Chapter146 – Sleep with me
“I’ll speak to them. Frankly, compared to Clarissa… do you really think you’re qualified to inherit the Lancaster family business?”
Lyra stood frozen, face pale. Her lips parted slightly, but she said nothing. Tears shimmered in her eyes again, caught on the edge of her lashes.
“I understand,” she whispered at last.
“Good.” Kira turned back to her tea. “Then go.”
Dismissed, Lyra turned and walked away with numb legs and a hollow heart. Her world felt drained of color.
She pushed open the bedroom door—empty.
No sign of Dorian.
Panic fluttered in her chest. She turned, catching sight of a passing servant and stopped them quietly.
“Where is Dorian?”
“In the study, ma’am.”
Lyra exhaled, straightened her shoulders, and walked quickly in the direction of the study.
.....
Dorian was buried in paperwork, the desk lamp casting golden light over the strong lines of his face and the endless stacks of documents surrounding him.
A cup of steaming milk appeared silently at his elbow.
He paused, glanced sideways.
Lyra stood there, dressed in a soft white nightgown, her hair loose around her shoulders. She smiled faintly. “I brought you some milk. It’ll help you sleep.”
Dorian nodded, took the cup, and sipped. He didn’t look at her again—just went back to reviewing a contract.
Lyra bit her lip. She moved behind him and lightly tugged at the collar of his shirt. “Dorian…” Her voice was soft, a little breathless.
He didn’t lift his eyes. “What is it?”
“It’s late. Come to bed with me.”
Finally, he looked up.
Her eyes shimmered under the lamplight. She looked delicate, beautiful, with the kind of fragility that once would’ve made his blood burn. In the past, he’d have pulled her into his lap and kissed her until she forgot her own name.
But now, he felt nothing but weariness.
He gently pushed her hand away. “You go ahead. I’ve still got work to finish.”
“But…” Her voice wavered.
“Lyra,” he said, his tone low but firm. “Be good. When I’m done here, I’ll take you on a trip. Somewhere nice. How does that sound?”
Lyra hesitated. She forced a smile. “Okay. But don’t stay up too late.”
He didn’t answer, already immersed in the documents again.
She lingered a moment longer, watching him. Her fingers curled tightly into the fabric of her nightgown.
“Is there something else?” Dorian asked, without looking up.
Lyra blinked. “No… nothing.”
She turned and walked out of the study, her heart growing heavier with each step.
Back in the bedroom, she tossed and turned under the covers. Midnight passed. One o’clock. Two.
Still no sound at the door.
Her chest constricted. They had only been married a few months, not even a full year. Was he already growing tired of her?
The tears came, hot and quiet. She turned into her pillow, muffling her sobs in the sheets.
.......
A full day and night of travel had drained her.
Clarissa rubbed her temple and looked toward Atticus. “Should we take a cab?”
“No need,” he said, just as an old-fashioned car from another era rolled smoothly up to the curb.
A man stepped out—tall, refined, in a perfectly tailored tuxedo. His eyes were striking emerald green, his posture aristocratic. He bowed and addressed them in flawless, lyrical French.
“Monsieur Atticus, allow me to take the luggage.”
Atticus greeted him and handed over their bags. “Merci, David.”
Clarissa blinked. “Who is he?”
“The castle’s butler.”
“The castle?” she echoed. “Does he greet all the guests like this?”
“No. Only me.”
She tilted her head. “You know the owner?”
“Nope.” Atticus smiled lazily, that familiar devil-may-care grin. “A friend made arrangements in advance.”
She opened her mouth to press for more, but before she could ask, Atticus reached for her and gently pulled her into his arms.
Caught off guard, Clarissa gasped, half-protesting. “Hey—!”
His voice was low, warm above her ear. “Still over an hour to go. Rest a little.”
Clarissa’s cheeks warmed as her body relaxed against him despite herself. Her back ached, her legs curled up, her breath softening.
With her head pillowed on his thigh, she finally drifted to sleep in the safety of his arms.
Clarissa stood at 163 cm, but her proportions were refined, her figure were gracefully slender, so she gave the illusion of being taller.
From Atticus’s angle, nestled beside her in the car, he could see the elegant curve of her shoulder, the subtle dip of her waist—fragile, delicate. The kind of beauty that made a man want to pull her into his arms and never let go.
His gaze deepened.
Without fully realizing it, he reached out, his long fingers brushing softly through her silky hair, tracing the shape of her cheek, the delicate outline of her nose and lips. Clarissa, fast asleep, didn’t stir—obedient and unguarded in her dreams.
Atticus exhaled quietly, something warm and tender flickering in his dark eyes. Only she—only Clarissa—could stir something like this in him.
An hour later, the vintage car rolled to a stop at the gates of the castle. Clarissa was still sleeping soundly, curled up like a cat in the passenger seat. Atticus turned to David, the butler.
“David, handle the luggage, please.”
“Of course, sir. It’s a pleasure.”
Without a sound, Atticus slipped an arm under Clarissa’s knees and gently lifted her against his chest. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake, her head resting against his collarbone as he carried her through the grand arched doorway of the castle.
.......
The scent of lavender, linen, and something warm surrounded Clarissa as she slowly surfaced from sleep. She shifted, stretching out her limbs. The mattress beneath her was soft, plush—far too comfortable to be a hotel bed. But something was wrong.
Something—or someone—was holding her tightly, a strong arm curled firmly around her waist.
She blinked her eyes open—and froze.
A bare male chest. Clarissa’s eyes widened. “Atticus! Get off me!”
Her voice was shrill as she shoved at him, snatching the covers up around her like a shield.
Atticus stirred, slowly opening his eyes, his shirtless body half-revealed in the morning light. His pants were still on, but his presence—his skin, the warmth of his body so close—sent heat flooding through her cheeks.
He gave her a sleepy, wicked smile. “What time is it…? I haven’t had enough sleep.”
“Don’t give me that! Why were we sleeping in the same bed?” Clarissa demanded, hugging the quilt to her chest like armor.
Atticus arched a brow and tilted his head, feigning innocence. “Really want to know, sis?”
In a blur of motion, he was no longer lying back but in front of her.
Clarissa squeaked, scrambling backward, but there was no room behind her. She teetered dangerously on the edge of the bed until he caught her—one arm sliding around her waist, the other bracing their fall.
They landed with a soft thud, his body pressing into hers, his chest against her back.
“You—!”
“Shh.” His voice was low, rough from sleep. “Can’t you feel it, Clarissa?”
His breath ghosted across her ear and neck, warm and tinged with the faint scent of cedar and something darker, something purely Atticus. Her body shivered involuntarily.
Her heart pounded in her chest.
“I... I know! Just let me go!”
Atticus let out a deep, lazy chuckle, loosening his grip just enough.
Clarissa twisted free and scurried toward the edge of the bed, but before she could climb down, he reached out and caught her wrist.
“What are you doing?” she snapped.
He tugged her back into the bed with maddening ease and pulled her against his chest.
“Just a little longer,” he murmured into her ear. “I sleep better with you next to me.”
Clarissa writhed in his arms. “If you want to sleep, sleep! Why do I have to stay here too?”
Atticus only hummed contentedly, burying his face in her hair. “Because you’re warm. And soft. And mine.”