Chapter242 – Go home
Atticus smiled faintly, the picture of composure. “No need to thank me, Dean. I was the one who caused his injury. It’s only right I treat him myself. I’d rather not trouble the police unnecessarily.”
The dean bowed his head. “Mr. Atticus, you’re too kind. To treat such a man after what he’s done…”
Atticus’s smile curved sharper, a shadow flickering in his eyes. “I’m only doing my duty as a physician. Now—shall we begin?”
“Of course, of course…”
The group followed him eagerly into the operating room, unaware of the quiet malice threading through his every step.
......
Inside the operating room, Jasper looked less like a man than a slab of trembling flesh. Bloated, broken, strapped to the table—he couldn’t even twitch without his body jiggling grotesquely.
The soft sound of measured footsteps drew his eyes toward the door.
Atticus entered, maskless, gloved, smiling faintly as he approached.
“Jasper,” he drawled, voice smooth and merciless. “Long time no see.”
Jasper’s pupils blew wide with terror. He tried to thrash, but nothing responded; every bone in his body had been shattered, one leg mangled beyond recognition. Only a surgeon of Atticus’s caliber could attempt to put him back together.
The other doctors crowded around, tense with anticipation. Atticus’s skill was already rumored to rival his master, Callum’s. A major operation like this was the perfect chance to learn. But when Atticus banned cameras, all they could do was watch his hands, entranced.
Pulling on his gloves with practiced ease, Atticus chuckled as Jasper squirmed feebly. “Cousin, I’ll be handling your surgery myself. Excited? Don’t worry—I’ll heal you. But…” His tone dipped into something dark, intimate.
Unlike the hospital’s anesthetics, he administered his own cocktail—an insidious mix that left Jasper weak but fully conscious, every nerve exposed. He added glucose and adrenaline to keep his heart pounding, keep him from passing out, keep him from dying too soon.
Because where was the fun in that?
Jasper whimpered, jaw dislocated, eyes rolling. He writhed like a worm on the hook, powerless.
Atticus leaned down until his breath warmed Jasper’s ear. His lips curved into a cruel smile. “Relax. I won’t let you die—not yet. Prison’s too easy. You dared to touch her. You thought you could put your filthy hands on Clarissa? No. You’ll learn what real punishment feels like. Even death will be a mercy I’ll deny you.”
Straightening, Atticus began. The operation stretched on for six brutal hours—precise, brilliant, and pitiless.
Later, Atticus washed his hands clean of blood. Under the dean’s grateful gaze, he offered a polite nod before leaving, his expression unreadable.
He returned upstairs and pushed open Clarissa’s door. She was seated with a tray of hospital food, but most of it was untouched. The moment she saw him, she set her chopsticks down.
“You’ve barely eaten....”
The nurse hesitated, glancing at Clarissa. Before she could protest, Clarissa’s attention snapped toward the door.
“Atticus!” She stood quickly, relief written all over her face, and hurried into his arms. He folded her close, his voice dropping low. “Why aren’t you eating properly?”
“I was worried about you.” Her brows drew together. “You were gone so long. What happened?”
The nurse had mentioned earlier that Jasper had been wheeled into emergency surgery. Clarissa had been sick with worry, terrified Atticus might have lost control and killed him outright. If someone died, the fallout would ruin Atticus’s reputation.
Atticus smiled lazily. “Nothing serious. I just performed the surgery on him myself.”
Her eyes widened. “You… you operated on him?”
Knowing his temper, it was a miracle he hadn’t snapped Jasper’s neck instead. And now he claimed he’d actually saved him?
“Mm.” Atticus nodded, entirely unbothered. “I might’ve gone a little overboard earlier. The others couldn’t handle it, so I had to.”
Clarissa’s lips pressed thin, her glare sharp. “You—” She broke off, and relieved. At least he was safe.
“Atticus,” she murmured after a beat, “can we go home?”
He arched a brow. “Go? You still need monitoring.”
“I’m fine.” Her voice hardened. “Please. Let’s go. As long as I’m with you, I’ll be fine.”
The very mention of Jasper made her stomach churn. She wanted out of this place—away from the stink of disinfectant and the memory of that man’s face.
Atticus caught the flash of revulsion in her eyes, and satisfaction curled through him. This was the Clarissa he craved: leaning on him, depending on him, disgusted by anyone else.
“Alright,” he said softly, his lips quirking in a sly smile. “Let’s go home.”
And without waiting for further argument, he swept her up into his arms.
Clarissa gasped, startled, and instinctively hooked her arms around his neck. “Atticus, what… what are you doing?”
Ignoring her protest, he strode confidently down the corridor with her in his arms.
Her cheeks flushed crimson under the weight of curious stares. “Put me down! There are so many people—this is embarrassing…”
Atticus didn’t even slow his pace. “So what? You’re my woman. Be good. If you’re not well, I’ll carry you.”
She wriggled in his grip, humiliated. It was just a head injury, not as if she were crippled—why did he have to make a scene? But his arms were like steel, and no matter how she pushed, she couldn’t break free. Heat burned her face, and she finally gave up, fisting his shirt and burying herself against his chest to hide.
Thankfully, Atticus moved quickly. He swept her through the hospital lobby, out to the parking lot, and straight to his car. Setting her gently in the passenger seat, he fastened her seatbelt with deliberate care before taking his place behind the wheel.
As the engine rumbled to life, Clarissa suddenly remembered. “By the way—what about that boy, Zane? Everything in the shop was smashed. Do you think the owner is blaming him? He looked terrible after Jasper beat him.”
“He’s fine,” Atticus replied smoothly. “I gave him money to rest and recover.”
“That’s good…” Clarissa exhaled, guilt tightening her chest. “It was all my fault anyway.”
She repeated what Jasper had spat earlier and added, “Honestly, Jasper and his family deserved everything they got.”
She didn’t notice the way Atticus’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, muscles taut, until—after her words—his body eased again.
“Yes,” he said softly, his gaze fixed on the glowing night outside. “Clarissa’s right.”
But in the gleam of the streetlights, his eyes flashed cold and sharp. Jasper couldn’t be allowed to live.
.......
The following days, Atticus was often gone, tied up with business. Clarissa, still healing, had been ordered to rest at home. With her sidelined, Oriana began sending all company matters directly to Atticus.
At first, Clarissa resisted, but he shot her down without mercy, repeating the same excuse: you’re injured, you can’t work.
Infuriated, she finally rang Oriana. “Tell me—am I your boss, or is Atticus? Why are you giving him everything?”
“Ms. Clarissa, you’re hurt. How could I trouble you?” Oriana’s tone dripped with false sweetness. In truth, refusing Atticus was a risk she’d never take. Better to irritate Clarissa than invite his wrath.
Besides, the perks Atticus offered were too good—almost two years’ salary, plus a year-end bonus. Who would walk away from that?
Before Clarissa could argue further, Oriana added quickly, “Ah, so much work here. The signal’s not great. Take care of yourself, Miss Clarissa. Bye, bye—”
“Oriana! Oriana!” Clarissa snapped at the dead line, fuming. “That idiot!”
When had everyone become so obedient to Atticus? Did they even see her as the boss anymore? She ground her teeth. Fine—when she came back, she’d lose her entire year-end bonus.
Still simmering, Clarissa hung up and realized the apartment was stiflingly quiet. Boredom prickled under her skin. Too hot to go out, she picked up a broom instead and started cleaning.
After tackling the living room and study, she drifted toward Atticus’s room. He rarely returned to it since their relationship deepened, and his door was never locked. Without thinking much of it, Clarissa slipped inside with her cleaning supplies.
The room was immaculate, but she swept the corners, mopped the floor. As she passed his tall bookcase, she slowed.
Atticus’s shelves were crammed full of books—dense, heavy volumes she could never make sense of. Still, curiosity itched. What exactly did he read all the time?
On impulse, she pulled one out.
Flipping through, she frowned. As expected, it was another medical text, complicated diagrams and terminology swimming before her eyes. Her head spun almost immediately. She shut it quickly.
......
Just as Clarissa was about to dust off book, the landline in the living room rang, sharp and unexpected.
She set her things down and hurried to answer. The screen showed an unfamiliar number. She hesitated—then swiped.
“Hello?”
“Miss Clarissa? This is James. Do you remember me?”
Her expression hardened instantly. “James?” Her voice cooled to ice. “What do you want? If you’re here to beg for your son Jasper, save your breath. He committed crimes—he deserves every bit of what’s coming to him.”
“You haven’t changed at all,” James rasped. His voice sounded older, brittle, like a dead branch snapping—or a blade scraping against glass.
Clarissa’s grip tightened on the phone.
On the other end, James’s eyes burned with a mixture of hatred and exhaustion. Once, they’d been a family with money and stability. Now they were caught in a downward spiral, chewed up by one disaster after another. He knew exactly whose fault it was. Atticus.
But if he couldn’t destroy Atticus, he’d at least stain him, tear down the image Clarissa clung to. Even if it cost him his last breath.
“I’m not pleading for Jasper,” James continued. “I just want to tell you something. Something I learned when I visited a death row inmate.”
Clarissa’s brows knitted. “Then stop circling. Say it.”
The old man’s voice slowed, dragging her into the story:
His friend had been a compulsive gambler. Usually he lost small—hundreds, maybe a few thousand. But one day, he found a thick gold chain outside a doorway. He pawned it, walked out with tens of thousands, and thought his luck had finally turned.
He didn’t. He lost it all in a single night.
Desperate, he signed with a loan shark. The debt ballooned from hundreds into tens of thousands in days. They cut off his wife’s finger as a warning. Cornered, he spiraled—until he overheard something on the street.
Two middle school boys in uniform.
“Atticus, did she really agree to give Jasper the money? How much?”
“Not sure. Maybe a hundred thousand,” came the calm reply.
“Shit, that’s a lot. Jasper really scored.”
The two boys walked away, leaving the man shaken.
“He came to borrow from me. My wife refused. Then he and his men came back and robbed our home…”