a weary, indifferent attitude toward death.
Sensing her gaze like a sharp-eared beast, he looked at Sierra.
Their eyes met.
Sierra flinched and looked away.
“Since You graciously receive this soul, we now commit this body to the earth. From dust we came, and to dust we return…”
Her father’s coffin was slowly swallowed by the ground. Once buried beneath it, nothing could ever return.
Her father’s body had finally come home, but the man who called her my beloved daughter would never return. No matter how long she waited, she would never hear that voice again. She had to accept it at last.
The futile hope she had carried for ten years—that her father might still be alive—was buried beneath the cold earth that no one could dig up again.
“Have mercy on us.”
Pastor Miles prayed toward a god who would never answer him.
Watching the soil pour over the coffin, Sierra felt as if the dirt were falling over her own body. A wave of dizziness swept through her.
There was nothing left to wait for. Everything was over. Thoughts collapsed like tumbling earth, making her legs go weak. Swaying, Sierra felt herself tilting as if being drawn into her father’s side.
But instead of falling into the grave, she was caught.
Her arm was yanked back roughly, and Sierra caught the unfamiliar scent that swept over her from behind—winter cold enough to sting the tip of her nose.
“If you want to be buried with your father, I’ll let you go.”
A low, chilling whisper brushed her ear.
“Let me go?”
The grip clenching her arm loosened in an instant.
Instinct tightened her legs. As she forced herself to stand—like a desperate struggle to live—a faint laugh brushed her ear. It was a laugh that violated the solemnity of the funeral.
The man pulled Sierra toward him, holding her upright, keeping her feet on the ground. He didn’t release her until the soil covered her father’s grave completely, leaving no space for her to be buried with him.
The funeral came to an end.
The mourners placed the roses they held before the tombstone. The flowers piled up layer upon layer like a dusty heap. Staring at the growing mound with a vacant expression, Sierra caught a sharp, smoky scent.
The man stood beside Sierra, watching the mourners. A burning cigarette was perched between his fingers, and he let the smoke, with its dizzying scent, drift from the corner of his lips.
When no one else came by, what the man threw in front of the tombstone wasn’t a rose, but his burning cigarette.
Seeing the rose petals turn dark and scorch from the cigarette’s ember, Sierra flinched and furrowed her brow. The cigarette the man had thrown was callously burning away people’s grief.
“Is there still something left to do?” he asked, speaking as if the funeral was just a ‘task’ to be gotten through. Sierra answered without looking at him.
“Yes, there is.”
“The coffin’s buried, prayers are said, and flowers have been thrown.”
“The act of mourning.”
“Ah, mourning.”
The man repeated her words indifferently. His fingertips brushed down Sierra’s neck, exposed to the wind.
Even through skin numbed by the cold, the feel of the leather gloves was distinct. Sierra’s shoulders flinched.
“But here is too…”
The man tilted his head down, leaning to her eye level. His sharp gaze cut through the veil.
It felt as if he were tearing through it and entering.
Suddenly, her veil was seized. The man gathered the veil in his hand. Sierra’s widened eyes were filled with the image of the man rudely lifting what should have been covered.
His face was beautiful, but his sharp, black eyes were intimidating.
“You’re not cold,” the man spat out. With her veil lifted, Sierra stood frozen, like a fugitive with nowhere left to hide.
“Go home now,” the man said in a commanding tone. Over his shoulder, she could see Pastor Miles looking uncomfortable.
Pastor Miles said something to his son beside him and pushed him on the back. Daniel, who had seen the man rumored to shoot you if you made eye contact, wore the expression of someone cornered. Yet, obeying his father’s command, his feet moved incessantly.
Daniel stopped warily near the man beside Sierra and stretched out his hand from a distance.
“Sierra, come here. To me…”
Sierra stood blankly. Then Daniel snatched and grabbed Sierra’s hand. Daniel’s tense hand was damp with sweat, despite it being the dead of winter.
Pulled by Daniel, Sierra’s vision was obscured by the veil again. Even as she was led away by Daniel with blurred vision, she could feel the man’s gaze following her from behind.
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