Chapter86 – My head hurts
“Atticus?” Clarissa stepped forward quickly, heart clenching. She touched his cheek—it was warm, a little flushed. His eyes were closed, lashes fanned out against skin that looked too pale under the dim hallway light.
She looked up, voice tight. “What happened to him? Is he hurt?”
Maximilian opened his mouth, but Everett cut in from behind, arms crossed, unbothered. “Relax. He’s fine. Just had a couple beers. He’ll sleep it off.”
Clarissa stared at him, stunned. “You took him drinking? He’s fifteen! He has school tomorrow—”
Maximilian shot Everett a sharp glare.
In truth, Atticus hadn’t even finished two full drinks—Everett had practically poured vodka down the kid’s throat.
Maximilian turned back to Clarissa with an apologetic look. “We messed up. I’m really sorry. We didn’t mean to go that far. He just... wanted to try. We figured one drink wouldn’t hurt. Guess we misjudged his tolerance.”
Clarissa didn’t argue. Right now, Atticus was her only concern. “Help me get him to bed,” she said quietly.
“Of course.” They carried him into the room. Maximilian laid Atticus down gently on the mattress, while Clarissa adjusted the pillows beneath his head.
Atticus looked miserable—eyelids twitching, brows drawn in discomfort. His skin was damp with sweat, his breath uneven.
Clarissa’s heart ached.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “He’s not feeling well—I’ll take it from here.”
They got the message. She was angry. Everett gave a careless shrug. “Alright, alright. He’s in good hands.”
He turned and walked off, Maximilian following behind.
Halfway down the hall, Maximilian spoke under his breath, irritation sharp in his tone. “I told you—he’s too young. Why the hell would you push him to drink?”
“He’ll have to learn eventually,” Everett muttered, hands stuffed in his pockets. “I was outdrinking grown men at fifteen. The kid just needs practice.”
“He’s not you. And more importantly, he’s Clarissa’s brother.”
Everett gave a low whistle. “Must be nice. Protected by the pretty sister. Damn, Clarissa’s gorgeous. The new model I’ve been messing with doesn’t even come close. Wonder what she’s like in bed…”
Maximilian’s head snapped toward him. “Shut your mouth.”
Everett raised an eyebrow.
“You forget whose girl she is? Phoenix would skin you alive if she even sensed that thought in your head. So unless you’re in the mood for a slow, painful death, don’t even joke.”
“Yeah, yeah. Relax. I’m just talking,” Everett grumbled. “Besides, she already hates us after tonight. Especially me.”
Clarissa stood over the stove, quietly stirring a pot of hangover soup simmering on low heat. The warm scent of ginger and lavender filled the kitchen. When it was ready, she ladled it into a bowl, then carried it and a basin of hot water into Atticus’ room.
He was still sprawled on the bed, flushed and motionless, his dark hair slightly damp with sweat.
Clarissa set the bowl down, then knelt at the edge of the bed. Carefully, she removed his coat, shoes, and socks, her movements gentle. She dipped a towel into the hot water and wrung it out, then began to wipe his face, his hands, and his feet.
The heat of the towel seemed to stir something in him.
Atticus shifted, groaning faintly. He felt dizzy, heavy-limbed, but he was aware of something—someone—soft and familiar hovering close. Her scent wrapped around him—sweet, warm, clean—and his body responded before his mind could catch up.
He opened his eyes just as she was wiping his cheek.
“Clarissa?” he murmured, his voice hoarse.
She sighed softly, not looking at him. “How many times do I have to tell you… call me sister.”
The alcohol still burned in his bloodstream, heating his skin, clouding the lines of reason. His gaze trailed over her as she turned away to rinse the towel, bent forward slightly at the waist.
From this angle, her delicate figure was framed by the curve of her back and the way the fabric of her thin home clothes hugged her hips—soft and feminine, unbearably tempting.
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly.
Then she stood and left the room, carrying the basin of water.
When she returned, she had the hangover soup in her hands.
She sat beside him on the bed, and without thinking, Atticus leaned forward, wrapping his arms around her waist, burying his face in her side like a restless child.
“Sister,” he mumbled, voice low and muffled. “My head hurts... I feel sick.”
She froze for a second, startled by the sudden contact, but then softened at his vulnerable tone. Her fingers brushed lightly through his hair.
“You knew you’d feel awful, but still drank like a fool? Let’s see if you try that again,” she murmured, her scolding had no real bite. “Come on. Drink this—it’ll help.”
Atticus didn’t let go of her. “Feed me…”
Clarissa hesitated for a moment, but then picked up the bowl and spooned it out, one mouthful at a time, carefully blowing on each before bringing it to his lips.
When he’d finished the last drop, she placed the bowl aside and helped him lie back down.
“It’s already past one,” she whispered. “Go to sleep. You’ve got school in the morning.”
“Mm… okay…”
Under her soft gaze, Atticus finally closed his eyes. He was exhausted, and the lavender she’d added to the soup was already pulling him down into its haze. Sleep came quickly.
But peace didn’t follow.
That night, her scent lingered—clinging to his sheets, his skin, the corners of his mind. He didn’t know whether it was the leftover wine or just the feel of her hands on his skin that haunted him.
In his dream, she was there.
Clarissa—smiling at him. Beautiful. Her voice sweet and low, like a spring breeze gliding across the surface of a warm lake.
She wore almost nothing. The delicate fabric barely concealed the curves of her body, and it made his breath catch.
Heat bloomed in his chest. He reached for her—his hands desperate to strip away the last thin veil between them.
And in that dream, he pulled her close. Held her against him.
Their lips were about to meet. And just before the kiss—
Atticus jolted awake.
His forehead was slick with sweat, his entire body drenched. Atticus took a deep breath, trying to steady the ragged pace of his breathing. Then he stood, walked straight into the bathroom, and stepped under a cold shower.
He scrubbed his underwear in the sink with trembling fingers, his eyes dark and unreadable.
It wasn’t the first time he’d had that kind of dream. Lately, she kept showing up in his dreams—hauntingly vivid, achingly close—only for him to wake up the moment things got intense, right when the heat was about to boil over.
He knew the reason. Dreams couldn’t fabricate what the mind had never truly experienced. When your brain hit a blind spot in memory, it threw you back into reality.
Still, the images from the dream burned hot in his mind, his body refusing to cool down even after thirty minutes of standing under freezing water.
Once he was done, Atticus dried off, dressed, and walked quietly back to his room.
As he passed by Clarissa’s door, his steps faltered.
His eyes locked on the door handle. His gaze darkened, lips pressed into a line, Adam’s apple bobbing several times as he stared.
But in the end, he forced himself to turn away, back to the safety of his own room.