“You know,” she drawled, “you’re not just clever, little wolf. You’re calculating.”
Atticus said nothing. He only pressed his lips into a tight line, his face unreadable.
Phoenix sauntered over, crouched beside the bed, and reached out to pinch his cheek—his skin was unnervingly smooth, almost prettier than a woman’s. “Listen to , Atticus,” she said, her voice dropping to sothing more serious. “I don’t teach people easily. But you gave your word. If you ever break that promise…” Her fingers curled slightly, just enough to make her intent clear. “I will ruin you. Personally.”
Atticus turned his head slightly, hiding the glimr of amusent—or maybe calculation—in his eyes. His voice was flat. “We’ll see when the ti cos.”
Phoenix had no idea what she’d just agreed to. She wouldn’t understand the weight of her choice until years later. By then, it would be far too late.
Clarissa’s quiet little wolf wasn’t a soft, loyal puppy at all. He was sothing else entirely—sothing darker, sharper. A predator with a velvet smile and a bite that would co without warning.
Atticus’s injuries were serious. His left leg had been fractured clean through, and while the bone had been successfully reset, he wouldn’t be walking properly for at least two months.
Clarissa didn’t care about her upcoming tournant anymore. All she wanted now was to take ti off and care for him herself.
She ca back from ho carrying a thermos of freshly brewed tonic and opened the door to find Atticus struggling to sit up.
“What are you doing? The doctor said no getting up!” She rushed to him and gently pushed him back against the pillows. He looked away, embarrassed and irritated, his jaw tight.
“I… I need to use the bathroom,” he muttered.
Clarissa paused for a second before realizing what he ant. Ah. She quickly reached down and grabbed the urinal the nurse had left earlier.
When Atticus saw the container in her hand, his expression darkened. “What… what’s that for?”
Clarissa blinked innocently. “You can’t put weight on your legs yet. The doctor said to use this. I’ll help—”
As she reached for his waistband, his voice cracked with rare sharpness. “Don’t.”
She looked up at him, startled, and then couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. Was he actually shy?
Well, that was to be expected. At his age, this kind of thing was still mortifying.
So she handed the urinal to him with a light chuckle. “Fine. Do it yourself, tough guy. Just call when you’re done.”
She turned around, giving him as much dignity as she could.
Behind her, Atticus sat frozen for a mont, his face burning red. Eventually, the pressure of biology won out, and he reluctantly unfastened his pants.
A long silence passed before his voice called out softly, “I’m done.”
Clarissa walked over calmly, no hint of awkwardness in her movents. She picked up the container and went straight to the bathroom to dispose of it without a wrinkle of her nose.
Atticus watched her with an unreadable look in his eyes.
When she returned, she washed her hands, then adjusted the bed, laid the food tray across his lap, and began unpacking the al she had prepared.
Atticus leaned back into the pillows, letting the warmth of being cared for sink into him like heat from a sunbeam. He ate slowly, carefully, savoring the soup, though he tried to look as indifferent as ever.
“How was the tournant?” he asked between bites.
Clarissa exhaled softly. “I left early.” Her tone lightened. “With you in the hospital like that, how could I focus on anything else?”
Atticus paused for a second. The spoon in his hand lingered midair.
“Cla…” He hesitated, then looked up at her, and for the first ti, he smiled—truly smiled. “Sister. I promise. I won’t do anything like that again.”
It was the first ti Atticus had called her sister with such warmth and sincerity. Clarissa blinked, surprised… and then that surprise lted into a quiet, radiant joy.
“Forget it,” she said softly, her voice gentle. “It’s all over now. I’m just glad you’re safe. You were amazing. Thank you for protecting .”
She spooned more soup into his bowl and added, “This batch is specially made for you. Drink up—there’s more where that ca from.”
“…Mm.” Atticus gave a small nod and lowered his head, the smile still touching his lips.
March vanished in the blink of an eye. Today, Atticus was finally being discharged from the hospital. He could walk now, albeit with caution.
He said nothing as he sat quietly, watching Clarissa and Clentine bustle around the room, packing up his things.
Then, without a word, he pulled out his phone and sent a single ssage: “Bring it to .”
............
Over the past few weeks, Clarissa had been bouncing non-stop between school and the hospital. After Atticus was injured, she'd arranged for a male nurse to handle his care during the day—but she could never relax. So she rushed over after every class.
Now that Atticus was being discharged, she finally felt a wave of relief. She decided to take him and Clentine out for a celebratory al—sothing warm, lively, cozy. Sothing like family.
Clentine, ever thoughtful, didn’t want to trouble Clarissa with another trip. She went straight to Atticus’s school, t him outside, and the two walked together to wait for Clarissa by the school gates.
When Clarissa saw them standing there, side by side, her heart quietly softened—this must be what it feels like to have a family.
She jogged toward them with a bright smile. “Did you wait long?”
“Nope,” Clentine replied, “Atticus just got out of school. We only just arrived.”
Clarissa smiled. “Perfect timing. Co on, where should we eat?”
“Anything’s fine,” Clentine said.
“I’m good with whatever. Let you two pick,” Atticus added, his tone casual.
Clarissa tapped a finger to her chin in mock thought. “Then let’s do hot pot. It’s been a while, right?”
“Sounds amazing,” Clentine bead. “I’ve been craving it.”
Clarissa turned to Atticus. “What about you? Your leg okay for going out?”
He nodded. “I feel fine.”
He could walk almost normally now, though the doctor had advised against strenuous exercise. Still, he was healing—fast.
“Alright then. Hot pot it is. Wait here, I’ll go grab the car.”
Clarissa darted off toward the parking lot, leaving Clentine and Atticus standing near the sidewalk, basking in the fading afternoon sun.
Just then, Atticus' gaze shifted—sharp, instinctual—and he caught a figure in the distance. June.
Their eyes t.
June froze. Her face paled, then imdiately she lowered her gaze and turned quickly, fleeing the scene.
Atticus watched her go, the corner of his mouth curling upward into a cold, unreadable smile.
Three months. Right on ti.
He pulled out his phone again and opened a news alert: “Criminal ring dismantled. Charges include rape, loan sharking, kidnapping, illegal gambling. Ringleader Damien Darkwood sentenced to fifteen years in prison.”
June burst through her front door, breath shallow, eyes wide. She slamd it shut behind her and bolted to her room like a hunted animal, then collapsed onto the bed in silence.
Only after several long seconds did her body begin to unwind. She inhaled shakily, picked up her phone, and refreshed her feed. And there it was—confirmation: Darkwood had been sentenced.
She let out a sharp laugh. “So even you have a day like this.”
Darkwood was over forty now. By the ti he got out, if he got out at all, he’d be pushing sixty.
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