Can a psychopath feel love like you and me?? The answer is no. Because whatever they feel is much more dangerous then just love. It's an obsession, a craving, a madness.
That is the only way to explain Killian's feelings for Ophelia
ITS A DARK ROMA...
Hi! I thought to make another challenge for you all! Because you finished the last one within 2 days this one will be a little more difficult.
If this chapter gets 35 votes and 15 comments I will post 3 chapters at once.
(If you can't do it I will still post one chapter a week ❤️)
Also the comments can't be just 1,2,3 etc they have to be relevant to the book or the chapter😅❤️
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Psychopath usually doesn't believe it's their fault instead they blame someone else for their mistakes.
Killian's pov:
I watched Ophelia as she held the vase, her hands trembling. When it slipped from her grasp and shattered on the floor, I felt a twinge of confusion and concern. Why was she so upset about a vase? Neither of us had ever cared much for material things.
"Stop it, it's fine, it's just a vase," I said, trying to reassure her.
But she didn't listen. Her movements were frantic as she tried to piece the shards together, cutting her hands on the sharp edges.
"Bunny, I said stop it. The pieces are sharp, and I don't want you to get hurt," I said more sternly, but she kept going.
"Stop it!" I grabbed her hands and pulled her away from the vase. Her hands were bleeding, and the sight of her blood made something in me tighten uncomfortably.
"NO! I have to fix it, let me go!" she screamed, her voice raw with desperation.
"It's okay, you can't fix everything all of the time, and this is one of those times," I said, trying to stay calm, patting her back gently.
"NO, I can fix it if you would just let me go!" she trashed in my hold, her movements wild and uncontrolled.
"Please, I have to fix it," she begged, looking into my eyes with a desperation that made my chest ache. "Please," she whispered, her voice breaking.
"I c-can fix it if you let me," she tried to explain, her words tumbling out in a frantic rush.
"I'm sorry, bunny, but the vase is broken," I said, my voice filled with an emotion I couldn't quite identify.
"Please, it's not broken, it just needs a little work and care," she said, refusing to look into my eyes.
"It's not broken!" she screamed, the words tearing from her throat with raw intensity. "Please, trust me," she pleaded. "It's not broken."
"Let me fix it," she begged again, her voice growing weaker. "It's not broken!"
She screamed the words three times, each one louder and more desperate than the last. "It's not broken! It's not broken! It's not broken!"
Finally, she collapsed, her energy spent, her voice barely a whisper. "It's not broken," she said, the words barely audible as she slipped into unconsciousness. "I'm not broken," she whispered one last time before everything went black.
