Chapter205 – Birth control?
Atticus’s eyes glinted as he moved to follow, but she slammed the door shut.
“If you keep this up, you won’t be touching me for a month!”
Her voice made him chuckle, clicking his tongue. Bold woman.
But his smile betrayed his good mood.
He headed back to his room, showered, changed, and started breakfast.
By the time Clarissa emerged, fresh and clean, Atticus was already waiting with food on the table.
At the table, Clarissa picked up a steamed bun but then hesitated, a thought striking her.
“Atticus, you…”
He looked at her curiously. “What’s wrong? You don’t like the food today?”
“No…” She shook her head, fingers tightening on her chopsticks. Her cheeks flushed and she couldn’t meet his eyes. “Can you… go get some medicine?”
“Medicine?”
For a second, he didn’t catch on. But seeing the pink creeping up her cheeks, the way she ducked her head, realization hit him hard. “You mean birth control?”
Clarissa nodded quickly. “Mm…”
They hadn’t used protection once. He always finished inside her. And she wasn’t ready for a child—not yet.
Atticus’s expression darkened instantly. He set down the food in his hand with a sharp thud. “No.”
Her heart dropped. She looked up, catching the storm brewing in his face. “Atticus, I—”
“That shit isn’t good for you. I won’t let you take it.”
“One time won’t matter,” she tried, voice soft.
“I said no.” His tone was like steel, eyes hard and unyielding. He clamped her hand in his, grip fierce. “Clarissa, don’t you want my child? Wouldn’t it be good to have a baby with me?”
Her heart lurched. She hadn’t expected such a strong reaction. “That’s not what I meant. I just… I don’t think it’s the right time yet…”
Atticus stared at her, silent. Then he exhaled, long and heavy, and stood. Without a word, he disappeared into his room.
When he came back, he was dressed in sweatpants, a hoodie, and a mask. “I’m going to get some medicine. Wait here.”
“Let’s… eat first,” Clarissa murmured.
“No thanks,” he said flatly, and left.
Clarissa watched his retreating figure, guilt twisting in her chest. Did I push him too far? He must’ve misunderstood. She wanted a child too, one day—but not now. She wasn’t ready.
Ten minutes later, Atticus returned and went straight into the kitchen. He emerged with a steaming cup of something dark.
Clarissa blinked. “What’s this?”
“Medicine. Harmless,” he said evenly.
Warmth flickered in her chest. So that’s why he’d been so upset—because he was worried about her. She lifted the cup and drained it in one swallow. It was bitter, but she forced it down.
Atticus watched her drink without hesitation. His expression didn’t change, but inside, something ripped open in him.
She’d rather choke down this bitter brew than bear my child.
They’d already shared a bed, her body already his—but it wasn’t enough. He wanted her completely. Body, heart, soul. He wanted to fill her with himself until there was no room for anyone or anything else.
His hand clenched at his side. Then, when she set the cup down and looked at him, he smoothed his face into a gentle smile.
“Let’s eat.”
He picked up a bun and placed it in her bowl.
Relief softened her expression. She smiled faintly. “I wanted to wait for you to come back.”
Atticus froze for a heartbeat, then quickly rose, scooping up the dishes. “It’s cold already. I’ll heat it up. Have some porridge first.”
She nodded, and he retreated to the kitchen.
Breakfast left Clarissa strangely heavy-hearted. Sleepiness pulled at her again, so she went to nap. By the time she woke, Atticus was calling her for lunch.
At the table, watching her sip soup lazily, he finally spoke.
“Clarissa, let’s go shopping this afternoon.”
She frowned. “Why go out? You’re not busy today.”
The heat outside had been unbearable lately—thirty degrees and suffocating. Every time she stepped out, she was drenched in sweat. She wasn’t eager to leave the apartment.
Atticus’s lips curved. “We need to buy some things. Especially for the kitchen. And…” His gaze lingered on her. “I want to replace the bed in your room.”
Clarissa stiffened, realizing what he meant. After everything that had happened between them, it was only natural he wanted to sleep in the same bed. And her single-sized mattress really *was* too small for two.
She swallowed, then nodded lightly. “Okay.”
Back in her room, Clarissa was picking out something simple—a plain white dress—when a pair of hands suddenly reached past her.
“Wear this. It’s prettier.”
Startled, she turned to see Atticus holding up a red-and-cream dress. The bodice laced up snugly, the layered tulle skirt shimmered with embroidered roses, delicate and romantic.
“This?” Clarissa frowned. “Isn’t it too flashy?”
Atticus’s tone left no room for argument. “It’ll look amazing on you. Take it.”
With no other choice, Clarissa accepted the dress. But as she turned to change, she realized he was standing right behind her. Her cheeks burned. “You… you need to get out!”
This time, Atticus didn’t budge. He dropped casually onto the bed, eyes glinting with mischief. “I’ve already seen everything. Just change here.”
Her ears went red. “Atticus!”
He tilted his head, smirking. “You sound like you’re asking me to help you change.”
Before she could snap back, he sprang up, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her down onto the mattress with him.
Clarissa yelped, landing beneath him. His long fingers slid beneath the hem of her clothes, skimming the soft skin of her waist.
“Atticus, no…” she whispered, face flushing scarlet.
His gaze burned into her, dark and hungry. He dipped down, kissing her until she was breathless, then brushed a thumb across her swollen lips. His voice was hoarse, teasing.
“Looks like I’ll need to buy you more clothes.”
Clarissa blinked in confusion. *More clothes? I just bought a dozen outfits a few days ago.*
Before she could ask, he tugged her simple home clothes off with practiced ease. She gasped, but his voice purred low against her ear.
“You’re too slow. Be good—let me help you.”
His movements were deft and assured, almost scarily so. In what felt like moments, he had her dressed in the red gown, brushed out her hair, and even curled it with a steady hand. He worked makeup onto her face with such precision it left her stunned, letting him move her like a doll in his hands.
When Clarissa finally looked into the mirror, she hardly recognized herself. Her lips parted in awe. Atticus leaned over her shoulder, arms sliding around her waist.
“Are you satisfied?” he murmured.
She blinked at her reflection. “When did you even learn how to do all this…?”
“Is it that difficult? It’s just using your hands,” he said lazily.
She shot him a look, and under her steady gaze, he finally chuckled and admitted, “Silly Clarissa. If you’ve got a foundation in art, makeup isn’t hard.”
Her chest tightened. His talent… it really is frightening.
She studied her reflection again and couldn’t stop the words spilling out. “Look… stunning. Really stunning.”
Even more beautiful than when she’d tried on her own. Somehow, in his hands, her natural beauty shone brighter—her brows soft as distant mountains, lips like ripe plums, skin pale as snow, eyes luminous as stars. She looked as if she’d stepped out of a painting, delicate and dazzling.
Her gaze flicked upward, only to find Atticus watching her, heat smoldering in his dark eyes. Her heart skipped, then raced uncontrollably.
Sensing her surrender, Atticus leaned closer, lips curving before he captured her mouth again, deepening the kiss until the world around them blurred.
......
By the time they left the house, it was already past two in the afternoon.
The sun blazed overhead, the hottest part of the day, and Clarissa felt faintly dizzy just from walking a short distance. Thankfully, the mall was close by, and the moment they stepped inside, cool air wrapped around her like a blessing.
Atticus reached out and laced his fingers with hers, holding her hand openly, more intimate than ever.
Clarissa could feel eyes on them—curious stares, envious glances—and her face burned. She tried to tug her hand back, twisting her wrist to slip free, but Atticus immediately tightened his grip, forcing their fingers together as if he had no intention of letting go.
“Atticus?” she whispered, flustered, looking up at him.
He only tilted his head with mock innocence. “What’s wrong?”
Before she could answer, he pulled her closer, tucking her against his chest, his arm sliding around her waist in a firm claim. The message was clear: let them look. She’s mine.
Clarissa sighed helplessly, but she didn’t resist. She let him hold her, their figures pressed close as though they really were newlyweds strolling through the mall.
Atticus led her first into a furniture store. Clarissa wandered among the beds and sofas, but nothing quite satisfied her. The stylish sets were uncomfortable, and the ones that felt right were made of materials she disliked.
Through it all, Atticus stayed close, patient and unhurried, letting her take her time.
“Why don’t we try another store?” he suggested, voice low and easy.
Clarissa nodded. “Mm. You’re right.”
They left together, fingers still entwined.
.....
Elsewhere in the same mall, Dorian had just dismissed Kira with a flimsy excuse and brought Lyra along instead. For weeks now, a quiet darkness had gnawed at him, leaving him restless and irritable. His relationship with Lyra had dulled into routine, more appearances than passion, but outwardly they still played the part of a harmonious couple.
He didn’t want Kira—or anyone—to see the cracks. So he took Lyra out, walking beside her in heavy silence.
Lyra glanced at him from the corner of her eye. His expression was cold, his brows etched with an icy gloom that seemed impossible to melt. The sight pierced her heart. Once, when they first met, he had been the all-powerful president of Harrington Group and she nothing but an ordinary girl. Yet back then he had looked at her like she was his treasure.
Now she was his wife, bound to him by vows and law, but why did everything feel so different?
Her chest ached, but she forced a breath. That was when his voice broke the silence.
“Are you buying anything?”
Startled, she shook her head quickly. “No… no, I don’t need anything right now.”
Dorian’s eyes swept over her, pausing on her dress. His brow furrowed deeper. “Why are you still wearing that? Didn’t the housekeeper arrange new clothes for you?”
She glanced down. The dress was an older piece from years ago, simple white cotton, washed soft, clinging to her slender frame. Her long hair spilled loose around her shoulders, her delicate face pale and fragile.
“I… I think my own clothes are more comfortable,” she murmured.
His expression darkened, unreadable. Lyra’s heart skipped uneasily.
“Since you’re not buying anything, let’s go home,” he said flatly. “My mother should be back soon, and there’s a lot waiting at the company.”
He turned to leave—then stopped dead.
Not far away, two familiar figures stood in the furniture section.
Clarissa. And beside her, Atticus.