The rescue team arrived just in ti. Atticus was quickly taken back to the Loxley estate and rushed into a sterile surgical suite for ergency treatnt. The wound had torn open again and required stitches.
By the ti he was out of surgery, it was deep into the night.
Clarissa had showered, eaten just enough to stay upright, and refused to leave his side. She sat by his bed, her fingers lightly brushing his as she dozed with her head bowed.
The anesthetic should have lasted until morning—but Atticus wasn’t ordinary. His body tabolized drugs faster than most. Within a few hours, his eyes slowly fluttered open.
He turned his head and the first thing he saw was her—Clarissa—curled in a chair beside the bed, her face soft and still, hair slightly damp from her bath. Her breathing was even, but her fingers were still wrapped around his.
Clarissa sat by the bedside, her long white dress soft and flowing beneath the deep crimson shawl wrapped around her shoulders. One hand supported her face as she rested in the quiet hush of the room.
Atticus stirred slightly, his eyes flickering open. The first thing he saw was her—and then, the strip of dical tape clinging to her arm.
As if sensing the movent, Clarissa jolted awake. Her gaze imdiately locked onto his.
“You’re awake?” she asked quickly, leaning toward him. “Do you feel uncomfortable?”
The doctor had said he wouldn’t regain consciousness until at least the next day.
Atticus didn’t answer imdiately. His gaze lingered on her bandaged arm.
“You gave a transfusion?”
Clarissa hadn’t expected that to be his first question. She hesitated, then nodded. “I didn’t want them using blood from here.”
A slow, unmistakable smile curved across Atticus’s lips. His mood visibly lifted.
“That makes twice now,” he said, voice low and warm.
Her blood flowing through his veins was a kind of intimate claim. It thrilled him.
Clarissa flushed under the heat of his gaze. She lowered her eyes quickly, grasping for any excuse to change the subject.
“You must be hungry. The doctor said sothing light would be okay—I’ll go get it.”
Before he could stop her, she slipped out of the room.
In the kitchen, the mushroom chicken soup she had prepared was still warm on the stove. Clarissa ladled out a bowl, carefully deboned the chicken, tore it into small pieces, and added it back in. She didn’t ask the maids for help. She didn’t want anyone else involved—just her.
Back in the room, she fed him slowly, spoon by spoon, making sure each bite was manageable. Atticus, still weak but clearly enjoying the attention, ate nearly the entire bowl.
She rinsed his mouth, washed his face with a damp cloth, and settled back down beside him.
Atticus watched her silently, a warm satisfaction glowing in his chest. If he had known this kind of care would co with a few bullet wounds, he might’ve taken the hit sooner.
Still, the thought of Massimo made his eyes darken.
“Where’s Massimo?” he asked quietly.
“David said he left yesterday.”
Clarissa’s voice cooled at the ntion of the man’s na. They both knew what he’d done—but without proof, and with his foreign identity, there wasn’t much they could legally do.
Atticus noticed the look in her eyes. He smiled faintly.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll talk to my teacher when I get back. We’ll handle it.”
Hearing the na *Phoenix* gave her hope. If anyone could resolve this kind of ss, it was Phoenix.
“Be careful,” she murmured.
“I will.”
“It’s late. You should rest.”
She reached down to tuck the blanket around him more snugly. Then she returned to her seat by the bed.
Atticus didn’t look away. “What about you?”
“I’m staying with you. The doctor said your fever might spike again. Soone needs to be here.”
But he didn’t close his eyes. Instead, he looked at her with a playful gleam. “Then… sleep with .”
Clarissa froze. Her face flushed deep red. “Don’t say things like that! Go to sleep!”
He grinned, thoroughly unrepentant. “If you won’t co lie with , I’ll just stay awake. All night. Your choice.”
“Atticus…” Her brows furrowed. “Stop being childish. The doctor said this injury’s serious. You need to rest.”
“Then co over here…”
“No!”
His brows pinched together and he let out a faint groan. “Sis… it hurts…”
Her expression changed imdiately. “Where? Where does it hurt? Did the stitches tear again?”
She rushed to the bedside, panic rising. As she reached for the covers to check, Atticus caught her hand in his.
“Sister,” he murmured, eyes wide and innocent. “Hug . It won’t hurt if you hold .”
Clarissa imdiately realized she’d been tricked. She pulled her hand back, glaring at him. “Atticus! You’re still playing gas? If you keep this up, I will get mad.”
Atticus glanced at her, then turned away with a sigh.
“I know I’m just dreaming,” he murmured, “but it really hurts, Clarissa… I can’t sleep. I just wanted a hug. Just wanted you to hold for a little while, but… I get it. It’s too much to ask. Fine.”
He closed his eyes as he spoke, his voice soft and dejected.
For a long while, there was only silence—until he heard a quiet sigh behind him.
The mattress dipped.
Clarissa slipped in beside him, lifting the blanket carefully. She lay on his uninjured side, close enough for their arms to brush. Her voice was low, almost coaxing.
“Is this okay? Please… just sleep.”
The gentle tremor in her tone, the warmth of her skin—Atticus's eyes darkened instantly. Her scent wrapped around him like a drug, and the softness of her presence made his self-control snap.
In the next second, he turned and pulled her into his arms, holding her tight. His voice was hoarse, laced with a heat that couldn’t be masked.
“No… not enough.”
He cupped her cheek, coaxed her to look at him—and then kissed her.
Clarissa froze, eyes wide in shock—but she didn’t pull away. She didn’t resist. Instead, she let herself sink into it, let him deepen the kiss until they were both breathless.
Their foreheads rested together. Hot, shallow breaths mingled in the space between them.
“Clarissa…” he murmured.
She swallowed hard and whispered, “You’re still hurt…”
Atticus’s arms tightened around her. His voice was low and magnetic, brushing against her skin like velvet. “Then when I’m healed…”
“No.” Clarissa’s voice was barely audible, her cheeks glowing red.
He pulled back just enough to study her face. “Why not? You already said yes—Clarissa, don’t go back on your word.”
“I’m not…” she bit her lip, flustered. “But… you’re still young. You’re not even twenty yet.” Her voice cracked slightly.
Atticus blinked, and then let out a low, disbelieving laugh. “You want to wait another two years?”
Clarissa hesitated, “One year…”
“Two months.”
“One year.”
“Three months.”
“One year.”
He exhaled sharply, then tried another tactic. “Fine. Half a year. And if you don’t agree… I’ll fuck you now.”
He started to lift her dress.
Clarissa panicked, grabbing his wrist. “I—I agree! I agree!”
Satisfied, Atticus smirked—his eyes dark and blazing with victory.
Then he dipped his head and kissed her again, this ti harder, fiercer.
Clarissa’s breath caught. She was trapped under his body, every part of her trembling.
“Atticus, you promised to wait,” she whispered, heart racing.
“I’m not going to finish anything tonight,” he said, brushing his lips along her jaw. “But please, Clarissa… I’m dying here. Save .”
His breath was hot against her ear, his voice sinful and full of need. “It’s not the wound that hurts. It’s sothing else… sothing you did to .”
He pressed a kiss to her throat. Clarissa’s fingers curled into the sheets. Her mind was blank, every nerve ending blazing.
Clarissa could hardly breathe.
There was sothing devastatingly magnetic about him—sothing in the way he held himself, how he whispered her na like a prayer. His presence was overwhelming, seductive, and entirely impossible to resist.
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