No Love For The Villain - Chapter 45
He recalled the faint voice he had heard over the receiver.
At those few words, he had gone straight to the church.
“Because I wanted to go to you.”
Drawn by that single sentence, he had put her into the car as if abducting her.
The thought of returning her home hadn’t even crossed his mind.
“Thank you.”
Those simple words made him want to place anything in her arms even something ridiculous, like a sign, or paint, or a drawing.
“Just come back.”
With words like that, she made him return to her, making him impatient with every passing second.
That fragile being had settled inside his mind,
making him think only of her.
Without watching, she kept him under surveillance; without speaking, she gave him orders; she urged him to come back to her.
As Eli watched the peacefully sleeping Sierra, his gaze moved to her exposed, defenseless neck.
To the place where her pulse beat—he reached out his hand.
With his bare hand, unblocked by a glove, he felt the faint fluttering.
A flutter he had only ever stopped before.
He had only ever strangled it, or pierced it with a blade.
And so, before something so exceedingly fragile, he lost his way, unable to follow his usual methods.
He found himself wanting to save the woman who begged so desperately to be killed.
“You should have run.”
If she had, he would have chased her relentlessly and cut off her breath, just as she wished.
Chasing someone who fled was familiar to him.
But being waited for—was not.
The urge to save someone was unfamiliar as well.
For what purpose does one gather up the weak?
Because it turns something that is nothing into something that feels like it matters.
The weak tame the other by waiting, by leaning into their touch until they become addicted to the exhilaration of being someone indispensable.
Eli’s hand, which had been soothing Sierra’s cheek, moved to her disheveled blond hair.
As he parted it with his fingers, the fine strands slipped easily through the gaps of his hand.
Eli wound the hair that would not stay in his grasp around his fingers instead.
“Live, Sierra.”
As her hair was pulled, Sierra let out a faint groan in her sleep.
It almost sounded like she was rejecting the command given to her.
Eli pressed a kiss to the strands of golden hair in his hand.
After Eli left, Sierra kept staring at the door of the room.
In her hand remained the glove he had left behind, as if promising he would return.
But it also felt like something shed and abandoned, which made her uneasy.
Something that has been cast off doesn’t need to be retrieved.
He might not come back.
Sierra couldn’t take her eyes off the door he had gone through.
She wanted him to come back soon.
The more she wanted that, the stronger her anxiety grew—that he might not return.
And the stronger that feeling became, the less she could take her eyes off the door.
So she could do nothing but watch it.
Her eyes, fixed on the tightly shut door, blinked slowly.
As the unfamiliar pleasure faded, a wave of exhaustion washed over her.
Swept up in drowsiness, Sierra imagined the door opening again.
She waited for the voice that would return and call her once more—“Sierra.”
Sleep overtook her.
And then she woke to the sound of footsteps.
In the darkness, she heard footsteps approaching, returning.
Then came the voice calling, “Sierra.”
He had come back.
The hand that touched her felt as though it were praising her for waiting.
She wanted to see his face to see what kind of gaze he had as he looked at her so gently.
Frowning slightly, Sierra forced her heavy eyelids open.
She saw Eli’s eyes looking down at her—calm, and cold.
“I thought you weren’t coming.”
Sierra murmured softly.
The man with those indifferent eyes gently brushed her hair back.
“For someone who was waiting for me, you slept pretty well.”
Had that man ever waited for someone to come back to him?
As she thought he probably hadn’t, the hand stroking her hair slipped away.
With a hazy, sleep-laden gaze, Sierra watched Eli’s hand as it moved away from her.
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