Chapter207 – Wrong size
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Zachary’s voice cracked, though he tried to mask it with bravado. “You—you gonna kill me?”
Atticus’s voice was a low, venomous growl. “I want to know who’s pulling your strings. Who the fuck is framing my woman?”
Zachary’s lip curled. He spat on the ground, sneering. “Why the hell would I tell you? Who the fuck do you think you are? I checked you out already—you’re nothing but a bastard, trash with no name and no power.”
He leaned forward, eyes flashing with cruel glee. “And what a shame, huh? She was delicious. Should’ve been thanking me, bastard—without me, someone like you would’ve never even touched her.”
Zachary’s constant taunts finally drew something unexpected from Atticus—laughter.
The sound was sharp and low, cutting through the silence like a blade. Zachary froze mid-sentence, unsettled despite himself. “What the fuck are you laughing at?”
“I’m laughing at your stupidity,” Atticus said smoothly, his voice as cold as steel. “I was ready to give you a chance to live, but you didn’t value it.”
He snapped his fingers.
The lights flared on behind Zachary, throwing the cell into harsh illumination. For the first time, Zachary realized the surroundings were…different. Several unfamiliar men loomed in the shadows, their eyes predatory.
“What the hell—where is this?!” Zachary barked.
“This,” Atticus said, lips curving into a slow smile, “is prison.”
“Bullshit! Do you think I’ve never seen the inside of a cell?”
“Oh, you’re not that stupid.” Atticus leaned back against the bars casually, as if he owned the place. “This isn’t your regular lockup. I pulled some strings. Welcome to Westhaven’s largest death-row prison.”
The name alone made Zachary’s blood run cold. He had heard stories—monsters in human skin, men who had butchered, mutilated, and worse. Even hardened criminals whispered about this place with dread.
The men behind him shifted, and Zachary suddenly understood—Atticus wasn’t just some bastard without power. He was something else entirely.
Atticus’s smile sharpened into something vicious.
“Your two-year sentence won’t change. But before that…you’re going to bleed.”
A chair was pulled out for him. Atticus sat, legs crossed, as if settling in to watch a show.
“Let me out! You crazy fuck! Atticus—you’ll die for this, I swear to God!”
But before Zachary could finish, two men dragged him away. His screams filled the chamber, raw and animalistic, echoing against the stone walls.
Atticus watched, expression calm, lips curved in a faint smile, though his eyes were glacial, glittering with a bloodthirsty gleam. He looked less like a man and more like a predator savoring the hunt.
Hours bled into dawn. When the sky outside began to pale, Atticus finally rose, strolling leisurely to the iron bars. He looked down at what was left of Zachary—bloodied, broken, barely recognizable.
“How does it feel?” His voice was almost gentle, mocking. “You were right, it’s only two years. It’ll pass quickly enough. Enjoy every second.”
He turned as if to leave.
“No!”
Zachary’s desperate cry cracked through the silence. He staggered forward, collapsing to his knees, his forehead slamming against the floor in frantic kowtows.
“I was wrong, I was wrong! Please, forgive me! I didn’t know who I was dealing with—please, spare me!”
Atticus paused, the corner of his mouth curling.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “Your chance ran out.”
“Wait! I’ll tell you everything! Just let me go!” Zachary’s voice broke into a sob.
Atticus’s cold smile returned. “That’s better. A dog should know when to grovel.”
Zachary clutched at his trouser leg, shaking. “I’ve told you everything I know! Please, I beg you, let me out of here!”
Atticus crouched down, eyes gleaming with dark amusement. “Tell me—when did I ever say I’d let you go?”
Zachary’s face drained of blood. “You—you said if I told the truth, you’d consider—”
“Oh?” Atticus tilted his head, as though remembering. “I did say that, didn’t I?” He pressed a finger to his lips, pretending to think. “Hmm…No. I’ve changed my mind.”
“You bastard!”
Atticus chuckled, patting Zachary’s battered face almost affectionately. “Your sentence is still two years. Survive, and you walk out. Fail, and…” His smile turned razor sharp. “I’ll carve you open myself.”
With that, he rose and walked away, Zachary’s curses and pleas trailing after him like a dying animal’s wails.
Outside, a man immediately approached, bowing low.
“Sir, the documents.”
Atticus took the file, flipping through it leisurely. His lips curled into a satisfied smirk.
“So the bastard did line his pockets well.” He tossed the folder back with a flick of his wrist.
Minutes later, Atticus was seated in a sleek office high above the city, his posture relaxed, one leg crossed over the other. Below him, men knelt in obedience.
When Zachary’s subordinates burst in, they froze at the sight.
“Atticus! What the hell are you doing here?” one shouted.
Atticus glanced up from the documents, eyes sharp, his voice cool and commanding.
“What am I doing?” His lips curved into that same predatory smile. “From today forward, I’m in charge. Everything here belongs to me.”
......
Clarissa slept late, not stirring until hunger gnawed at her stomach.
When she finally opened her eyes, she turned instinctively to the other side of the bed—empty. Atticus was gone. She reached for the sheets; they were already cold.
With effort, she pushed herself upright, her limbs heavy, her body tender in all the places he had touched her. He had taken her every night for the past week, leaving her trembling and spent, collapsing into unconsciousness afterwards.
Her muscles still ached, but her skin felt freshly cleaned. She didn’t have to ask who had taken care of her.
Her pulse quickened, heat creeping into her face as flashes of last night replayed—his hands, his mouth, his voice. She pressed her palms against her cheeks, whispering to herself.
“Clarissa, calm down. Don’t think about it. Don’t.”
After a steadying breath, she dressed quickly and headed for the bathroom.
The moment she opened the door, the smell of food drifted in, warm and rich. Of course—he was already up. He always was.
Atticus stood at the stove, stirring. When he noticed her, his dark eyes flickered, watching her silently before he set the spoon aside and turned off the burner.
She walked closer. “What time did you get up?”
“Seven or eight,” he said, pouring steaming porridge into a bowl. “That’s just how my body works. I can’t change it.”
He set the tray down and gestured. “Come. Breakfast.”
She nodded softly, following him to the table.
Later, with groceries nearly gone, they headed to the supermarket. As they checked out, Atticus’s shoulders stiffened. His head snapped to the side, scanning the crowd.
Shoppers bustled around them, ordinary enough. But something tugged at his instincts.
Beside him, Clarissa shivered. He turned to her immediately. “Cold?”
She shook her head quickly. “No… What were you looking at?”
“Nothing.” His tone was even.
She tugged at his sleeve. “Then let’s go.”
He didn’t argue, letting her lead him out, though his gaze flicked once more over his shoulder.
Behind the counter, a man clutched his chest, breath ragged. His eyes widened. Did he sense me? From this far? Impossible…
That evening, Clarissa slipped into Atticus’s room to collect his clothes while he showered. The sound of water filled the bathroom; she didn’t disturb him, simply gathered what she needed and went to the balcony to hang the washed laundry.
She was reaching for the line when hands wrapped suddenly around her waist.
Clarissa gasped, dropping the damp clothes into the basket. Her back hit the balcony rail. “Atticus!” she whispered, scandalized.
He was still damp from his shower, the scent of soap clinging to his skin, mingling with the clean heat of his body.
His mouth found hers before she could catch her breath.
Her lips parted in a startled moan, her hands braced against him as she tried to push him back. “Go—go inside…”
But he didn’t move. His hand slid beneath her skirt, tugging it up. In one rough thrust, he was inside her, filling her so abruptly she cried out, clutching the railing.
“Ah—”
The sting made her shiver, and he stilled, steadying her hips with firm hands. He waited, his gaze locked on hers, until her body softened around him.
Her eyes were dazed, full of heat and conflict, questioning him, daring him.
“Atticus…?”
His lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile. His voice was low, gravelly with restraint. “Kiss me. Do that, and I’ll take you inside.”
Tears clung to her lashes as she looked up at him, flushed and trembling, every inch of her radiating fragile allure.
His throat worked as he swallowed hard, fighting the urge to take her here and now. He wanted to fuck her against the balcony rail until she screamed his name into the night—but he forced himself to wait.
Finally, she tilted her head, pressing her mouth to his, kissing him softly.
That was all it took. His eyes darkened, and he crushed her to him, deepening the kiss until she melted in his arms.
Then, without another word, he lifted her effortlessly, carrying her back into the room as their mouths stayed locked together.
Clarissa lay sprawled across the bed, her breath ragged, consciousness slowly returning. When she realized his broad body was pressing down on her again, she panicked and pushed weakly at his chest.
“Wait… wait a second…”
“What is it now?”
He’d assumed she’d already surrendered fully to him.
Blushing furiously, Clarissa fumbled at the nightstand and thrust a small box into his hands.
“You… you should put this on first…”
Atticus glanced at the box—and immediately burst out laughing.
“You want me to wear this?” He turned it over lazily in his palm, examining it, amusement glinting in his dark eyes.
Her embarrassment deepened at his reaction. “What are you laughing at?”
But he only laughed harder, flashing those rare, sharp white teeth. He almost never smiled; at most, he would smirk. The sight of him actually laughing made her cheeks burn hotter.
“Stop laughing!” she snapped, punching him in the shoulder.
He let her hit him without resistance, then suddenly caught her wrists and yanked her against his chest. His voice dropped, teasing. “Clarissa, I’ll wear it—but you bought the wrong size.”
Her breath hitched. She looked up, wide-eyed, only to see the heat and mockery tangled in his gaze.
“I’ve been inside you enough times. How could you still get the size wrong?”
And with that, he tossed the unopened box into the trash without a second thought.
“You—!” Clarissa’s eyes widened in outrage, but before she could finish, he shoved her back onto the mattress.
“This is my fault,” he growled, his mouth brushing hers as his voice darkened, every word punctuated. “I didn’t try hard enough. I’ll make you remember my cock.”
The last word bit into the air finality. Her protest dissolved into a gasp as he crushed his mouth over hers, swallowing her words, her breath, everything.