Chapter106 – I only have you
Clarissa glanced at the time on her phone. 1:07 a.m.
She’d barely slept two hours, but the dream had clawed her wide awake—raw, trembling, and drenched in cold sweat. The images were too vivid, too brutal. It felt like someone had carved open her chest and left her bleeding, gasping for breath in the dark.
Her head throbbed, her lungs ached, and her heart… .
Fragments of memories with Atticus kept flashing through her mind, each one more suffocating than the last.
She bit down hard on her bottom lip. “I must’ve owed you something in my past life, you little bastard.”
Grabbing her clothes, she yanked them on, stormed out the door, and dashed into the hallway barefoot, umbrella in hand.
The rain hadn’t let up. It poured like the sky was punishing the earth.
Atticus had been out there since six in the evening. That made it over four hours now, standing alone in the rain, unmoving.
But this was nothing for him—not anymore. He hadn’t fallen sick a single day since he turned twelve.
Just in case, he’d even tucked pills in his coat pocket.
He’d swallowed three pills at once, burning through his veins like fire. His body overheated. His breath came ragged. His face flushed unnaturally red, his lips bloodless.
Then suddenly, his knees buckled.
He collapsed into the shallow water at the foot of the community gate with a dull splash.
Clarissa saw it happen from down the street.
“Atticus!” she screamed. She sprinted, umbrella forgotten behind her, water slapping against her legs. She knelt beside him, her hands trembling as she turned him over.
His lips were ice. His skin was on fire.
She pressed her palm to his forehead and felt the searing heat. She couldn't carry him on her own. She called the building’s night security.
The old man grunted and heaved Atticus onto his back. “Jesus, this kid looks lanky, but he’s solid as hell. What’s he made of—bricks?”
Clarissa followed closely, panting.
“You two fighting? Girl, you left him out here for nearly a week. It’s a miracle he didn’t pass out sooner. This heat—thirty-eight degrees in the day—he’s lucky he didn’t fry his brain.”
Clarissa’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing.
They finally reached her door. She fumbled with the keys, pushed it open, and guided the guard to the couch.
“Set him there. Thank you,” she said quickly.
The guard gave her a sideways look. “Take good care of him. When you’re in love, you’ve got to learn to forgive. If it wasn’t a crime, then let it go.”
Clarissa’s expression darkened. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
The guard just smirked. “Right. Sure. Say that all you want.” And with a wave, he was gone.
Clarissa wanted to explain—but what was the point? Behind her, Atticus groaned. She spun around.
He lay there, soaked to the bone, hair stuck to his face, lips cracked and white. His cheeks were flushed a fevered red.
Clarissa swore under her breath and ran to the bathroom. She returned with towels, warm water, and an ice pack. She wiped his face gently, fed him medicine. Propped the ice pack on his forehead.
But the fever wouldn’t go down. The ice melted almost instantly.
Clarissa touched his face again—it was like touching a furnace.
She cursed. “Screw this. I’m calling an ambulance.”
She turned to grab her phone—only to feel something clamp tightly around her wrist.
“Clarissa…”
His voice was a whisper—hoarse and desperate. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me…”
Before she could react, he pulled her down onto him in one sudden movement. She landed hard against his chest, her breath catching as his arms locked around her with unrelenting force.
“What are you doing?” she snapped, struggling.
But he didn’t let go.
“Sister… please don’t leave me. I can’t live without you…” His voice cracked, thick with tears and fever. “I was wrong. I know I was wrong. Please…”
Clarissa looked up—and saw he was still unconscious, eyes shut tight, but tears were leaking from beneath his lashes, rolling down his burning cheeks and soaking into the couch cushions.
“Sister… I only have you. Don’t be so cruel to me… please…”
Big, hot tears streamed from his eyes. They hit the fabric beneath his cheek and bled into two dark gray stains.
Clarissa stopped struggling. She let out a shaky breath. Her voice came out bitter and thick. “Cruel? You think I’m the one being cruel? I should be the one crying the most…”
She pressed her forehead to his collarbone, trying not to fall apart.
Atticus slowly stopped crying, soothed by her scent, her presence, her warmth.
But his grip didn’t loosen. Not even slightly.
He held her like a starving man gripping his last piece of bread. As if letting go would kill him.
Clarissa tried to pry his hands off her. She couldn’t even loosen a single finger.
“You’re such a goddamn bastard,” she muttered, digging her nails into his chest in frustration.
Rock-hard muscle met her attack, like stone beneath her fingers.
Her nail polish chipped. Her fingertips ached. But he wouldn’t let go.
“You beast,” she whispered. “You absolute beast…”
With nowhere else to vent, she reached out and pinched Atticus’s handsome, maddening face. Hard.
Only when his skin turned slightly red and swollen did she let go, utterly drained. She sank back and sighed deeply. Clarissa… what the hell are you doing?
Every time it came to Atticus, her self-control unraveled. He was her weakness, her chaos. Her undoing.
Now his drenched clothes had soaked through hers. The heat of his feverish body was pressed flush against her own. Their limbs tangled. His chest against her heart. His breath fanning her neck. The steam rising off him made her whole body flush.
She felt hot, damp, and breathless—not just from the fevered heat, but from the unbearable tension winding tighter and tighter inside her.
Why the hell did I let this wolf cub back into my life?
Her gaze fell on his closed eyes, her voice was a murmur, half-bitter, half-resigned. “Atticus… did I really owe you something in a past life?”
Outside, the sky had begun to pale. The clock on the wall blinked—6:30 a.m.
Clarissa felt her exhaustion crash down all at once, and sleep finally claimed her. She yawned, eyes fluttering shut, and drifted off in Atticus’s burning arms.
But the moment her breathing turned steady, Atticus’s eyes opened.
He stared down at her, his lips curling into a slow, dangerous smile—mischievous, tender.
He gently patted her waist with one large hand, and then whispered, voice low and teasing:
“Sister…? Clarissa? Can you hear me?”
But Clarissa didn’t stir. Not a twitch.
His grin widened. He gazed at her sleeping face, the light in his eyes darkening into something unreadable. Something hungry.
His hand on her waist moved—just slightly. She was wearing loose home clothes. Thin fabric. Easy access.
He lifted the hem of her shirt. The skin beneath was smooth. Soft. Barely warm. Her waist was narrow, delicate—he could wrap one hand around it easily.
Atticus’s breath caught. His pulse began to race. His fingers tightened, just a fraction.
He traced a slow, deliberate circle against her skin. Then moved upward. Deliberate. Exploring.
His fingertips brushed a small button near her chest.
Click.
With a flick, it came undone.
“Clarissa,” he whispered again, voice hoarse, dark.
Her skin was pale, almost luminous in the morning light. So delicate it looked like it would bruise under the slightest pressure. He didn’t dare touch her too roughly. He didn’t want to leave any marks.
But Clarissa stirred slightly, a soft whimper escaping her lips. Her brows furrowed, and her body shifted in discomfort.
Atticus froze. He looked down, watching her face intently.
But she didn’t wake. Just murmured softly in protest, then went still again.
He let out a quiet breath of relief and released the tension in his hands.
Slowly, as if nothing had happened, he wrapped his arms around her again—and closed his eyes. Sleep took him.