Chapter243 – That micro-tracker
By the time James finished, Clarissa’s frown had deepened. Her patience snapped.
“So what you’re really trying to say is that Atticus masterminded this? Do you even hear yourself? He was a child, James. A child you nearly killed. If you want to smear him, at least come up with something better than this fairy tale.”
“I’m not smearing him. I’m saying it’s too much of a coincidence,” James pressed. His tone sharpened. “Haven’t you noticed what’s happening to Jasper now? Atticus crushed his bones—he looked like pulp on the operating table…”
“Enough!” Clarissa’s voice cut like a whip, her face dark. “Jasper tried to rape me. Atticus only—only acted out of fury—”
“You’re trembling,” James interrupted, his voice soft but poisonous. “You’re scared, aren’t you? You’re a kind woman, Clarissa. Rich. Beautiful. You could have any man you want. But Atticus?” His laugh was dry and cracked. “He’s terrifying. Cruel. Calculated. Haven’t you seen it? Aren’t you afraid to share a bed with him at night? Aren’t you?”
Clarissa inhaled sharply, then forced her voice steady. “…So what? He’s never hurt me. He never will. You’re blaming a child over some coincidence. Isn’t that a little pathetic?”
“One coincidence is chance,” James hissed. “But every coincidence? Clarissa, open your eyes!”
He was gripping the phone so hard his knuckles blanched. His breath rasped through the line as he finally broke: “Listen to me. I’m dying. Three months at most. I’ve got nothing left to lose. Why would I lie? A man like Atticus will leave you isolated, abandoned. Mark my words.”
His shouting rang so loud it stabbed at her ear.
“Mr. James. Calm down.”
And she hung up.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Clarissa stared at the receiver in her hand, chest rising and falling too fast. Sweat dotted her forehead. Her heart drummed wildly, as though her body had betrayed her, responding to his venomous words even as her mind rejected them.
She pressed a palm to her chest, trying to steady herself, and realized—she was trembling after all.
When Atticus returned, he found Clarissa curled up on the sofa, her expression distant, eyes clouded as if she’d been somewhere far away in her thoughts.
He moved toward her quietly, voice low. “Clarissa?”
Her shoulders jumped at the sound, and she turned her head sharply. “Atticus—you… when did you get back?”
“I just came in,” he said, studying her face with an intensity that made her heart race. “Didn’t you hear the lock?”
“Really?” Her voice wavered.
Atticus reached out, brushing his hand gently over the crown of her head. “Are you feeling worse?”
“No,” she whispered, looking up at his face. His smile was soft, his expression gentle. For a moment, guilt pricked her. He had always been so good to her, and here she was—letting James’s poisonous words infect her thoughts.
Overcome, she reached forward and wrapped her arms around him.
Atticus froze, surprised, then pulled her closer. His eyes darkened as he murmured, “What’s wrong?”
She didn’t tell him about the call. Instead, she buried her face against his chest and said, “Nothing. I’m just restless. Atticus… let’s stay at Grandpa’s for a while, okay? I want to get away from everything, just for a bit.”
He sensed her unease but didn’t push. His tone stayed even, calm. “Fine. Next week. When you’re fully healed. If Grandpa sees you injured, he’ll kill me.”
“Okay,” she whispered. Relief softened her features.
That night, they lay together, Atticus’s arms wrapped firmly around her. His lips trailed to hers, kisses deepening as the heat between them rose. She could feel his body harden against her, his breath quicken. But just when she thought he’d take her, he stilled, rolling onto his back and pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead.
“Sleep.”
Clarissa blinked, startled. “Atticus?”
“Mm?”
“Don’t you… want to?” she asked shyly.
It had been over two weeks since they’d made love—ever since the fall. Her burns had healed, her head wound almost closed. She missed him, missed the feel of him claiming her.
Atticus looked down at her flushed cheeks, his chest tightening. He kissed her softly and murmured, “I’ll wait until you’re completely well.”
The words struck her like a stone tossed into still water—sending ripples of guilt and tenderness through her.
She cupped his face, pulled him down, and kissed him hungrily. A dangerous gleam flickered in his eyes before he gave in, rolling over her, devouring her lips with desperate need.
His breathing grew ragged, his voice hoarse against her ear. “Are you sure you’re ready?”
“Yes…” she whispered, sliding her tongue against his, coaxing him deeper. Her body ached for him. She pushed him back, straddled his hips, and with a sinful glance downward, sank onto him in one swift, shuddering motion.
Atticus groaned, his head falling back, muscles tightening as he gripped her waist. Clarissa winced, then melted, her brows unfurling as pleasure overtook the sting. She moved slowly at first, then faster, slipping her pajamas away, baring her body to him as she rode him with trembling determination.
She wanted to please him. To remind herself he was hers.
......
By the time dawn crept in, Clarissa was fast asleep, spent and curled in Atticus’s arms. He cleaned them both with practiced care, then laid her back on fresh sheets, tucking the quilt around her before slipping from the room.
In his study, Atticus’s sharp gaze swept the space. Nothing looked disturbed, yet he could sense it—someone had been inside. In this house, there was only Clarissa.
His expression darkened. He pulled out his phone and dialed. It rang, then a voice crackled through the line.
“X? Calling me at this hour—you must be in the middle of the night over there.”
Atticus’s voice was like ice. “The thing you gave me has serious side effects. She’s been suffering.”
There was silence, then the man on the other end stammered, “The side effects are temporary. That micro-tracker is the newest model—barely bigger than half a grain of rice. Its signal is strong enough to be picked up anywhere, even where there’s no coverage.”
“But she’s been suffering.” Atticus cut him off, tone flat and deadly.
“X, listen… this version was designed with minimal rejection. It’s safe. The reaction fades within a week. It won’t harm your Clarissa.”
Atticus’s silence stretched, oppressive.
The man swallowed audibly before adding, “You’ve seen the documentation yourself. It’s reliable. Stop scaring me.”
Atticus’s reply was low, lethal. “If anything happens to her, you know what follows.”
The line went cold. On the other end, even the hardened killer known as A shivered at the malice in his voice.
Finally, Atticus spoke again, quiet but firm. “Gather everyone. I want a meeting. Now.”
By the time the meeting wrapped up, dawn had long since broken. It was already eight in the morning, but Atticus showed no sign of fatigue.
He powered down his computer, stretched, then crossed to a locked cabinet. From inside he retrieved a small vial, emptied its contents into a bowl, and carried it to the kitchen.
The dark liquid simmered quietly on the stove, its aroma filling the air with the faint scent of herbs. As the brew neared completion, Atticus drew a knife, sliced his fingertip, and let three deliberate drops of blood fall into the bubbling medicine. Only then did he withdraw his hand, expression unreadable.
......
Clarissa woke late, her stomach gnawing with hunger. Her body still felt heavy with fatigue, but the scent of food lured her from bed. She slipped into one of Atticus’s shirts from the closet, belted it loosely, and padded out into the living room—only to find Atticus emerging from the kitchen, balancing a tray.
Her lips curved faintly. “When did you wake up?”
“Around six or seven,” he said casually, setting breakfast down.
They ate together in companionable quiet. Clarissa had only just set down her chopsticks when Atticus appeared again, this time carrying a steaming black bowl.
Clarissa blinked, confused. “I’m already healed, aren’t I? Do I still need medicine?”
A low chuckle escaped him. “Silly Clarissa. This isn’t for injuries. Or…” His eyes glinted, a teasing curl on his lips. “Are you planning to give me a child already?”
Her cheeks burned instantly. She’d almost forgotten—this was the contraceptive tonic he always prepared for her. They’d made love without protection again last night. The reminder sent heat creeping up her throat.
“Right…” she murmured, embarrassed, lifting the bowl.
She took a sip, then grimaced. “It tastes… different. Not as bitter, but a little… fishy. Sweet.”
“I adjusted the formula to match your current condition,” Atticus replied smoothly.
Clarissa didn’t question him further. Everything he gave her, she trusted. Holding her breath, she forced the rest of the concoction down.
......
Two weeks later, they visited Mr. Callum.
At sixty-five, his body was still strong, his back straight, his hair astonishingly dark. Years of careful medicine had preserved him well. When they arrived, he was bent in the garden, plucking fresh vegetables for dinner.
“Grandpa, let me help you,” Clarissa offered, hurrying forward.
But Callum waved her off gruffly. “Go back inside. Don’t get in the way.”
Clarissa knew his temperament by now—this was just his way of keeping her out of the sun. She gave him a small smile and stepped aside.
Atticus’s voice came from behind her. “Sister, let me handle this.”
“Mm. Good.” Callum gave Atticus a single approving glance before setting him to work. By the time Clarissa reached the house, she could already hear her grandfather’s voice barking out tasks: “Water the vegetables. Weed that patch. Dry those herbs…”
Clarissa’s lips twisted with helpless amusement. Atticus hadn’t stopped since they arrived, working from one chore to the next without complaint. Even during dinner, he brought the last dish to the table himself.
“Sit, sit,” Clarissa urged, tugging him down beside her. She picked out a juicy piece of meat and placed it in his bowl. “You’ve been busy all day. Eat some first.”
Before Atticus could lift his chopsticks, a loud cough broke the air.
“Ahem!”
Startled, Clarissa quickly placed another piece into Callum’s bowl. “Grandpa, you too.”
Only then did Callum relax, turning his attention back to his meal. Clarissa’s brows twitched, but she suppressed a laugh. He really had grown more childlike with age.
Later, after dinner, she massaged Callum’s shoulders, kneading carefully until he sighed in satisfaction.
“You don’t just show up like this without a reason,” he remarked, closing his eyes. “What’s happened?”
Clarissa faltered, then lowered her gaze. “Nothing serious. I just missed you, Grandpa.”
Callum smiled faintly, patted her hand, and motioned for her to sit beside him. He took her wrist, checking her pulse with the practiced ease of a lifetime physician. Clarissa let him, her stomach tight with nerves. What if he sensed something unusual?
But after only a moment, he released her wrist. “You’re doing well. Better than last year. Atticus is taking good care of you. Still following the recipes?”
“Yes,” Clarissa nodded quickly. “He makes different medicinal dishes for me nearly every day. You don’t have to worry.”