Chapter165 – I’ll teach you
Her heart thudded violently against her ribs, loud enough that she was certain he could hear it. Her body was trembling, torn between instinct and restraint.
And then her voice broke—soft, fragile, threaded with the hint of helpless tears.
“I… I can’t…”
She could barely hear herself. Everything around her went quiet.
Her thoughts had vanished into static, her mind clouded and blank.
The scent of him, the heat of his skin, the intensity in his gaze—everything about Atticus wrapped around her like a slow-burning fire.
Atticus smiled. He loved the way she looked—lost, unsure. That helplessness confirmed what he already suspected: she’d never been with another man, had no real experience with intimacy.
Perfect.
She was a blank canvas, and he could draw his own lines, shape her in the way only he desired.
His eyes darkened, filled with quiet intensity.
He pulled Clarissa into his arms and rolled over so they were facing each other. His lips brushed her cheek, gentle and coaxing.
“I’ll teach you,” he murmured.
.......
No one knew how much time had passed.
Atticus held her close, his hand lazily trailing over her back as he whispered, “Go to sleep…”
But Clarissa couldn’t. Her body was still aching, still adjusting. She stirred slightly, trying to get up.
His arm tightened instantly around her waist like a shackle. “Don’t move.”
“I… I need the bathroom…” Her voice was barely audible, soft as a breath, cheeks flushed pink.
Atticus held her tighter, stubborn. “No. You’re not going anywhere.”
There was a brief flicker of vulnerability on his face. “Clarissa, are you trying to run away from me? Do you… not want me anymore?”
“No,” she whispered, defeated. What would be the point of running now, after everything?
With a soft sigh, she gave in and turned toward him, resting against his chest. “I just don’t want you pushing your body so hard all the time…”
“I know what my body can handle,” he replied, brushing his fingers along her shoulder. “And right now, I think there's something I need even more than healing.”
“Alright, alright,” she cut in, face flaming, already knowing where he was going with this.
She pulled the blanket up to cover them both. “Just go to sleep. It’s late.”
After everything he put her through, her body was sore and exhausted. Sleep tugged at her like a tide. Meanwhile, Atticus lay wide awake, sharp-eyed and alert—hardly the image of a patient still on the mend.
Within seconds, Clarissa slipped into sleep, her breathing soft and even. Atticus gazed down at her, noticing the faint shadows under her eyes.
She was worn out… and still, she stayed with him.
She really was a fool. The kind who’d get sold off and still count the money for the seller.
He wrapped an arm securely around her and pulled her closer.
He’d never done this for anyone. Not even Belle—his adoptive mother.
But it was Belle’s death that cracked something inside him. Just a hairline fracture, but enough.
If it weren’t for that break, Clarissa never would’ve made it this far into his world. Into his heart.
Or maybe—maybe she was already his. He’d decided she was his. And once Atticus decided to take something for himself, he wouldn’t let anyone else lay a hand on it.
He brushed his thumb over her lips, gaze darkening.
“Be good, Clarissa,” he whispered. “Stay by my side. I’ll treat you well…”
Just then, there was a loud knock at the door.
“Clarissa! Clarissa, are you in there?”
A voice from outside—Dorian.
“Sir,” came the maid’s voice, trying to hold him back. “Mr. Atticus is resting. Only Miss Clarissa and the doctor are allowed in.”
“Move aside!”
As Dorian argued with the maid, the door suddenly creaked open.
His eyes lit up—until they landed on the figure in the doorway. The hope in his face instantly soured into cold disdain.
It wasn’t Clarissa.
It was Atticus.
He stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame. Even in a plain white hospital gown, his elegance was undeniable. His posture was unbothered, lazy. Regal, even.
When facing Dorian, Atticus let out a long yawn before casually raising his eyes.
“Dorian, it’s the middle of the night. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
“Where’s Clarissa? Where is she?”
He’d gotten word that she’d been found, and he rushed back immediately. He had to see her with his own eyes to believe she was safe.
Atticus smiled lazily, lips curling just slightly. “Keep your voice down. Clarissa’s sleeping. You wouldn’t want to wake her, would you?”
His eyes narrowed sharply, and in a flash, he grabbed Atticus by the collar. “You son of a bitch. Did you sleep with her?”
Atticus didn’t flinch. His tone remained light, almost amused. “Of course I did. She’s my woman. Would’ve been weird not to, don’t you think?”
He casually peeled Dorian’s hand off his collar. It was a small gesture, but his strength was undeniable—Dorian’s arm ached from the grip.
“Besides,” Atticus added, brushing invisible dust off his shoulder, “you’ve got a wife waiting for you. Shouldn’t you be with her instead of lurking around here like some deranged stalker? Honestly, you smell like shit..”
Dorian’s face darkened, his jaw clenching. He *had* just come out of the forest. Sweat, dirt, grime—it wasn’t a great look.
He glanced into the room behind Atticus and caught a glimpse of a small figure under the blankets, soft strands of dark hair splayed on the pillow.
He gritted his teeth.
That bastard not only saved Clarissa but managed to get hurt doing it—of course Clarissa had trust him more now.
Goddamn it.
With no retort left, Dorian turned and walked away, every step heavier than the last.
Atticus watched him go, a slow, mocking smile tugging at his lips.
......
Lyra curled up in bed, her shoulders trembled slightly, her hands clenched under the covers.
She heard the door and immediately sprang up. When she saw him standing there, her eyes lit up and she rushed over.
“Dorian, you’re back… How’s my sis? Is she alright?”
“She’s fine,” he said curtly, brushing past her.
Lyra’s heart sank at his tone. He started undoing the buttons on his shirt. Dirt and sweat clung to his skin, the exhaustion of the night etched into every muscle.
As he peeled off the rest of his clothes, Lyra’s breath hitched. Her face flushed as she stared at the lean muscles of his back.
And then—without thinking—she walked over and wrapped her arms around him from behind.
“Let me help you…” she whispered, pressing her body against his.
Dorian paused. Her touch was soft, needy. But there was no warmth in him.
“No,” he said, pulling her arms away. “I’m filthy. Don’t touch me.”
He grabbed a towel and headed toward the bathroom. “Get some sleep. I’ll shower and head to bed after.”
He left her standing there alone, her hands still suspended midair. Moments later, her tears began to fall.
The next morning, Clarissa was the first to wake. She opened her eyes to see Atticus still asleep beside her. The medication must’ve knocked him out cold—just as the doctor said it would.
She got up carefully, washed up, then made her way to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for him.
The maid nearby offered to help, but Clarissa shook her head. “It’s fine. I’d rather do it myself.”
The maid smiled softly. “You really do dote on your fiancé.”
Clarissa froze for half a second. She opened her mouth to explain—but was interrupted.
“Clarissa!”
She turned to see Dorian approaching, his expression intense.
“Are you okay?” he asked, reaching her in a few quick steps. “I heard about the horse... I was worried sick.”
Lyra, standing a few paces behind, also stepped forward. “Sis, we were so scared when we heard. Are you alright?”
Clarissa looked at the two of them—Dorian’s concern, Lyra’s carefully composed expression—and took a slow breath.
“I’m fine,” she said, steadying herself. “Thanks for your concern.”