At the same time, a searing anger burned within her, and a suffocating helplessness dragged her down, as if she were drowning in an endless ocean.
Shattered, Eileen opened her mouth to speak. Her voice, cracked and fragile, emerged faintly:
"But… you still feel pain, don't you?"
On the night of their wedding, when Eileen first saw his bare body, she had noticed the scars etched across his sturdy frame. She had silently hoped he would remain in the safety of the capital, far from the battlefield, to endure no more pain.
But Cesare treated his body as a mere tool, discarding it with little care. To Eileen, it was as if he had thrown a priceless treasure—one she didn't dare touch—into the dirt.
"Your nerves aren't dead. It's just… your wounds heal faster than anyone else's. Isn't that right? And yet…"
She paused, struggling to breathe. The words caught in her throat, choked by the overwhelming anguish that threatened to suffocate her.
"Why?"
