Leona finally had a full meal.
This body had never tasted chili peppers before. By the end, she was almost in tears, sniffling and eating at the same time.
Eric, however, showed no reaction, as if he had eaten even spicier food before.
Leona didn't think much of it; after all, chili peppers originated in the Americas.
In the original story, he traveled all over Europe and finally learned terrifying rope skills in India. Given such experiences, it was normal for him to have been to the Americas—perhaps they were already there.
Leona's geography wasn't excellent, but she vaguely remembered that there were no crocodiles or coyotes in France.
Coyotes were only found in North America.
She had initially thought she was in France because the manager and his group spoke with a French accent, completely forgetting that there were many French-speaking cities in nineteenth-century America—like New Orleans, which was once a colony of France and Spain.
This also explained why Richard didn't keep the backpack for himself.
New Orleans was too far from Paris. Instead of trekking to find Louis Vuitton for his reward, it was better to cooperate with the manager.
Leona forced herself to remember this lesson.
—In the future, she must think carefully before acting.
She had thought that the people here were simple and unsophisticated, and that with a little push, she could make them act according to her will.
But they were living, breathing people; it wasn't so easy to turn them into her pawns.
If it weren't for Eric's superhuman strength, she might have already been killed by the manager.
Eric wouldn't always help her, nor was he guaranteed to help her.
To survive, she had to be cautious, cautious, and cautious again.
The portion of canned hot pot was too large. Leona ate one-third and couldn't eat anymore.
Eric, on the other hand, had a good appetite; his chopsticks hardly stopped.
His fingers were extremely long, flexible, and powerful, to an astonishing degree—not many foreigners are adept at using chopsticks for Chinese food at first, but he seemed composed and moved just like her.
Leona then remembered that he was not only a first-class magician but also a rare musical genius, both of which required high finger dexterity.
It would be strange if he couldn't learn to use chopsticks.
Speaking of which, this was the first time he had eaten in front of her—excluding the energy bar incident.
Like that time, his mask was only slightly lifted, revealing a small part of his sharp jawline. His chewing was restrained, slow, and elegant, as if he had received professional training.
Considering he had served a king and even planned several political assassinations, it made sense.
Leona didn't dare look at his face too much and changed the subject: "…You're too thin, eat more."
There was no response.
He didn't stop eating either.
He must be allowing her to continue speaking.
Leona felt this was a good opportunity to get closer to him.
Since they were not in Paris, he hadn't met the heroine, and his character hadn't gone mad, it wouldn't hurt to butter him up now.
She thought for a moment and brought up an easy topic: "Do you know how to set up a circus?"
No response.
She didn't expect him to answer anyway and continued, "I think, no matter how you set up a circus, you shouldn't treat the performers like disposable exhibits, like the manager does—once the audience has seen them, they don't want to see them again. This is neither beneficial to the development of the performers nor a burden on the circus."
Eric kept eating without looking up.
"Deformed appearances can become tiresome," she said, "If Emily were my performer, I wouldn't sell her or turn her into a specimen—that's a crime and a short-sighted approach. I would give her a pious backstory, making the audience realize that she is not just a deformed 'four-legged woman' but also a living person."
Eric finally looked up at her.
Leona smiled slightly: "You might think this is futile. Making the audience understand her background won't change her appearance, and people will still fear and reject her, treating her like a clown in the circus."
"But if people discover," she tilted her head, "that beneath her different appearance lies a devout Christian who needs love and can give love?"
"I would tailor a script for her, making her seem as pitiable, miserable, and deserving of sympathy as possible."
"People would sympathize with her. Everyone has compassion they can't place; the rich sympathize with the poor, the poor with beggars, able-bodied beggars with disabled ones—"
"Sympathy is not only a virtue but also a privilege."
"Lucky people feel luckier when they see unfortunate ones; healthy people feel healthier when they see the disabled—"
"The most important thing is, Emily is pregnant," Leona frowned, "The manager is really stupid and malicious. He could have used this to create a better, more sympathetic story, but instead, he chose to let Emily miscarry and turned the fetus into a specimen…"
A voice sounded in her ear: "What story."
Leona was startled.
This was the third time she had heard him speak.
Perhaps because this time, he was sitting right beside her, she heard it incredibly clearly.
It was as if something cold and refreshing entered her ear, permeating every nerve, resonating strangely with her brain.
It was hard to describe the feeling.
Like a suggestion, like hypnosis, like being half-asleep.
Leona's heart raced, and her breathing quickened; she was almost in a daze.
So beautiful.
Beautiful to the point of fear.
She jolted awake.
Too scary.
She had actually been distracted by a person's voice.
This was no human voice; it sounded more like a bait that could bewitch and kill.
She had hoped he would speak more, especially since the voice in the original story was so beautiful, and she had been too nervous to hear it clearly before.
Who knew his real voice would be like this, reminiscent of evil, filthy, and ominous legends.
He should speak less.
After a long while, Leona barely found her voice:
"Of course, it's about exaggerating her pregnancy. In many religions, creating life is sacred and inviolable. If she really is a freak, how could God allow her to get pregnant?"
Still no response.
Leona continued, "In my hometown—people there pay for all kinds of stories. For example, a rich young man gambling away his fortune."
"Different people get different feelings from this story. The rich take it as a warning and feel fortunate not to have gone bankrupt; the poor feel comforted, thinking everyone is equal, and even the wealthy can lose everything due to stupidity; lucky gamblers think he's a fool; unlucky ones hope to stop gambling because of his story."
She whispered, "Emily's pregnancy itself doesn't signify much—she's human, pregnant, that's all. Complex human nature gives this event complex meanings."
Still no response.
"I wonder where Emily went," Leona murmured.
The one-sided conversation ended there.
Leona yawned and wanted to sleep.
Eric was still eating. His appetite was unusually large; after finishing the can, he ate the rabbit too.
That was normal.
If he didn't have a high metabolism, it was hard to imagine what supported his intense hunting behavior.
Leona told him goodnight and turned to enter the tent.
She covered herself with the blanket, was about to close her eyes, thought for a moment, and sat up to say to Eric outside, "…The blanket is big; you can join me if you're sleepy."
She said this to prevent him from trying to sleep with her in the middle of the night and waking her up with a knife.
She didn't want to be startled and lose her clean pants again.
Eric didn't answer.
Leona, not reassured, repeated herself before lying down and closing her eyes.
She had done everything she could; the rest was up to fate.
Midnight, Leona felt a chill on her cheek, something gently sliding across it.
She was too sleepy to open her eyes for a while, and when she finally did, bleary-eyed, the first thing she saw was a white mask, as lifeless as a wax figure, emotionless.
Eric knelt beside her, staring intently.
He held a dagger in his hand.
The blade was cold and pressed against her face, moving up and down.
Leona almost died on the spot.
She had warned him in advance; why did this still happen?
She froze, her heart pounding, blood rushing in her ears—not knowing if he was finally going to attack her or just tormenting her out of boredom.
…It must be the latter.
Because she hadn't said anything wrong before bed.
Her thoughts were genuine. She truly believed that Emily was no different from ordinary people, and it was society's gaze that colored the "four-legged woman."
But she wasn't just talking.
With every word she spoke, she calculated his reaction—in anger, surprise, agreement, or disdain for her presumptuous judgment of others' feelings.
She had given her all, just to convey one message.
—You don't need others' sympathy; it's just another form of privilege.
If he felt offended, he would have killed her while she was speaking.
There was no need to wait until she fell asleep to wake her up and judge her words.
…So what did he mean?
Leona tried to think, her brain racing, her heart pounding as if it would explode, adrenaline surging.
Testing her reaction?
Seeing if she was worth cooperating with, if she was a resilient prey?
Or was he asking her for something?
Suddenly, a light bulb went off in her mind, and she understood his meaning, hugging him tightly and burying her head in his chest.
Sure enough, as soon as he was hugged, he put away the dagger.
Leona couldn't help but sweat.
Before, every time she hugged him, it was because his blade was close, threatening her life.
This probably gave him the wrong impression, thinking he had to threaten her to get a hug.
No, she couldn't let this habit form.
She needed to establish the correct reward system.
Thinking this way, Leona hugged him even tighter, almost clinging to him.
Eric lay down in her embrace.
Not only had he formed the wrong reward system, but she had also developed the wrong conditioned reflex, always feeling safe in his arms.
It was somewhat twisted.
But necessary at the moment.
She needed the sense of security he provided.
What did he need?
She didn't know.
Leona wanted to think more, but the cramped space, the crackling fire outside the tent, and the exhaustion after fear made her drowsy.
Eric's body temperature was high.
Probably from intense exercise and consuming a lot of high-calorie food; he was like a powerful, high-consumption machine, constantly emitting heat.
Hot, safe.
It was an illusion.
She reminded herself that even if he was hot, he was still a hot-blooded killing machine.
But she was too tired to think further.
Leona closed her eyes, her breathing slowed, weakened, and she fell asleep completely.