Clarissa looked down at the bowl. Her fingers tightened around it, a strange heaviness forming in her chest.
He was taking care of her. Tenderly. Thoughtfully. Lovingly.
She downed the porridge quickly, using the heat and sweetness to swallow down the lump in her throat. “Atticus… I’m done.”
He took the bowl from her. “Want another?”
She shook her head. “No… I can’t eat much right now.”
Without arguing, he walked the bowl back into the kitchen. By the ti he returned, the living room was empty. Her door was locked again.
“Heartless woman,” he muttered under his breath. “Use like that, then disappear again?”
Tonight, though, he wasn’t quite done.
.....
Clarissa lay in bed, still achy, her limbs cold and heavy, sleep refusing to co.
Then ca a knock on her door. “Sister… are you asleep?”
She paused. “Not yet.”
“I brought you foot soak water. It’ll help you sleep.”
Clarissa hesitated, then got up and opened the door.
Atticus stood there with a basin in his hands, steam curling upward, carrying the sa rich herbal scent from before.
She didn’t want him in her room.
“Let’s go to the living room,” she said quietly.
“Alright,” he agreed without resistance.
She sat down on the couch, and he gently set the basin in front of her. The water was infused with essential oils and wormwood, just hot enough to make her toes tingle.
She lowered her feet in slowly, and a wave of comfort washed over her.
Atticus walked quietly to her side, watching as Clarissa sat there, her shoulders loose with exhaustion, and he couldn’t help but reach out, slipping an arm gently around her waist.
Startled, Clarissa instinctively pushed him away, only to realize he had already begun massaging her lower back with firm, familiar pressure.
His voice was low. “Sis, I know you’re not feeling well. I just want to help you sleep a little more comfortably. That’s all. Please don’t push away… not tonight.”
Clarissa hesitated. Her lips parted slightly, but no words ca out. His touch was... comforting.
They weren’t the sa as they used to be. Still, the tension in her body slowly began to ease under his skilled fingers.
She looked at him, conflicted, eyes flickering with emotion. “Thank you,” she murmured at last, almost too softly to hear.
Atticus smiled faintly. “Why thank ? Isn’t this what I’m supposed to do?”
It had been so long since he’d had a mont this close to her. He didn’t waste it.
Clarissa sighed, her eyelids heavy, body finally giving in to the fatigue for days. As her limbs slackened, she leaned into him, her head resting lightly against his chest.
Atticus paused for a beat, then swept her into his arms with quiet care, wiping the faint dampness from her bare feet. He exhaled, steadying himself, then carried her back to the bedroom.
She was sound asleep by the ti he laid her gently on the bed. He stood over her, staring—eyes shadowed, thoughts tangled.
Then, her brows twitched faintly. Her lips parted.
At first, he thought she was waking, but her breathing stayed even. She was dreaming.
“Clarissa?” he whispered, leaning closer. “What are you saying?”
A broken murmur slipped from her lips. “Att... Atticus...”
He leaned down, so close his lips almost brushed her ear. “What did you dream, Clarissa?” he asked, his voice low, laced with sothing dark and magnetic.
She whispered his na again—softer this ti, trembling. And tears slipped from the corners of her eyes.
Atticus froze. Then, slowly, he reached out and brushed away the tears with a feather-light touch.
He had always known Clarissa cared deeply for him. But it was never quite the kind of affection he longed for.
When they first t, she had been gentle, cautious. She tried to guide him toward the light—introducing him to music, books, travel, and laughter. She wanted him to see the beauty in the world. She never understood that he had always seen it—but only in her.
He had no illusions about himself. He’d always been too rational, too emotionally detached. Phoenix once said if Atticus ever wanted to destroy sothing—no one could stop him.
But Clarissa did. She was the only one who ever could.
He bent lower, lips just above hers. “As long as you stay with ,” he murmured, “I’ll always be your good, sensible brother...”
But even as he said it, his fingertips slid from her cheek to her lips. His gaze darkened, desire flickering in his eyes like embers catching wind.
And then he kissed her. He pulled back slightly, his breathing uneven, lips brushing against hers again as he whispered her na. “Clarissa...”
The mont he touched her, it was like sothing detonated inside Atticus's mind—heat, hunger, and years of restraint crumbling all at once.
His breath ca heavy as he leaned in, tasting her lips again. Then his mouth trailed lower—along her jaw, her delicate neck, the curve of her collarbone, each kiss deeper, more desperate than the last.
“Clarissa…” he whispered, again and again, her na tumbling from his lips like a prayer and a plea all at once.
His hands moved to her collar, fingers trembling. Slowly, carefully, he undid each button, revealing the soft knit beneath her coat. Her long dress opened like a blooming flower under his touch.
What greeted his eyes stole the breath from his lungs—a cascade of radiant skin, creamy and warm, like moonlight kissed into life.
Desire surged through him like a firestorm.
Atticus’s eyes darkened with need, and he finally gave in to the temptation that had haunted him night after night.
Clothing slipped to the floor, one layer at a ti, each piece discarded with reverence, not haste.
He kissed her again, fuller, deeper, then trailed his mouth lower, worshiping every inch of her with a devotion that bordered on obsession.....
Atticus moved with care, every motion cautious, as though afraid Clarissa might wake up at any mont.
But she was exhausted—deeply asleep, her body completely unaware of the reckless boy who now hovered over her.
Ti passed in a blur.
When it was finally over, Atticus sat up, his chest rising and falling slowly. He reached for a clean cloth and gently wiped her down. Then, one by one, he retrieved her clothes from the floor, dressing her piece by piece.
He moved to the edge of the bed, adjusting the quilt so it wrapped securely around her. Then he leaned down, his lips brushing her forehead in a whisper of a kiss.
His voice was low, a little hoarse. “Good night, Clarissa.”
....
Clarissa didn’t wake until nearly two in the afternoon.
She sat up slowly, her hair tousled, eyes unfocused. Her brows knit together as the fragnts of her dream clung to her mind like smoke—refusing to fade.
She had dread of Atticus again. But this ti, the dream had shifted.
It started violently. He was back in prison—bloody and bruised, tangled in a fight with other inmates. Clarissa could still see it clearly: his fists clenched, face emotionless, eyes dark and detached. He won, of course. But his body had been covered in blood—his or soone else’s, she couldn’t tell.
She saw him thrown into solitary, locked in a small, suffocating room with no light, no sound.
But the nightmare took another turn—and that part was even harder to face.
Clarissa saw herself and Atticus. Together. Flesh against flesh. His touch—his voice—burned into her dream like fire. She felt him inside her. And in the dream, she didn’t push him away.
She let it happen.
Her breath caught, and she reached up to cover her face, her fingers trembling slightly.
Clarissa, what were you thinking? Why would you dream sothing like that?
No, no… it couldn’t an anything. It was just a dream. Nothing more.
There was no way she had those kinds of feelings for Atticus. Right? Absolutely not.
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