She sat astride one of his thighs, looking almost impossibly small against his tall fra. Yet the towering Atticus, holding her close, wore an expression like a wronged child who’d just been abandoned.
That single word—ho—washed over him like warm water, sweet and intoxicating. He pulled her into his arms and answered obediently, “Mm…”
Just when Clarissa thought she’d finally convinced him, a shadow lood over her.
“Before I go,” he said quietly, “can I have a reward?”
Before she could respond, his hand slid to the back of her head and his lips claid hers.
Clarissa let out a muffled protest, trying to resist, but he pinned her hands and lifted her onto the piano. Her cheeks flushed, breath unsteady, she stopped him just as he leaned closer. “Atticus… no…”
Her eyes were bright, shimring with a hint of tears as she looked at him. “Don’t get my piano dirty. Go to work.”
“…”
In the end, Clarissa managed to send Atticus off. Before leaving, he bent down to kiss her several more tis. “Be good and wait for at ho…”
“Okay…”
Only after his figure disappeared completely did the smile on Clarissa’s face slowly fade, replaced by a faint crease of worry.
She could feel it—Atticus was clinging to her more than before. Far more sensitive. Even the smallest thing she did could trigger an intense reaction from him. His insecurity ran deep.
In the past, his possessiveness had bordered on obsession. If she spoke to another man for even a mont, he would brood for days. He had even grown jealous of won—until eventually, he’d cut her off from the outside world entirely.
On the surface, nothing seed to have changed. But now, he was clearly forcing himself to restrain it. Each ti she saw that conflicted, pained look on his face, her chest ached.
She had misunderstood him back then. Completely.
Clarissa pressed a hand to her chest.
This can’t go on…
After changing into a simple white T-shirt, black jacket, jeans, and a baseball cap, Clarissa headed out. She spent three full hours in a large library, surrounded by stacks of psychology books.
Eventually, her attention stopped on a chapter discussing paranoid personality disorder and empathy disorders.
Returning the other books, Clarissa held onto that one and called William.
William had just finished an experint. When he saw her na, surprise flickered across his face. “Clarissa?”
“William, I need to ask you sothing,” she said. “Do you know any psychology professors you’re close to?”
He paused, puzzled by her sudden interest. “One of them is free today. I’ll send you his contact info.”
“Thank you,” Clarissa replied softly. “I owe you one.”
William smiled. “It’s nothing.”
A mont later, the contact information ca through. Clarissa froze slightly when she saw the na on the screen.
......
In a quiet, out-of-the-way café in S City, Clarissa had just taken a sip of her coffee when a familiar figure appeared outside the window.
The man was tall and striking, his almond-shaped eyes slightly narrowed, sharp and observant. Ronan’s gaze swept the interior, and almost imdiately, he spotted Clarissa seated alone in the corner.
“Well, this is unexpected,” he said with a faint smile as he approached. “To be invited out by Miss Clarissa in my lifeti—guess I should consider myself lucky.”
Clarissa pressed her lips together and set her cup down. “If I rember correctly, you and Atticus were classmates back in university, weren’t you?”
Ronan’s expression shifted, just slightly. “You…”
“I trust William’s judgnt,” Clarissa said calmly. She flipped open the book in front of her, turning to a page she had marked earlier, and slid it across the table. “I want to understand personality disorders.”
Ronan glanced down at the circled passages. His expression froze.
“…I see,” he murmured, then looked back at her. “No wonder Atticus fell for you.”
Clarissa didn’t respond. She waited.
“Yes,” Ronan continued, his tone growing serious. “Atticus fits the profile of a classic antisocial personality. And on top of that, he has a severe empathy disorder.”
Clarissa’s fingers tightened around her glass. “Will this… hurt him?”
“If he’d never t you,” Ronan said honestly, “none of this would have mattered. These traits wouldn’t have been weaknesses. He would’ve adapted to solitude. Perfectly.”
Clarissa t his gaze, her eyes steady. “Maybe you’re right. But I don’t think solitude is a good thing. People can learn to live with it—but that doesn’t an they like it.”
At least… Atticus didn’t.
Ronan smiled faintly. “You’re right. Wanting beautiful things is human instinct. But so people are born to inspire envy and fear.” His gaze sharpened. “Atticus is the latter. He could’ve survived alone—until he t you.”
For Atticus, Clarissa had been like a sudden beam of light piercing an abyss. She didn’t belong there, yet she drew his eyes irresistibly. Once that light vanished, rot would set in—greed, longing, decay—until the darkness swallowed him whole.
Ronan’s expression grew solemn. “Clarissa, let give you so advice. Antisocial personality disorder and empathy disorder aren’t illnesses in the traditional sense. But if you push him too far… they can easily evolve into borderline personality disorder.”
Clarissa’s breath caught. “You an… my leaving him back then hurt him so deeply that it—”
“You’re smart,” Ronan interrupted gently. “You’re Atticus’s weakness. You provoked him. So don’t abandon him lightly again.… is lethal to him.”
Clarissa swayed slightly, her face draining of color. She took several steadying breaths before looking up. “You said he might have borderline personality disorder?”
“He didn’t before,” Ronan replied. “Now… it’s uncertain. But don’t worry. His self-control is terrifying. He’d rather destroy himself than ever hurt you.”
He spoke openly then—about Atticus’s reliance on painkillers, his alcoholism, his self-harm, his years of illness—not exaggerating, not lying. Part of him wanted Clarissa to feel guilt. Another part genuinely wanted her to understand.
Ronan had never experienced love like that. He envied it. And it was clear—Clarissa hadn’t co to him out of curiosity. She had co because she sensed sothing was wrong.
This woman truly deserved Atticus’s love.
Ronan stood. “You should understand now. I won’t disturb you any further. Goodbye.”
Before leaving, he glanced at the sky beyond the café window. “Miss Clarissa… be mindful of the ti.”
The words snapped her out of her daze.
When she hurried outside, the sky had already darkened. Her phone read 6:00 PM.
“Shit…” she muttered under her breath.
She rushed to her car and drove ho as fast as she could.
Once inside, she dumped the books she’d bought straight into the trash. Then she grabbed the groceries and ingredients she’d picked up earlier, checked that everything was accounted for, and hurried upstairs.
She had barely opened the door when soone yanked her forward.
The bags slipped from her hands and hit the floor with a dull thud. Fingers clamped onto her shoulders, trembling violently, before tightening with alarming force.
“Where did you go?” Atticus growled, his voice low and frantic. “Why didn’t you tell you were leaving?”
Pain flared in her shoulders—but Clarissa barely noticed.
All she could see were his bloodshot eyes, his ragged breathing, the raw panic pouring off him.
Her heart ached far worse than her body ever could.
Sothing in her gaze made Atticus freeze.
He stumbled back a step, as if waking from a nightmare.
“I… I’m sorry…” His hand hovered in the air, unsure, shaking. His tall fra trembled as he forced out the words, hoarse and broken. “I didn’t an to. Clarissa… please don’t be angry…”
“I was just worried about you…” Atticus said hoarsely. “I searched every room and couldn’t find you. I thought—”
Clarissa looked at him, her chest tightening as if sothing were being torn apart.
Her eyes reddened. In the next instant, she reached up, cupped his face, and pulled him down.
Under Atticus’s slightly startled gaze, she rose onto her toes and kissed him.
He froze for half a second—then his arms wrapped around her slim waist, pulling her close as he lowered his head and deepened the kiss. It wasn’t rough or frantic, but slow and lingering, tender enough to make ti seem to stretch endlessly.
When they finally parted, both of them were breathing unevenly.
Clarissa rested her forehead against his, her voice soft and warm. “I saw we were almost out of food, so I went to the supermarket nearby. I’m sorry for worrying you.” She paused, then added gently, “Next ti, I’ll tell you wherever I go, okay?”
Her sweet, soothing voice instantly cald the chaos in his chest.
Atticus’s eyes reddened as he pulled her into his arms. “Clarissa…”
He’d been so sure she’d be afraid of him again. While searching the house, that dark, familiar thought—lock her away, don’t let her leave—had crept back into his mind.
Clarissa hugged him tightly, whispering, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
His grip tightened slightly.
Her words echoed in his head, and as he looked down at her gentle, obedient figure in his arms, he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “You really an it? You’ll tell wherever you go?”
“Of course,” she said brightly, hooking her arms around his neck. “As long as Atticus doesn’t find annoying, I’ll report everything I do from now on.”
His heart lted instantly.
Muffling his voice against her shoulder, he said, “Then you can’t take it back. You have to tell where you’re going, every ti.”
“Okay.” After soothing him, Clarissa added lightly, “But don’t just stand here anymore—I’m starving.”
Reluctant but obedient, Atticus finally let her go.
He bent down to pick up the fallen groceries, and Clarissa hurried over to help. “I bought your favorite fruit. I’ll cut it up for you.”
She went straight into the kitchen, rinsed the green grapes and cherries, then carefully peeled and arranged the grapefruit slices.
“The cherries aren’t very big this season,” she said casually while working, “but they’re surprisingly sweet. You should try so.”
Behind her, Atticus was trimming the beef she’d bought. The small knife moved fluidly in his hand, each cut precise, following the grain with practiced ease.
Clarissa watched, a little dazed.
He really looks good doing anything…
Of course, Atticus noticed her gaze. She wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore—pure admiration, sotis bordering on distraction.
After finishing the last cut, he finally snapped.
He pushed her gently but firmly against the sink.
Looking down at her, his voice low and dangerous, his eyes burning, he asked, “Am I that pretty? The way you’re looking at … it feels like you’re trying to seduce .”
Clarissa didn’t deny it. “Pretty,” she said easily. “How could my Atticus not be?”
As for seduction…
She glanced at the cherry in her hand, then suddenly smiled.
Lowering her head, she placed the green stem between her lips and slowly leaned toward him.
Red lips holding a cherry.
The sight alone was devastating.
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