Clarissa chewed slowly, still watching him. “Atticus… what do we do now?”
He tossed a fruit pit into the water and answered calmly, “David’s probably already sending people to find us. We need to make our way back to the cliff—we’re more likely to run into the search party there.”
He looked at her seriously. “I’d morized the topography of this area. I knew the waterfall could break our fall safely.”
Clarissa stared at him, stunned. “You… you knew we’d land in water?”
He nodded.
And once again, she was reminded just how much Atticus always seed to be two steps ahead. She hesitated, then asked softly, “That man on the cliff… wasn’t he part of the mafia? Why would he co after you?”
Atticus t her gaze evenly. “A few years ago, I went with my master to Poland. We stumbled on an underground trafficking network. He and I helped local authorities take it down. It pissed off the wrong people.”
He said it so naturally—calm, unbothered.
Atticus had followed Phoenix all over the world, helping her… learning from her. So she believed him.
"That was too dangerous," Clarissa scolded softly. "It’s good to stand up for justice—but you need to keep yourself safe. Don’t reveal your identity so easily next ti."
Atticus glanced at her with a smile curling at the corner of his lips, and nodded obediently. “Okay. I promise you.”
Then, without giving her a chance to step away, he slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her into his embrace. His breath brushed against her ear as he murmured, “Clarissa… you said, if I didn’t die, you’d agree to be mine. Does that still count?”
Clarissa froze, her entire body stiffening. The half-eaten fruit in her hand slipped to the ground, unnoticed.
Atticus narrowed his eyes slightly, catching her reaction. In the next mont, he tightened his hold on her waist, his voice low and calm—yet dangerously soft.
“You’re not thinking of going back on your word, are you?”
“I—I didn’t an…” Her voice trembled.
She hadn’t thought much when she’d said it—just terrified he might die. But now, reality felt very different, and her heart twisted in conflict.
Atticus gave a low chuckle, but didn’t push further. “We’ll talk about it later.”
Right now, he had more pressing concerns—like getting her back safely. His leg, hastily bandaged, was already throbbing with pain again.
“Co on. We need to move. David and the others have probably been searching for us all night.”
Clarissa hurried to support him, wrapping one arm around his waist. “Are you sure your leg can handle this?”
“As long as the wound doesn’t tear open, I’ll manage,” he muttered, jaw clenched.
They limped along together, moving slowly through the woods. But not long after, they ca across the mangled corpse of the white horse—the sa one Clarissa had ridden.
Its head and belly were crawling with thick, squirming insects.
Clarissa’s face drained of all color. Her stomach lurched. Then, unable to hold it back, she turned and stumbled to the side, vomiting into the underbrush.
Atticus moved quickly to her side and rubbed her back gently until she could breathe again. Once she’d steadied, he stood and approached the horse’s body.
“Atticus!” Clarissa called after him, alard, trying to pull him back.
He stopped her with a raised hand. “Sothing’s not right about this horse.”
He knelt beside the carcass, completely unfazed by the putrid stench, and began examining it closely. Clarissa watched from a distance, too sickened to co closer.
Atticus plucked one of the writhing maggots from the wound and slipped it into a tiny glass tube, sealing it shut.
Clarissa gagged again. “God, Atticus! That’s disgusting!”
He only smiled and returned to her side. Atticus held up the vial and began to explain in that calm, clinical tone he used whenever he was in his elent.
“Insects are nature’s best forensic markers. When a corpse appears, flies land almost imdiately and lay eggs. Those eggs hatch into larvae. On the first day, they’re just worms. But by the second or third day, they start molting—shedding their skin as they grow.”
He tilted the vial toward the light. “These ones? They’ve already molted at least three tis.”
Clarissa blinked. “Wait… but the horse only died yesterday.”
“Exactly. Under normal conditions, third-instar larvae take around three days to develop. These did it in less than one.”
Clarissa’s voice was small. “You think… soone did this on purpose?”
“There’s no trace of poison in the horse’s system, at least not that I could detect. But when I saw the carcass, I was already sixty percent sure—it was no accident.”
Clarissa’s heart pounded. “Soone… wanted to hurt .”
Atticus didn’t respond right away. But the sharp glint in his eyes said enough.
The wriggling larva in the glass vial twitched again, catching the last light filtering through the trees. Atticus stared at it, eyes sharp and thoughtful. There was sothing familiar about the species, but without confirmation, he wouldn’t risk making a premature judgnt.
Still, one thing was certain: if anyone had deliberately tried to hurt Clarissa, they’d regret it. Deeply.
Atticus’s eyes glinted with cold resolve. He slipped the specin back into his bag, then reached over and gently patted Clarissa’s back.
“Still feel like throwing up?”
Clarissa shook her head, but her gaze lingered on the white horse’s decaying carcass. Her stomach churned.
Sensing her discomfort, Atticus reached out and touched the back of her head, fingers threading gently through her hair. “Co on,” he said softly. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Mm...” she nodded, stepping forward to support his weight as they resud their slow walk through the underbrush.
anwhile, Dorian and the search team had scoured the woods all night. But the forest was vast, and locating two missing people in that tangle of trees was like hunting shadows. Exhaustion showed on every face—even Dorian’s.
David suggested rotating in a fresh crew and giving the current searchers a break.
Dorian was reluctant to stop even for a minute, but Lawrence intervened, saying, “If you collapse, that won’t help her either.” Begrudgingly, Dorian agreed and returned to the estate for a quick shower.
As he erged, toweling off the sweat and gri, Lyra appeared outside his room carrying a tray of food.
“Dorian... eat sothing,” she offered quietly, her eyes pleading.
He grabbed a piece of bread and took a bite, already turning to leave.
Lyra reached for his arm. “Wait—where are you going?”
“Back to the search, obviously.”
Her face paled. “But…”
Before she could finish, he shook her hand off. “Lyra, Clarissa could be dying out there. I have to find her. Stay here. Rest if you’re tired.”
And with that, he left her behind—again.
“Dorian! Dorian!” she cried after him, but he never looked back.
She stumbled after him down the corridor, tripping and falling hard onto the marble floor. Pain jolted through her, but it didn’t compare to the sting in her chest. Dorian had disappeared from sight.
Curled on the floor, Lyra broke down. Her sobs echoed through the hallway, wild and ragged.
Clarissa… It was always Clarissa.
No matter what Clarissa claid—no competition, no intention—she always showed up between them. Always drew Dorian’s gaze away. Always stole what should’ve been Lyra’s.
Lyra’s fingers curled into claws against the cold floor, veins bulging across the back of her hand. Her nails dug into her palm.
Why?
Atticus pushed forward, guided by mory and instinct. The map in his head kept them on course, but the journey was rough. After a full day of walking, his leg was bleeding again. He didn’t show it on his face, but Clarissa saw it—slled the blood—and couldn’t hide her distress.
“Atticus, let’s stop,” she pleaded. “You need rest. I’ll go ahead and look for help—”
But he shook his head. “We’re almost there. I can hold out.”
Before she could argue further, a voice echoed through the trees.
“Miss Clarissa! Mr. Atticus!”
Her heart leapt. Clarissa turned and ran toward the sound, shouting, “We’re here! Soone’s hurt—please hurry!”
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