Chapter76 – Teach me
The crowd around them went dead silent for a split second. Atticus stood still, chest rising and falling, holding a pen—its steel tip glinting red with blood.
Clarissa’s face went pale. Her vision blurred. That haunting image kept flashing in her mind: Atticus, standing in a pool of blood. Not again.
Tears welled up uncontrollably. She didn’t even know why she was crying—only that something deep inside her ached.
“Don’t cry,” Atticus murmured. His other hand, the clean one, reached up to wipe her tears with a touch that was impossibly gentle for someone who’d just blinded a man. “Don’t be afraid. You’re going to be fine.”
Even as her heart twisted, a strange warmth bloomed in her chest. He was protecting her. And more than that—she felt. He was feeling. Not just cold logic. He was changing.
But reality came crashing back hard. Darkwood rose unsteadily, blood gushing from the socket where his eye had been. Rage burned in the single eye that remained.
“You little freak…” he hissed. “You’re dead. You’re fucking dead!”
He pointed a shaking hand at Atticus. “Beat him to death! Break every fucking bone in his body!”
“No!” Clarissa cried, rushing forward to shield Atticus—but one of the men grabbed her roughly and dragged her back. “Let me go! Don’t hurt him!” But no one listened.
The men descended on Atticus, fists and feet flying. He tried to dodge—he was quick, slippery—but he was still just one boy.
Bruises bloomed across his face and ribs as the beating intensified.
Then came the crack. Darkwood had found a steel rod and swung it hard into the back of Atticus’ leg.
“Ugh—!” Atticus staggered, crumpling to the ground. The sound of the bone breaking was horrifying. Clarissa’s scream pierced the air, “Stop! Please! Stop! I’ll go with you! Just let him go!”
But Atticus didn’t scream again. Even as blood ran down his leg and pooled beneath him, he stayed quiet. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his face pale but defiant.
Darkwood stomped toward him and grabbed a fistful of his hair, slamming his face into the ground.
“You little devil. You want to be a man, huh? Beg me. Beg, and I might let you live.”
Atticus slowly turned his head, blood dripping from his mouth. He smiled. Not kindly. But with something razor-sharp and cold beneath the curve of his lips.
“June,” he said simply. “That woman sent you, didn’t she?”
Darkwood flinched, confused.
Atticus tilted his head just slightly. That same smile, small and unnerving, remained.
“You really let a cheap, disposable bitch play you like this? Pathetic.”
He exhaled softly, his voice low and poisonous. “I was going to use you for a while longer. But it doesn’t matter. My goal’s already accomplished. You’re worthless now.”
He grinned wider. “Let’s see how you like dying in pieces.”
Darkwood’s face twisted with uncertainty.
“What the fuck are you saying?!” He understood some of it—but the rest sent a chill down his spine.
Darkwood raised his hand to slap Atticus across the face—rage blazing in his one remaining eye.
But before the blow could land, a slender hand caught his wrist in mid-air.
“Well, well… Why’s the little genius looking so wrecked today?”
The woman’s voice was laced with casual amusement.
Phoenix stood tall in the golden light, her black hair whipping in the wind. She wore a crisp, pale shirt beneath a black vest, her long legs sheathed in tight riding pants and knee-high boots. She looked like someone born to command.
She gazed down at Atticus, sprawled on the ground and bloodied, her lips curling into a slight smirk.
Finally, she thought, I get to see this arrogant brat look human for once.
Darkwood grunted, struggling against her grip, but Phoenix didn’t budge. She applied the faintest pressure—and his wrist jerked, locked in place like it was caught in a steel trap.
“Who the fuck are you?” he snarled.
Phoenix didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze flicked toward Clarissa, who was still sobbing helplessly on the side.
The smirk vanished. Her entire face shifted.
Gone was the teasing air. In its place, a dangerous, icy fury filled her eyes.
“You don’t need to know who I am,” she said softly, voice like the hush before a storm. “I’m just the one who came to take your worthless life.”
When Atticus woke, the room was bathed in the dim glow of early evening.
Clarissa was sitting beside him, flipping through a hospital magazine. Her expression was calm, but her eyes betrayed exhaustion.
Sensing movement, she immediately dropped the magazine and leaned toward the bed. “You’re awake,” she said gently. “How do you feel?”
Atticus glanced at his leg, elevated and wrapped tight in bandages. “Not bad”
Clarissa sighed. That cold, indifferent voice again. “Don’t do anything like that again,” she said, brushing his hair away from his forehead. “It was too dangerous.”
He looked at her but didn’t answer. Not with words.
Clarissa didn’t press him. She’d learned not to expect easy communication from Atticus. “You slept through the whole day. You must be starving,” she said with a soft smile. “I brought chicken soup.”
She opened the thermos and carefully scooped the broth into a spoon. She remembered he didn’t like chicken skin, so she peeled it off delicately, tore the meat into small pieces, and fed it to him bit by bit.
Atticus didn’t say a word. But he ate everything. Just as she wiped the edge of his lips with a tissue, the door swung open.
Phoenix strolled in, she raised a brow at the scene and grinned. “Well, look at you, living the life. Special treatment, hand-fed soup by a beauty? I want you to feed me like this too.”
Clarissa looked over and chuckled softly, “Come on, as if any regular guy could beat you.”
It was true. During this whole ordeal, she’d seen what Phoenix could really do—and it was terrifying. No wonder the Wraith family had named her heir.
Clarissa stood and went to rinse the thermos.
Phoenix took her seat beside the hospital bed. She didn’t smile this time. Her voice was quiet. “Thanks, kid. I mean it. If you hadn’t been there…” She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to. They both knew what would’ve happened.
Atticus didn’t speak right away. Then, with a slow turn of his head, he looked at her and said: “Teach me.”
Phoenix blinked. “What?”
“Your skills,” he said, steady. No hesitation. No doubt.
“Why?” she asked, narrowing her eyes slightly, intrigued.
Atticus didn’t flinch. “Because I want to protect her.”
Phoenix stared at him. For once, she didn’t have a snarky reply.
Clarissa walked back in, drying her hands, and noticed the odd tension between the two of them.
She glanced between them, puzzled. “What’s going on?”
Phoenix stood, brushing invisible lint from her pants. “Nothing serious. I was just saying the kid’s too soft. Thought maybe he could train with me for a bit—build some muscle, learn how to fight.”
Clarissa’s eyes widened slightly, then turned to Atticus with concern. “That’s… not a bad idea, but—Atticus, are you sure? It’ll be hard.”
“The earlier you start, the better,” Phoenix added with a shrug. “I began training at six.”
Atticus nodded without the slightest hesitation. “Okay.”
Since the boy himself had no objections, Clarissa couldn’t say no. She gave in with a resigned smile and a gentle nod.
After Clarissa left the room, Phoenix leaned back against the wall, folding her arms as she eyed Atticus with amusement.