Chapter202 -Am I dreaming?
Clarissa’s nails dug into her palms so hard they broke skin, blood welling up and streaking down her wrists. The water washed it away in pale pink swirls, but the sight of her writhing in agony finally broke through Delilah’s calm.
Her eyes went red with panic. “Clarissa—what’s happening to you? Did they poison you?”
Clarissa couldn’t even answer. Her whole body trembled violently.
“Clarissa, hold on! I’ll go find Atticus. He’s the best doctor there is—he’ll save you, I swear. Just wait for me.”
Delilah bolted out the door.
At the bottom of the stairs, she spotted Atticus climbing out of his car. Relief crashed over her, and she sprinted straight to him.
He froze at her wild expression, his brows knitting tight. “I told you not to leave her side. Why the hell are you out here alone?”
Delilah was gasping for breath, her words tumbling out. “Atticus—fuck—Clarissa—she’s dying! You have to save her, now!”
His heart clenched. He didn’t waste a second, storming up the stairs two at a time.
The moment he entered the suite, he caught sight of the camera equipment and the heap of groaning men littering the floor. A dark, murderous chill spread through him.
His gaze landed on Zachary, still half-conscious and bleeding, and for the first time in years, Atticus felt the raw, suffocating urge to kill with his own hands.
Then a sound from the bathroom snapped his focus. He rushed inside—
—and froze.
Clarissa was slumped in the bathtub, her soaked dress clinging to every curve, her body trembling violently.
The sight gutted him. It felt like a blade straight through his chest.
“Clarissa!”
He dropped to his knees beside her, reaching instinctively. Relief flickered through him—her clothes were intact, no bruises, no signs she’d been touched. With Delilah here, those worthless bastards wouldn’t have stood a chance.
But then his relief turned to horror. Even submerged in ice-cold water, Clarissa’s skin burned hot to the touch. Her cheeks were scarlet, lips parted as her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps.
Drugged.
“Clarissa…” His voice cracked.
She stirred, her hazy eyes lifting to him. Her lashes fluttered, her lips trembling as if she couldn’t believe he was real.
“Atticus… Am I dreaming? Is this a hallucination?”
Before he could answer, she surged forward, kissing him desperately. Her soaked skirt had gone translucent, the shape of her body clear beneath the thin fabric.
Atticus’s Adam’s apple bobbed hard, fire igniting in his eyes. Then he pulled her close and kissed her back, deepening it, his control slipping for one dangerous second.
Water splashed violently, soaking through his shirt, turning the black fabric nearly opaque. He didn’t care.
In his arms, Clarissa let out a weak sound, her trembling hands fisting in his shirt. “Atticus… I don’t want to be here. I want to go home… Take me home, please…”
Her words jolted him back. His gut twisted at the filth of this place.
Snatching a towel from the rack, he wrapped her tightly, covering everything but her ankles. Then he lifted her against his chest and strode out.
But the moment her overheated body lost the press of his warmth, the drug tore through her again. She whimpered, small and helpless, like a wounded kitten.
Atticus clenched his jaw, holding her tighter as he charged downstairs.
The police had just arrived, flooding the hallway.
“Mr. Atticus! Is Miss Clarissa all right? What about those men upstairs?”
“She’s critical,” Atticus bit out. His voice was like ice. “Secure the scene. Copy every file, every second of footage, and deliver it to me.”
Then he was gone, vanishing with Clarissa in his arms so fast the officers could only gape.
Delilah came running up a moment later, but Atticus barely spared her a look.
Delilah, panicked and flustered, sprinted after him.
“Atticus! Atticus! Wait! Clarissa! Clarissa…”
Atticus stopped and shot her a look of steel. “Clarissa’s in critical condition. Stay here and cooperate with the police. I’ll deal with you later.”
Delilah’s shoulders slumped. “Oh…” She felt the weight of guilt pressing down on her.
Atticus didn’t spare her a second longer. He carried Clarissa straight into Everett’s car.
Everett, leaning against the vehicle, had just relaxed after hearing Delilah say the crisis was over. But the back door swung open, and Atticus stepped in, holding someone tightly in his arms.
Even swaddled in blankets, Everett immediately recognized Clarissa. “Atticus? What the hell—?”
“Drive. Take me home.” Atticus cut him off sharply.
Everett blinked, stunned. “Wait—why are you in my car? Can’t you drive yourself?”
Then a faint, pitiful whimper reached his ears—Clarissa’s voice, soft and trembling, yet achingly seductive.
“Atticus… it hurts… so bad…”
Her drugged, fragile state made her shiver violently. She writhed in his arms, trying to scream, but he held her tightly, gagging her gently to stop the noise. Her movements were frantic, and it nearly drove her mad.
Everett swallowed hard, noticing Atticus’s fierce gaze locked on him. One wrong move, and he was sure Atticus would tear him apart. In a flash, Atticus deployed the backseat partition, sealing Clarissa off from view and sound.
“Damn, this guy is insane… ,” Everett muttered under his breath. Still, he started the car.
In the backseat, Clarissa, taking advantage of a brief lapse in his grip, twisted and flailed, wrapping herself around him. Atticus’s jaw tightened—he’d never seen her move like this before. She was like a coiled serpent, wild and impossible to control.
The windshield partition closed fully, but inside, it was a storm. Atticus finally let her sit on his lap and kissed her, as he tried to soothe her trembling, drug-addled body.
But the drug was potent, almost as strong as anything he could concoct. Clarissa’s strength was fading fast; her consciousness wavered. Atticus’s muscles tensed like stone, sweat streaking down his forehead.
“Fuck, hurry up!” he barked, slamming the car window.
Everett, driving, nearly hit a red light. “I almost ran it! Jesus!”
Luckily, their luxury apartment wasn’t far. Ten tense minutes later, they arrived.
Atticus swung the tightly wrapped woman out of the car, ignoring Everett’s leering gaze. Everett, however, noticed the buttons ripped off Atticus’s shirt, eyes glinting with amusement.
“This brat… finally got a taste of it. Lucky bastard,” he muttered.
Clarissa was the only one who could make Atticus lose control like this. “Don’t go wild the first time. Keep your composure, Atticus… don’t humiliate us men.”
Atticus ignored him entirely, carrying Clarissa up the stairs with unwavering speed.
Everett whistled softly, shaking his head. Even without seeing her face, just the sound of her voice was enough to make his bones melt. That Atticus—he was damn lucky.
“Clarissa…”
For hours, Clarissa could no longer tell the sun from the moon. She felt like a drifting boat, a falling leaf—lifted high, then dropped again and again.
The moon was faint, veiled by clouds. The midday sun had long since vanished, and now the pale disk of the moon hung centered in the sky.
Atticus held the unconscious woman tightly against him, his breathing low and steady. Both of them were soaked, as if dragged from the depths of water itself.
He looked down at her exhausted, sleeping face, and a faint smile curved his lips before sleep claimed him too.
.....
The next morning
When Clarissa stirred, the first thing she felt was discomfort.
Her whole body ached. Every muscle throbbed with exhaustion. Hunger gnawed at her. She whimpered softly, forcing her heavy eyes open.
She was in her own room—her own bed. The familiar furnishings surrounded her.
But pressed against her back was a solid warmth, and around her waist, a pair of hands held her firmly.
She turned her head slightly. Atticus’s handsome face was inches from hers, relaxed in sleep.
Clarissa blinked. Memories of last night came rushing back.
Yes… she remembered. Her and Atticus—
Though she had been drugged, her mind hadn’t gone completely blank. She remembered everything. The images were sharp, almost painfully clear. Her cheeks burned, her heart pounding wildly.
His arm tightened around her waist, and she had to carefully pry herself free. She managed to sit up, but the moment her feet touched the floor, her legs gave out beneath her.
She would have fallen if strong hands hadn’t caught her from behind.
Atticus lifted her effortlessly, his voice low and rough with sleep, carrying a note of husky heat.
“Clarissa…”
His breath brushed her ear, making her whole body tremble. She didn’t dare look at him.
It was all too sudden. Too much. She needed time to think, to breathe.
“I… I want to take a shower,” she managed.
“Alright. I’ll run you a bath,” Atticus murmured, tossing the covers aside and heading into the bathroom.
Clarissa quickly burrowed back under the sheets, muffling her reply.
Atticus glanced back once, something flickering in his dark eyes, before disappearing into the bathroom.
The sound of running water echoed through the room. Clarissa bit her lip, stealing a glance toward the door—then quickly turned away, her heart in knots.
When Atticus returned, she was still curled beneath the covers. Without a word, he swept her into his arms and carried her toward the bathroom.
She gasped, instinctively clinging to him. Only then did she realize—their clothes were still strewn across the floor. His bare skin was pressed against hers. Her face flamed scarlet.
“I—I can manage on my own…”
Her stammer only made him chuckle. “Can you?”
The meaning in his tone sent heat rushing to her cheeks. She glared at him, but that only deepened his smile.
He lowered her gently into the steaming water. Clarissa sighed as warmth enveloped her, easing her sore, trembling body.
But before she could truly relax, ripples stirred the bath. Atticus slid in behind her.
“What are you doing?”
“I haven’t washed either,” he said smoothly, catching her when she tried to rise. “We’ll wash together.”
His voice was velvet and gravel, rich as a cello, whispering heat into her ear. “You worked so hard last night. Let me take care of you.”
A shiver ran through her, her breath catching.
She wanted to protest, but his next words landed soft and unyielding:
“Clarissa… isn’t it a little late to be shy? You’re tired. Just let me help.”
Her body, tense as a bowstring, slowly gave way.
Smiling faintly, Atticus reached for her long black hair, letting the water run through his fingers as he began to wash it with careful, intimate attention.
Clarissa’s hair had been recently treated, leaving it silky smooth, with a soft curl that trailed just past her waist. In the pale green bathwater, it spread around her like dark seaweed, gleaming under the light.
Atticus squeezed shampoo into his hand and worked it gently through her hair, his long, slender fingers massaging her scalp with meticulous care.
A shiver ran through Clarissa, her skin tingling, and before she realized it, her mind had drifted into a hazy calm.
Only when the last of the lather was rinsed away did clarity return.