Up until then, Atticus had been nothing but disciplined. But when his hands slid down to her body, when his heat pressed against her back and his breath seared against her ear, Clarissa’s senses jolted awake.
“Atticus…”
Her lips parted softly as she turned her head, eyes misted, shimring like glass.
And then his mouth claid hers.
.....
He pulled away just long enough to check her pulse, reassured that the drug had no lingering effect on her system. When she finally succumbed to sleep, he blow-dried her hair with quiet precision, every movent deliberate. She never stirred.
Once Clarissa was settled, he moved to his desk, slipped on his headphones, and opened his laptop.
At first, it was routine—skimming through a docunt from a colleague. But when he clicked a video file and a man’s voice filled the room, a cold gleam slashed across his eyes.
The recording hadn’t caught the beginning, but it had captured enough—Clarissa cornered, surrounded by several n, their jeering voices filling the fra.
Atticus’s lips curved into a cruel sneer.
Good. Very good.
Clarissa was safe now. Which ant it was his turn to hunt.
He stripped off the damp towel, dressed in fresh clothes, and thodically gathered the soiled sheets and garnts from earlier. After tossing them into the wash, he headed into the kitchen to cook.
Clarissa woke two hours later, not because she was fully rested but because her stomach ached with hunger. Yesterday’s ager brunch hadn’t stayed down, and Atticus had wrung her dry through the night and into the morning. Now, exhaustion mixed with ravenous need clawed at her.
Blinking awake, she realized she wasn’t in his own room but hers. She was lying in her bed, enveloped by his scent—a subtle blend of sandalwood and clean dicinal herbs. It was strangely intoxicating.
But he wasn’t there.
Curiously, Atticus almost never left her in his room; he always carried her back to hers. The realization made her heart flutter.
Dragging her aching body upright, Clarissa glanced down—and froze. She was fully dressed, even in her underwear.
Heat flooded her cheeks. Images of the night before flickered unbidden, and she fanned her face with both hands. “Calm down. Calm down…”
When she finally steadied herself, she threw off the covers and headed for the door, intending to scavenge sothing small—cookies, bread, anything.
But the mont she opened the door, the rich, savory scent of food swept over her.
Her steps faltered, then instinctively carried her toward the kitchen.
There he was—Atticus, sleeves rolled, standing over a simring pot, steam curling into the air. He was stewing soup, and the aroma was mouthwatering.
Leaning quietly against the doorway, Clarissa watched his back. A strange peace welled inside her chest, as if the world had stilled.
It felt… natural. Familiar. As if nothing had changed—except that sohow, the two of them had crossed an invisible line.
When he stirred the pot, she startled, realizing how long she’d been staring. Embarrassed, she hurried back into the room—but in her rush, her hip bumped against the edge of his desk.
A device toppled with a heavy thud, smashing against the floor.
Her heart lurched. “Oh no…”
Dropping to her knees, she reached for the pieces. The thing had shattered completely, its delicate circuits spilling out like guts. No matter how she turned it, there was no fixing it.
The door creaked open.
Bathed in the backlight, Atticus stepped in, his expression unreadable.
He crossed the room slowly, then crouched before her. “What happened?”
“I—I broke it. I’m sorry. What is it? Was it important?” Clarissa held up the ruined object, guilt etched across her face.
She had always been careful with him. Respectful. Atticus was ticulous with his space, and she never touched his things.
He glanced at the shards in her hand, then smiled faintly. Taking it from her, he dropped it into the trash without hesitation. “It’s nothing. Just a toy. Useless now.”
Relief washed over her. Before she could say more, his hand closed around hers.
“I made your favorite dishes. Eat first, then you can rest again.”
Her hunger answered before her pride could, and she nodded quickly, following him out.
The table was covered with her favorites. Atticus ladled soup into a bowl and slid it toward her. “You barely ate yesterday. Start with this—warm your stomach.”
Then he set a drumstick into her bowl. “And eat so at.”
Clarissa didn’t bother with grace. She tore into the tender chicken, devouring it with single-minded urgency.
Watching her, Atticus’s lips curved. He spooned rice into her bowl, then added vegetables one after another. “Eat more.”
She downed half the rice before finally leaning back, satisfaction softening her face.
Looking up, she noticed Atticus hadn’t eaten much at all. Instead, he was steadily peeling shrimp, placing them in her bowl without pause.
Her chest tightened. “Atticus… don’t just serve .”
He tilted his head, eyes glinting, and his smile took on a sharper edge.
“I wore you out last night,” he murmured, voice rich and deliberate. “The least I can do is serve you now.”
The words hit like a spark to kindling. Clarissa choked on her mouthful of rice, coughing until her face turned crimson.
Atticus rubbed her back firmly, helping her catch her breath, then held out his hand. “If you feel like you’re choking, just spit it out.”
Clarissa shook her head stubbornly, forcing the bite down.
He poured her a cup of red date and wolfberry tea, holding it to her lips. Clarissa sipped twice before the burn in her throat eased.
Amusent flickered in his eyes. “You can even choke on food. Honestly, Clarissa—are you a child?”
Her glare was instant. “It’s your fault.”
“Mine?” Atticus arched a brow, his mouth curving into that mischievous smile that always made her heart skip. “Are you blaming for not behaving last night? But if I recall correctly, you were the one clinging to so enthusiastically.”
Her cheeks flad. “Don’t—don’t talk nonsense. I don’t rember anything.”
Atticus leaned closer, his breath brushing her ear, his voice dropping low. “Really? You don’t rember at all?”
There was a note of regret in his tone. Last night had been unforgettable for him.
Clarissa’s lashes lowered, hiding her eyes. “Mm… no, I don’t.”
It was a lie.
Even with the drug in her system, her mory had remained razor sharp. She rembered every mont. The sharp ache at first—he was so much big for her body to take—but then the heat, the rhythm, the overwhelming tide that drowned her again and again until she could barely breathe.
Just thinking about it made her thighs tense, her chest fluttering, and her face burn hotter. She couldn’t bear to et his gaze.
Flustered, she seized her soup bowl and thrust it toward him. “Enough. Stop bringing it up. Eat before the food gets cold. Here—have so soup.”
Atticus accepted it without argunt, sipping obediently from her hand. His eyes, though, lingered on her with quiet promise.
It didn’t matter if she pretended to forget. He would simply give her more nights like that—until forgetting beca impossible.
When they finished eating, Atticus cleared the dishes, then disappeared briefly to change. Returning, he found Clarissa still looking a little pale.
“If you’re tired, lie down for a while,” he told her. “I need to stop by the police station.”
She looked up, alert. “To interrogate Zachary and the others?”
He gave a short nod.
“Then I’m coming too,” she said quickly.
Atticus’s gaze sharpened. “Can you handle it?”
A flush crept over her cheeks. “I’ll be fine. Just to give a statent.”
Her drowsiness had passed; adrenaline had taken its place.
He studied her, then inclined his head. “Alright. Go get changed.”
Clarissa hurried off and was back within five minutes.
Atticus’s lips twitched.
She frowned. “Why are you smiling like that?”
“This is the first ti you’ve ever been ready so fast.”
Embarrassnt pricked at her. Normally, she was ticulous with her outfits. Today, though, she’d thrown on a loose white T-shirt, casual pants, and tied her long hair into a low ponytail. Plain. Unadorned.
“We’re going to the police station, not a gala,” she muttered. “Stop teasing and let’s go.”
He caught her hand, giving it a squeeze. “You look good like this too. Let’s go.”
At the station entrance, they found Delilah slouched by the door, fighting boredom.
The mont she spotted Clarissa, she lit up and rushed over. “Clarissa! Are you okay? Is the poison gone? God, I was terrified earlier.”
At the word poison, Clarissa stiffened. But she quickly forced a calm smile and shook her head. “I’m fine now.”
Delilah let out a relieved sigh. “Thank goodness. I told you, Atticus can handle anything. There’s no poison he can’t cure.”
Almost involuntarily, Clarissa’s gaze lifted toward him.
Sure enough, Atticus was already staring at her, eyes dark and unreadable. His hand slid lightly to her waist, the touch almost too intimate for the setting.
Flustered, Clarissa caught his hand and tugged. “Let’s go inside.”
His lips curved, and his voice dropped low. “Okay.”
When Atticus and Clarissa stepped inside, Zachary was mid-interrogation. Bandages wrapped around his head where Clarissa had split it open, and two ribs cracked clean through courtesy of Delilah’s fist.
“I told you already, I don’t know a damn thing!” he spat, his voice hoarse. “That bitch Clarissa and her friend jumped , beat half to death. I’m the victim here! She even threatened and tried stripping to seduce .”
The officer slamd a hand on the table. “Still lying? What about the conversation caught on cara?”
Zachary sneered. “She’s the one who lost it first—threw an ashtray at out of nowhere. My guys saw getting beaten, of course they stepped in. We didn’t touch her, not a scratch on her body. That girl next to her did all the damage. Look at us—we’re the ones covered in bruises! I’m telling you, this isn’t over. I’ll sue those two bitches for attempted murder!”
The interrogation had dragged on all night with nothing to show for it.
From outside the room, Clarissa’s nails dug into her palm. His talent for lying is unbelievable. Even with evidence stacked against him, he refused to admit anything.
Then she felt warmth at her back. Atticus’s voice brushed her ear, calm and certain. “Don’t waste your anger. I’ll make him talk.”
Clarissa looked up. His hand closed firmly around hers, tugging her toward the door.
The officer inside perked up when he saw Atticus. After hours of useless questioning, they were ready for backup.
The mont Zachary caught sight of Clarissa, his arrogance doubled. He smirked, eyes sharp with malice. “Well, well. Miss Clarissa herself. Why am I the one in cuffs when she’s the real suspect? Is Phoenix abusing her power to protect her? I’ll report him, get her fired, too!”
Reviews
All reviews (0)