Bound to the Enemy: The Mafia's Obsession

Cassandra didn't speak. She couldn't. Not because she lacked words, but because something in those glacial eyes warned her to stay still... at least until she understood exactly what sort of man her brother was.

For a moment, she forgot to breathe. In all the scattered memories she inherited from the original Cassandra Bolton, this man was a ghost-a looming figure of indifference who never once turned back to look at his sister. He was cold, distant, and untouchable. And yet now, he sat here, cloaked in quiet authority, with a blanket tucked around her frail body as though... as though he cared.

Her heart skipped.

But why? Why the sudden change?

Did he realize that his little sister, the original Cassandra Bolton is gone and a vengeful evil spirit is now possessing her body?

Did he come here to confront her and kill her? What should she do?

Keep up the freaking act! Act like the weak, timid and bashful little sister you ought to be! Her brain screamed at her.

"Did the fever turn you stupid?" His baritone voice cut through her daze, sharp and cool, as though he could sense her thoughts and found them laughable.

Cassandra blinked. That was the only thing he could say to her? Not 'are you alright', not 'rest'. Just that.

Her lips curved faintly, hiding the sting and palpitations in her chest. "...Big Brother, when did you return? I thought I was dreaming." Her voice was soft, almost fragile, but her eyes glimmered with an affection she couldn't smother. Even in weakness, her gaze sought him, clung to him.

Yet, her heart and mind churned. She shouldn't provoke this man. Not when she was in such a weak state.

She has to put up an act if she did not want to die a second time as soon as she wakes up.

Theodore frowned at her words. Instead of replying, he stood and walked away with a controlled grace that sent a shiver through her. At her desk, he picked up a dagger. Not merely picked it up-handled it with the ease of a man who could end lives with it before she blinked. He twirled the blade in long, sculpted fingers as he returned to her bedside.

Cassandra's body stiffened beneath the covers. Her fever made her limbs weak, but her instincts screamed danger. Her smile faltered, her gaze fixed warily on the knife.

Still, she forced herself to speak, her voice hoarse but steady. "Were you... taking care of me? First Madame said I had to stay locked in here until you came back. I thought..." Her throat tightened, and she added softly, "...I thought I might die before seeing you again. It's been four years since I last saw you."

Her words hung in the air, heavy with double meaning. On one hand, they sounded like the desperate yearning of a little sister. On the other, like the calculated plea of someone who knew her survival hinged on this man's whim.

Cassandra has never been more glad than now for inheriting the original Cassandra Bolton's memories. Who knew how she would have died if she wakes up without those memories.

Theodore Bolton didn't answer immediately. He simply spun the dagger once more, its glint reflecting in his unreadable eyes, before lowering it with a casual flick of his wrist.

The cold blade grazed her pale fair face, sending shivers down Cassandra Bolton's spine. The devilishly handsome man before her stroked her small face with the sharp glinting blade, like he would slice her face if she displease him.

His gaze swept over her-cold, piercing, and yet strangely... unsettled.

Cassandra's smile wavered. What is he thinking? Does he want to kill me-or carve me apart for shaming the family?

Because in the Bolton House, affection and cruelty often came dressed in the same face.

And Theodore Bolton was the most dangerous face of all.

But Cassandra Bolton realized how wrong she was the moment her weak body was scooped up-no, hauled up-by Theodore Bolton with a single arm, like she was nothing more than a sack of dirty laundry.

Before she could even make sense of what was happening, she was ungracefully flung into the gigantic marble bathtub with all the gentleness one might give to tossing out the trash.

SPLASH!

Her jaw nearly hit the bath tiles.

"So dirty. Wash yourself clean," Theodore Bolton said flatly, his voice laced with disgust as his hawk-like eyes swept over her sweat-soaked hair, her clammy skin, and the blood-stained dress plastered against her body.

Cassandra Bolton sat there, dripping wet, stunned into silence.

"...."

He's insane! Completely insane!