This episode contains violence, strong language, and themes that may be disturbing to some readers. Viewer discretion is advised. (18+)
Frankestein's eyes searched Margaret's, but he found nothing that could be called a normal reaction.
There was no explosion of emotion, no hurried denial. Instead, there was a strange, haunting emptiness—a gaze frozen on the brink of shock, as if her mind had tripped over something far too massive to comprehend.
The abnormality of it became even more apparent as Margaret remained motionless. Her shoulders didn't stir, her fingers stayed stiff at her sides, and her breath held captive behind half-parted lips. She looked like someone who had suddenly forgotten how to breathe after hearing every word he had just confessed.
Then, without warning—without a single readable signal—Frankestein moved.
His arms slipped beneath her, one supporting her back and the other hooking under the crook of her knees. In one fluid, decisive motion, he swept her up into his embrace. He turned on his heel, his stride steady, and began walking back toward where his car was parked.
Around them, the world slowed to a crawl. Pedestrians froze. Heads turned too quickly, gazes lingering. Eyes widened at the sight—some shocked, some breathless, others blatantly curious, as if they were witnessing a scene that belonged only on the pages of a novel or a movie screen.
But Frankestein didn't care. He strode through the sea of stares without a hint of hesitation or shame, as if the woman in his arms was the only thing real in this world.
When he finally reached his car, Frankestein came to a halt right beside the passenger door. He pulled it open, then leaned down slightly to lower Margaret's body onto the seat.
He did it with painstaking care, as if terrified that she might slip from his grasp if he grew careless for even a single second. Margaret's back met the seat gently; he tucked her legs in, and before closing the door, he took a moment to ensure she was truly safe inside—making sure she hadn't been bumped, hadn't fallen, and wouldn't be jolted by his touch.
Without waiting for any reaction, Frankestein shut the door, turned, and jogged around the car toward the driver's seat.
He pulled the door open, climbed in, and sank into his seat, his breath coming a little heavier than usual. His hand reached out almost instinctively to press the lock button. With a single, short, yet definitive click, every door in the car was sealed shut.
Frankestein's eyes finally drifted to Margaret, who was still not entirely there—still trapped within the confines of her own mind.
The sight unsettled him. There was something inside him that refused to remain silent, a restless urge he could no longer suppress. He reached up, pulled his glasses from his face, and tossed them aside—careless and indifferent to where they landed.
His hands clamped around Margaret's waist, hauling her toward him with a forceful tug.
The sudden movement caused the bag on her shoulder to slip and thud onto the car floor, followed quickly by her white tote bag. Its contents spilled out; the mini bouquet of blue roses was thrown across the floor, rolling slowly before coming to a stop near the base of the seat.
He shifted Margaret onto his lap, supporting her weight with a calculated care. Then, without a word of warning, Frankestein leaned down into the hollow of her neck.
His lips traced the curve of her throat, planting kisses that felt more like a claim, while his teeth grazed roughly against her skin. He left a trail of sharp, light bites that sent a jolt through Margaret, making her flinch instantly as the reality of his touch finally broke through her trance.
Instinctively, Margaret gripped Frankestein's shoulders with a strength she didn't even know she possessed. Her fingers dug in, clawing at his shirt until the fabric was a mangled, wrinkled mess beneath her palms—as if it were the only anchor keeping her from being swept away by the sudden, overwhelming tidal wave of sensation.
The persistence of his lips stole her breath, leaving it trapped between a chest heaving erratically and a body trembling violently—a chaotic mixture of piercing shivers and a faint, searing ache.
Unable to resist, Margaret tilted her head to the side, surrendering to the urgency of Frankestein's movements. He grew more desperate, more hurried, as if he were chasing something that was slipping through his fingers.
"Fran... Frankes... Frankestein... Oppa..."
Margaret's voice finally escaped her throat in a series of broken gasps, barely forming coherent words.
Through a haze of fading consciousness, she realized that the movements of Frankestein's lips had grown faster, more frantic, and more ravenous—no longer hesitating, no longer granting her a moment to breathe.
She was almost certain, even without a mirror or a touch, that the skin of her neck was now littered with marks—deep crimson traces turning to bruised purple, imprinted clearly as evidence of the brief madness unfolding between them.
"Stop... stop... stop it... Oppa."
Margaret attempted to push against Frankestein's chest with whatever strength she had left, her palms pressing hard as she tried to create some distance—any distance at all.
But as soon as Frankestein sensed the movement—that hesitant, belated shove—his reaction was the exact opposite. His embrace tightened, his arms locking around her body like a vice, refusing to give her an inch of space to retreat.
In one swift motion that stole the very air from her lungs, Frankestein forced Margaret's head back, exposing the full, vulnerable length of her throat.
"Stop... Oppa... please, stop..."
Margaret tried once more to push against Frankestein's chest, her movements more frantic now as her body struggled against him.
She squirmed, her shoulders shifting restlessly, trying to break free from an embrace that had grown far too tight—a hold that made her chest heave and her heart gallop in a wild, arhythmic beat.
But every move she made was met with an even more urgent reaction.
Frankestein eliminated whatever space remained between them, his arms locking her in place until her resistance was forced to a halt. His kisses grew deeper, bolder, his teeth grazing her skin with a roughness that made her hiss—a soft whimper of pain mingled with the searing heat left in the wake of his lips.
"This... this isn't the way... Oppa..."
"If... if you love me... this isn't how you do it... stop, please..."
"Listen to me... Oppa... listen to me..."