Chapter 83 - Killing Machine
With a gentleness that belied his strength, Cillian's fingers brushed against my forehead, sweeping up the errant strands of my bangs. The touch was feather-light, cool against my skin, yet it sent a shiver down my spine. Each individual hair seemed to tingle at the contact, standing on end before settling back into place. His palm came to rest on my forehead, a cool, comforting weight that grounded me in the moment.
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As my gaze shifted to meet his, I was struck by the intensity of his expression. Every line of his face seemed etched with concern, from the slight furrow between his brows to the tightness around his eyes. His eyes, usually so guarded, were now windows to a soul in turmoil. In their depths, I saw worry, relief, and something else - an emotion too complex to name, swirling like storm clouds on the horizon.
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The sigh that escaped him was not merely a exhalation of breath, but a release of pent-up emotion so powerful it seemed to ripple through the very air of the room. It carried with it the weight of a sleepless night, the bitter tang of fear, and the acrid scent of spent adrenaline. The sound hung in the air between us, almost visible in its intensity, before dissipating like mist in the morning sun.
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Without warning, Cillian's body went limp, collapsing sideways onto the bed with the grace of a felled tree. The mattress bounced under the sudden weight, sending ripples across the surface that reached me like gentle waves lapping at a shore. His body, usually so controlled and poised, was now a study in exhaustion - limbs sprawled akimbo, hair mussed and falling across his forehead, clothes rumpled from a night of worry and movement.
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The contrast between his dark attire and the light-colored bedding was stark, like a brush stroke of ink across a blank canvas. In that moment, he looked both younger and older than his years - vulnerable in his exhaustion, yet bearing the weight of responsibilities far beyond his age.
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"HUH?" The exclamation burst from my lips before I could stop it, a staccato note of surprise in the quiet room. The word hung in the air, a verbal representation of my bewilderment at this sudden change in Cillian's demeanor. My voice, still slightly rough from sleep, cracked slightly on the syllable, adding a touch of vulnerability to my surprise.
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As I watched him lay there, I could almost see the tension draining from his body, sinking into the mattress beneath him. Each breath he took seemed to release another fraction of the stress he'd been carrying, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that was both hypnotic and reassuring. The morning light, now streaming more fully through the windows, cast a golden glow across his form, softening the sharp lines of his face and adding warmth to his pale skin.
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In that moment, the room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for what would come next. The air was thick with unspoken words and emotions, a tangible presence that filled the space between us. The only sound was our breathing - mine, still slightly fast from surprise, and Cillian's, deep and measured as he lay sprawled across the bed.
"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT SORT OF ORDEAL I JUST WENT THROUGH?" Cillian's voice erupted from his prone form, shattering the momentary silence like a thunderclap in a clear sky. The words tumbled out in a rush, each syllable laden with a cocktail of emotions - frustration, exhaustion, and an undercurrent of genuine concern that he seemed to be trying to mask with irritation.
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His voice, usually so controlled and measured, now cracked slightly on the higher notes, betraying the strain of the night he'd endured. The sound reverberated off the ornate walls of the bedroom, creating a brief echo that seemed to emphasize the weight of his words. As he spoke, I could see the muscles in his jaw tighten, a physical manifestation of the tension still coursing through his body.
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With a movement that spoke of both weariness and determination, Cillian propped himself up on his right arm. The shift in position caused the bed to dip slightly, the mattress conforming to his new posture. His elbow sank into the plush surface, creating a small valley in the otherwise smooth expanse of the bedding. As he lifted his head, locks of his usually immaculate hair fell across his forehead, casting shadows over his eyes that only served to intensify his gaze.
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Our eyes met, and in that moment, it felt as though the rest of the world faded away. His eyes, a swirling maelstrom of blue and gray, locked onto mine with an intensity that was almost physical. I could see the play of emotions behind them - worry warring with relief, frustration battling with a tenderness he seemed reluctant to show.
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"I couldn't sleep a wink cause of you," he continued, his voice rising in both volume and pitch. The words tumbled out in a torrent, as if a dam had broken inside him. "You had a temperature of 45°C, and you were burning like hell. I had to rush to the freakin pharmacy to get you medicines."
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As he spoke, his free hand gestured wildly, punctuating each statement with sharp movements that cut through the air. The motion caused the fabric of his shirt to stretch across his shoulders, emphasizing the tension held in every line of his body. His breath came in short, sharp bursts, each exhalation carrying the weight of the night's worries.
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His expression, as he delivered this tirade, was a study in conflicting emotions. His brows were drawn together, creating deep furrows across his forehead. His eyes, usually so guarded, now blazed with a mixture of concern and exasperation. The corners of his mouth turned down slightly, a physical manifestation of his distress. Yet, beneath it all, there was a softness around his eyes, a tenderness that he couldn't quite hide behind his mask of irritation.
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This complex tapestry of emotions played across his features, creating what I had come to know as his 'nyarm' face - a unique blend of worry and annoyance that was so quintessentially Cillian. It was an expression that spoke volumes about the depth of his care, even as he tried to disguise it behind a veneer of frustration.
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As I took in his words and the raw emotion behind them, something unexpected bubbled up inside me. It started as a warmth in my chest, spreading outward like ripples on a pond. Before I knew it, a laugh was building in my throat, threatening to burst forth. I tried to stifle it, pressing my lips together in a futile attempt to contain my mirth.
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But the sight of Cillian, his hair mussed, his clothes rumpled, wearing that adorably exasperated expression, was too much. The laughter broke free, starting as a soft giggle and quickly escalating into full-blown peals of laughter. The sound filled the room, bouncing off the walls and creating a joyous cacophony that stood in stark contrast to the tension of moments before.
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My body shook with the force of my laughter, causing the bed to vibrate slightly. Tears formed at the corners of my eyes, tiny droplets that caught the morning light and sparkled like diamonds. I brought the back of my hand to my lips in a belated attempt to cover my amusement, but it was a futile gesture. The laughter continued to pour out of me, a release of tension I hadn't even realized I'd been holding.
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Cillian's reaction to my unexpected mirth was a sight to behold. His eyes widened in disbelief, the furrows in his brow deepening as confusion replaced anger. His mouth opened and closed several times, as if he were trying to form words but couldn't quite manage it in the face of my continued laughter.
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"IS THIS A JOKE TO YOU?" he finally managed to exclaim, his voice rising to a pitch I'd never heard from him before. The words came out as a mixture of a yelp and a shout, his usual composure completely shattered. His eyes darted around the room as if seeking an explanation for my behavior, before settling back on my face with an expression of utter bewilderment.
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As I continued to laugh, unable to form words through my mirth, I could almost see the thoughts racing through Cillian's mind. His expression shifted rapidly, cycling through confusion, frustration, and finally settling on a comical mask of worry. His eyebrows straightened out, forming perfect horizontal lines above his wide eyes. His mouth turned down slightly at the corners, creating an expression that was part pout, part frown.
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OKAY OKAY OKAY CALM DOWN, Cillian. This woman has lost her senses. YES. YES. YES. SHE HAS TOTALLY LOST IT. The thoughts seemed to radiate from him, almost visible in the air between us. His 'nyarm' face intensified, the worry in his eyes mixing with a touch of fond exasperation that only fueled my laughter further.
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"HMPH." The sound escaped him, a perfect encapsulation of his feelings. It was part sigh, part groan, carrying with it all the exasperation and begrudging affection he couldn't put into words. With a dramatic flair that would have done a stage actor proud, Cillian let himself fall back onto the bed.
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His body bounced slightly as it hit the mattress, causing a ripple effect that traveled across the bed. He laced his fingers behind his head, creating a makeshift pillow as he stared up at the ornate ceiling. The morning light played across his features, softening the lines of frustration and highlighting the youthful curve of his cheek.
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I couldn't help but stare at him, a smile still playing on my lips. The laughter had subsided, leaving behind a warm glow of amusement and affection. The silence stretched between us, comfortable despite the lingering tension from his outburst. It was a moment suspended in time, filled with unspoken words and shared understanding.
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The room around us seemed to settle, the energy shifting from the frenetic pace of our exchange to something calmer, more contemplative. Motes of dust danced in the sunbeams streaming through the windows, creating a ethereal atmosphere that matched the surreal nature of our morning so far.
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Cillian's chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, his breathing slowly returning to normal after his emotional outburst. His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, but I could see the wheels turning behind them, thoughts and emotions flickering across his face like shadows on a wall.
"So," Cillian muttered, breaking the silence that had settled over us like a comfortable blanket. His voice, now neutral and controlled, was a stark contrast to his earlier outburst. The single syllable hung in the air, pregnant with unspoken meaning. His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, tracing the intricate patterns as if they held the secrets of the universe. "Whom do you love the most?"
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The question, seemingly casual, carried a weight that was almost palpable. It fell into the space between us, causing a subtle shift in the atmosphere of the room. The morning light, streaming through the windows, seemed to pause in its dance across the floor, as if even the sun was waiting for my response.
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My eyes widened as realization dawned, a mischievous glint entering my gaze. The corners of my mouth twitched upwards, forming a knowing smirk that I couldn't quite suppress. "Aha. I see where you're going," I exclaimed teasingly, my voice lilting with amusement. The words danced in the air, playful yet loaded with implication.
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"Where?" Cillian blurted out, a hint of defensiveness coloring his tone. His head turned slightly, eyes flickering to meet mine for a brief moment before darting away. The movement was quick, almost imperceptible, but it spoke volumes about his state of mind. A faint blush, barely noticeable against his pale skin, crept up his neck.
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"But don't worry. I don't love you," I said, my voice light and teasing. The words were a contrast to my actions as I reached out, fingers brushing against his forehead. Gently, I swept aside a lock of hair that had fallen across his eyes, the silky strands cool against my fingertips. "Besides, why would I love someone like you anyway?" The question hung in the air, rhetorical yet loaded with potential.
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Cillian's response was immediate, his tone nonchalant despite the intensity in his gaze. "Umm, cause I'm handsome?" He turned his head slightly, raising it to meet my eyes fully. There was a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, a playfulness that matched my own. His eyes, usually so guarded, now sparkled with a mix of humor and something deeper, more complex.
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"Masks don't matter, the ingredients used to make them, matter," I exclaimed indifferently, my fingers still lingering near his face. The metaphor hung between us, heavy with implication. Each word was carefully chosen, a verbal dance around the truth we both knew but neither acknowledged.
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Cillian's eyebrow arched slightly, a subtle movement that spoke volumes. "You're implying I'm using my beauty to hide something?" he piqued, curiosity evident in his voice. His eyes searched mine, looking for the truth behind my words. The intensity of his gaze was almost physical, as if he could unravel my thoughts through sheer force of will.
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"Yeah. Of course. An S level Assassin hiding under the title of One of the Most Handsome Men in Elmir. SURE." I added, my tone a mixture of sarcasm and knowing. The words tumbled out before I could stop them, revealing knowledge I perhaps shouldn't have possessed. They hung in the air between us, heavy with implication and unspoken truths.
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"Bruh. What?" Cillian added, a laugh escaping him. But it wasn't a laugh of genuine amusement. There was a tension in his shoulders, a sharpness in his gaze that belied his casual response. The laughter didn't quite reach his eyes, which had narrowed slightly, assessing me with newfound wariness.
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"Sure, sure. Whatever suits your fancy." I exclaimed, my eyes narrowing at him, yet my smile not leaving. It was a dance of words and hidden meanings, each of us trying to gauge how much the other truly knew. The air between us crackled with unspoken tension, a mixture of playfulness and something darker, more dangerous.
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"Where'd you find out though?" Cillian asked, his tone forcefully nonchalant. His hands remained laced behind his head, a picture of relaxation that was betrayed by the slight tensing of his jaw. His eyes never left mine, searching for answers in my expression.
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"Where else would a killing machine be born and raised anyway?" I asked rhetorically, glancing over him as I began to crawl out of the bed. The question was loaded with implications about his past and training, each word carefully chosen to provoke a reaction.
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As my feet touched the cool floor, I swirled around dramatically, facing Cillian who had also risen from the bed. The sudden movement sent a whoosh of air through the room, disturbing the delicate balance we had created. "OKAY!" I exclaimed, my voice bright and cheerful, a stark contrast to the heavy conversation we had just been having. "Let's make breakfast together!" I declared, my right arm rising in enthusiasm, as if I could dispel the tension with sheer force of will.
To be Continued...
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