The sky had fallen completely into darkness.
Inside the reception room, the gloom grew ever denser—like blood, like tide, rising and spreading.
Boyd kept glancing around, urgently searching for the gun on his body—yet it was gone. His gun had been taken!
Only one person could have taken his gun.
Boyd panted heavily, nearly startling himself with the sound of his own terrified breaths.
At that moment, he saw a tall figure appear behind Polly.
The man wore a white mask, his gaze cold and languid, clad in a long black coat over a white shirt, with black leather gloves on his hands. Slowly, he covered Bo Li’s eyes.
…Erik.
A chill rushed straight to Boyd’s head. He instinctively held his breath, fearing his breathing would be too loud and draw Erik’s attention.
Erik seemed intent on killing Bo Li—one hand covering her eyes, the other gripping her throat.
Bo Li was on his side, and even so he wanted to kill her.
The man was mad.
Boyd trembled all over, his body hunched, as he crept step by step toward the reception room door.
Those “female mediums” had fled the instant they saw Tricky’s severed head.
He had had enough of those cowardly women—feeding them, housing them, yet at the crucial moment not one was of use. If they had stayed, he could at least have dragged one over to use as a shield.
Boyd retreated while watching Erik’s every move.
What he could not believe was that Polly was also mad—she actually clasped Erik’s hand and pressed a kiss into his palm.
She seemed utterly unaware of Erik’s murderous intent, even rubbing her cheek lightly against his hand.
Was this the reason she had survived?
That she had given herself to the devil?
If not for survival, who would willingly kiss the hand of a monstrous devil?
Sure enough, Erik stilled for a moment, then slowly released her throat and lifted his gaze toward Boyd.
As if realizing his death was near, a wave of malice surged within Boyd, stirring a desperate thought—this girl had first made Erik cut off his finger, then had Erik hang Tricky’s head from the chandelier.
She kissed the devil’s palm, thinking she had found a way to command him. But did she truly know what sort of being she was kissing?
Boyd let out a cold laugh, his mind steeped in spite. Once she saw the portrait, would she still be able to press her lips to him?
Since he was doomed to die, he would drag Polly down to hell with him.
With that thought, Boyd lunged toward the portrait, lifted it upright onto the table, and tore away the dark-red silk cloth.
“This portrait resembles him seven or eight parts… Don’t you want to know what kind of man you just kissed?” Boyd nearly howled. “Open your eyes, open your eyes and look at this portrait—ask yourself, is this truly a human’s face? You’ve read books, you know what heredity is. Then tell me, what kind of parents could give birth to a fusion of human and skeleton—”
Before the words had even fallen, a rope suddenly tightened around his neck. With a sharp crack, Boyd’s cervical bones were wrenched and broken by an inhuman force.
—This was not the strength of a human. If this was not an evil spirit, then what could be called an evil spirit?
This was the last thought in Boyd’s mind. His head lolled to the side, the pale spine tearing through his skin, and with a thud, he collapsed to the ground.
Bo Li did not see this scene.
Her eyes had remained tightly shut.
She had felt Erik’s killing intent—how foolish of her to think that when he covered her eyes, it was to shield her from a bloody sight. Who would have thought it was because he wished to end her life silently and without sound!
His black glove was icy cold, void of all warmth. As it slowly rubbed against her neck, it was as if a stream of frozen water flowed through her veins, chilling her neck into stiffness.
In her desperation, Bo Li forced herself to feign ignorance. She lifted the hand gripping her throat and bent her head, pressing a kiss upon it.
The stench of blood assailed her nose.
It was the hand of a killer.
On the leather glove, there might still be Tricky’s blood.
At the thought that her lips might have touched a murderer’s blood, Bo Li fought against the urge to retch, instead brushing her cheek lightly against his palm.
He did not move, allowing her to nuzzle against his palm, as though his murderous intent had faded.
But just then, Boyd suddenly went mad, roaring for her to look at Erik’s portrait.
In that instant, Bo Li’s heart filled with a hundred curses—why was this man so obsessed with dragging her into ruin along with him?
Wasn’t there a gun on him?
Why did he not use the gun to bargain with Erik?
Whether Boyd lived or died had nothing to do with her.
Yet if he died too quickly, then the reception room would hold only her and Erik.
In the end, Boyd still died.
He was too terrified of Erik, and his hatred for her was too deep. Without any resistance, he perished beneath Erik’s rope.
The reception room once again sank into silence—deathly silence.
Bo Li could see nothing; she could only strain her ears to listen.
Where was the portrait?
Had Boyd torn away the silk cloth?
Could she open her eyes now?
After killing Boyd, Erik released her eyes, though she could not tell what he was doing.
When one closes one’s eyes, the darkness is never absolute—there are still shifting shades of light and shadow. Those shadows were Erik’s movements before her.
He seemed to be pacing the reception room, examining the things around him—until a sudden crash rang out. The portrait had been thrown into the fireplace.
The flames hissed and roared to life. Then came the rustling of fabric. He seized Boyd’s body, rifling through his clothes.
Bo Li listened to the crackling of the flames in the fireplace, uncertain how long it would take before the portrait was completely consumed.
Her legs were beginning to grow stiff.
Remaining silent like this was no solution. She had to find some way to break the silence.
Only if she made him speak could she find a chance to turn the situation around.
Darkness, fear, the stench of blood, danger, the shudder of being watched, the icy black gloves, the frantic throb of a heart struggling to live on… Too many feelings crowded her chest, chaotic and tangled. Her throat was filled with the acrid tang of adrenaline, as if she had swallowed a mouthful of blood.
At that moment, Erik seemed to have finished searching Boyd’s body, and was walking toward her.
His figure was tall and imposing, carrying a pressure like a tangible shadow that threatened to engulf her.
Bo Li shuddered and blurted out: “…Did you read the letter I wrote?”
He halted. He neither spoke nor reached for her throat.
Bo Li’s back was already soaked in cold sweat. From head to toe she felt drenched, as though doused with a bucket of freezing water.
After a long while, his voice resounded—cold and low, making her ears tingle with numbness:
“A letter?”
Bo Li could not help brushing her shoulder against her ear.
Too long without hearing his voice, and she became like this. Every word from him raised goosebumps across her skin.
“…I knew their intentions from the start,” she said steadily. “I originally meant to give their letter straight to you, but then you suddenly disappeared… I feared you might misunderstand and think I was in league with them, so before I left I wrote an explanation, left it pressed on top, on the desk in the guest room. Did you not read it?”
He gave no reply.
Bo Li did not need his answer, and continued:
“I don’t care what they say, nor do I care what you look like… I only know that you saved me several times. Without you, I would already have died in the circus camp.”
This was the truth.
If not for him, she never would have known that Richard had not followed her plan to steal the mountaineering pack, but had instead tried to collaborate with the manager.
“Do you think…” she drew a deep breath, “that I chose you in the forest rather than the manager because I was certain you could kill him? It was not that. I knew very well the manager had no use for me. A mountaineering pack could be opened in many ways—but you were only one. I knew clearly then, his aim was to sow discord between us, to leave you beset from front and rear. Only then could he persuade you to return and continue to serve him.”
Half truth, half falsehood.
She knew the manager’s intent, but she also knew Erik would certainly be able to kill him.
“Before, I did not know what sort of man you were,” she swallowed, “but now, I trust more in my own judgment than in the words of others. The manager said you were cold-blooded, cruel, and extremely dangerous… But after so many days together, I instead feel you are not dangerous, but a man of great kindness.”
Erik suddenly spoke: “Kindness?”
“Do you still remember what the manager said in the forest? He said you had once been a felon of the Persian kingdom, and it was he who granted you freedom… The manager claimed again and again you were ungrateful, that you had never repaid him. But I feel you have long since repaid him. The way Mike treated you—dragging you behind his horse—you had ten thousand ways to kill him, yet in the end you never lifted a hand. If that is not repayment, then what is?”
He remained silent.
“Boyd always called you a devil, an evil spirit.” She slowly exhaled. “But in my eyes, you are not only a genius of many talents, you also possess a heart of kindness… No matter what, I will never believe you are an evil spirit.”
Bo Li had spoken until her mouth was nearly dry, feeling as though she had layered a hundred and eighty filters of embellishment upon him.
Even so, he remained dangerously silent, not uttering a single word.
Bo Li’s heart clenched.
Had she overdone it with the flattery?
Whether Erik could be called kind was open to debate, but he did indeed show mercy to those who had once saved him.
If not for the fact that on the very first day she had crossed over, she had tried to save him—cleaning his wounds, feeding him medicine—then with his cold and suspicious nature, she might already have long perished beneath his hand.
Bo Li’s heart pounded violently, her chest almost aching from its force, cold sweat sliding slowly down her cheek.
Unable to discern his attitude, she had no choice but to brace herself and continue speaking soft words:
“I do not avoid the portrait, do not keep my eyes shut, out of fear for your appearance, but because… I am waiting for the right moment.”
At last, he spoke: “What moment?”
“…The moment you permit me to see your face,” she replied, her voice taut and a little hoarse.
Erik fixed his gaze upon her with a cold, judging stare.
Before coming here, he had considered many possibilities.
He had seen the letter she left upon the desk, but judged it most likely a ploy, a snare meant to lure him into this villa.
All along the way, he had watched her every word with Boyd.
Even missing a finger, Boyd was still young, handsome, and impeccably courteous—a gentleman beyond reproach.
He had taken her hand, pressing a kiss upon the lace glove. They seemed a perfect match of beauty and talent, like the hero and heroine of a French novel.
He had seen the carriage stop before the villa, watched her alight, naturally shedding her cloak to reveal shirt and trousers beneath, handing over her pistol.
In his eyes, all humans were the same.
He did not feel shame on account of another’s flesh, just as a beast feels no shame when its prey is stripped of its hide.
Yet the lines of her body—that slender, graceful silhouette—seared into his vision like a red-hot brand, like Thornd briars pressing cruelly into his eyes.
His eyes throbbed with sudden pain, his temples pounded, and his heartbeat seemed to surge into his very sight.
Perhaps she had already known he was behind her.
She had refused to believe the words of the mediums, had resolutely turned away from the portrait, as though certain he would slay anyone who dared look upon it.
Until now, she had given him too many impossible sensations.
Her every action was like a dream—only a dreamer could so steadfastly choose him, so firmly believe in him.
By some strange compulsion, he had stretched out his hand, covering her eyes, unwilling for her to witness such a horrifying scene.
Yet soon after, he had grown cold again, thinking—
If this were a dream, he would choose to wake at this moment.
But instead, she had taken hold of his hand, kissed his palm, and brushed her cheek against it.
She had even said that he was a kind man, a genius of all talents.
Until now, only when she looked at him would he feel that indescribable shame.
But in this moment—her thoughts, her words, her tone, her closed eyes, the parting of her lips, the flick of her tongue between them, each breath in and out—all of it filled him with a shame so terrible it was nearly humiliation.
It was as though, while tracing every inch of his features with her gaze, she also thrust her fingers into his wounds, stirring them ceaselessly until they struck a raw and sensitive nerve.
His expression grew dark and cold, and it was with nearly all his strength that he forced down the raging flood of shame inside him, resisting the urge to kill her on the spot.
Bo Li had no idea that just a few words of hers had nearly driven him to the brink of humiliation unto death.
She was still thinking how to move the conversation forward.
Waiting would yield no answer.
But if she asked directly, she risked provoking his anger.
After much thought, she tilted her head slightly, trying to speak with the innocence and softness of a child:
“…I have already told you everything on my mind. Whether you believe me or not, in my eyes, there is no misunderstanding between us anymore. But still, I want to ask you one question—may I?”
No response.
Which meant he permitted her to go on.
“When will I… be able to see your face?”
This time, he answered swiftly, his voice cold and absolute: “Never.”