Chapter245 – Does it look good?
The house smelled faintly of herbs and sun-dried linens. Atticus kept everything spotless, and even the bedding carried that clean, medicinal fragrance he had absorbed from years of living with his grandfather. It lingered on his skin too—subtle, masculine, strangely comforting.
Callum’s house, though plain on the outside, was cleverly built. Warm in the winter, cool in the summer, sturdy as a fortress. The fresh woody scent of its beams and panels was constant, a fragrance that wrapped the rooms year-round.
Clarissa should have slept easily. The bed was cool against her skin, the air crisp. And yet she tossed restlessly, thoughts circling back to Atticus. The thought of him kneeling outside all night made her chest ache.
By dawn, though bleary-eyed, she rose to prepare breakfast. Callum emerged early, and the moment he saw her in the kitchen, he scowled.
“What are you doing?”
“I… I wanted to make breakfast for you.”
“Nonsense.” He waved a hand sharply. “That’s Atticus’s work.”
He raised his voice toward the door.
The door creaked open, and Atticus stepped inside. He limped slightly, but his posture remained straight, as though he hadn’t been kneeling all night.
“Master, you called for me,” he said evenly.
Callum’s gaze flicked over him, clearly satisfied with his suffering. “Cook.”
Clarissa’s throat tightened. Grandpa was merciless. Atticus, however, only smiled faintly. “Yes. The kitchen is hot and smoky—Miss Clarissa should wait outside with you.”
With a snort, Callum tugged Clarissa away. She glanced back once at Atticus’s bloodstained shirt, pain swelling in her chest, but she said nothing.
After the meal, she couldn’t help but tug at Atticus’s sleeve. “Grandpa…” she murmured.
Callum’s glare was sharp, but when he saw Atticus silently standing there, he merely waved him off. “You reek. Go wash, then apply medicine. Come to me afterward.”
Atticus bowed. “Yes, Master.”
He headed toward the small shed to wash. Later, while Callum was occupied, Clarissa slipped after him and found him struggling to apply ointment to the lashes across his back. The angle was awkward; his movements, slow.
“Let me,” she whispered, snatching the jar from his hand before he could protest.
Atticus didn’t refuse.
Her touch was featherlight as she spread the cool salve over torn flesh. “Does it hurt?” she asked, voice soft with worry.
He almost said no, but then a glimmer of mischief crossed his face. “It stings. Master still has the strength of ten men.”
Her lips pressed together. She eased her touch, even bent closer, blowing gently across the wounds as she worked.
Atticus closed his eyes. The warmth of her fingertips, the cool puff of her breath—it felt dangerously good, an ache that made him want more.
When she reached for the bandages, she circled around to face him, not wanting to smear the medicine on his back.
And then she saw him.
Bare-chested, skin golden in the morning light. Broad shoulders, clean collarbones, a sculpted waist tapering down to hard lines of muscle. He radiated heat, strength, and something primal.
Her face flamed. Her pulse skipped wildly. She ducked her head, praying he wouldn’t notice. But her ears—flushed pink—gave her away.
Atticus said nothing, only raised his arms so she could wrap him. Her hands trembled slightly, and the bandages came out clumsy, uneven.
She sighed inwardly. This man—this boy she’d raised into a man—was becoming too much to handle.
And then his voice brushed her ear, low and teasing. “Clarissa… does it look good?”
Her whole body jolted. She stammered, “Wh-who’s looking at you, you narcissist…”
His smirk deepened, wicked. “I didn’t say you were.”
Realization hit. She flushed harder, heat crawling down her neck. Furious, she shoved the roll of bandages at his chest. “Asshole. Do it yourself.”
She turned, intent on storming out.
Atticus caught her before she could escape, scooping her into his arms and rolling easily until he had her pinned beneath him.
Clarissa gasped, eyes wide. “What are you doing—”
“What?” His lips curved, his voice low as he leaned closer. “You’ve been tempting me since the beginning. And now you’re asking what I want?”
His handsome face was only inches from hers, and heat rushed through her. Flustered, she pushed at his chest. “No—Grandpa will be back any second. If he sees—”
Of course, Atticus understood. But her panicked blush was too delicious to resist.
“Kiss me, and I’ll let you go.”
Her eyes narrowed. Men. All the same.
But the thought of her grandfather walking in at that very moment terrified her more than Atticus’s wicked teasing. So she grabbed his face and pressed a hurried, flustered kiss to his lips. “There. Satisfied?”
He grinned, ready with a reply—when footsteps echoed down the hall. Clicking his tongue in annoyance, he let her go.
Clarissa scrambled up, smoothing her hair, trying to compose herself before Callum pushed the door open.
The old man’s gaze swept the room and landed on them. Clarissa still had the bandages in her hand. Callum’s expression darkened, and he gave a pointed cough.
“Grandpa—” she began nervously.
But he ignored her. His sharp eyes flicked over Atticus’s half-dressed form. “You’ve got five minutes. Bandage him properly, then both of you come out.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel. From the doorway, his voice carried back: “If you’re not out in five minutes, I’ll drag you out myself.”
Atticus chuckled softly. “Five minutes? Really doesn’t make things easy.”
He glanced at Clarissa, whose face burned under his stare. “What are you thinking? Hurry and finish treating your wounds,” she snapped, flustered.
He knew perfectly well Callum had allowed no time for them to get distracted. Still, the corner of his mouth tugged upward as he submitted, letting her work quickly.
By the time the five minutes were up, the bandages were tied off.
.....
At the table, Callum waved Atticus over. “What are you standing for? Sit. Eat.”
Atticus obeyed, smiling faintly, while Clarissa hovered nervously.
“Girl,” Callum said sharply, not even glancing at her, “go for a walk. Be back by supper.”
“Yes…” she mumbled, lowering her eyes. She slipped away, changing clothes before stepping out, leaving the two men alone.
Atticus cleared the table in silence. Only then did Callum finally speak. “You look worn down. Pale. Weak. What’s going on? Overworked?”
Atticus set his chopsticks aside. “Just tired. Nothing serious, Master. Don’t worry.”
“Who’s worried about you?” Callum’s glare was fierce. “Don’t think I don’t know. Poison, laced with your own blood. Play with fire too long, and you’ll burn yourself alive.”
The words landed heavy, but Atticus remained calm. “Don’t worry. I know my limits.”
“I’m not worried about you,” Callum snapped. “I’m worried about my reputation—and about Clarissa being left a widow. If you keel over, don’t dare call yourself my apprentice. I won’t have my name dragged through the mud.”
Atticus bowed his head slightly, lips curving. “Even for Clarissa’s sake, I won’t let anything happen to me.”
The old man’s scowl deepened. “It’s been a while since you trained under me. Let’s see if you’ve made any progress.”
Atticus had expected as much. His grin turned cocky, reckless. “I welcome Master’s guidance.”
“Guidance?” Callum snorted, thrusting a bundle of clothes and a basket into his hands. “Change. Then follow me up the mountain.”
Clarissa wandered aimlessly through the streets, but there wasn’t much to see. The sun was blazing, the heat pressing down until sweat trickled along her hairline. Her grandfather had been clear—she wasn’t to come back until late afternoon. If she disobeyed and returned early, she knew she’d face his temper.
Near noon, worn out from the heat, she ducked into a restaurant that looked reasonably clean. The promise of air-conditioning and a bite to eat was too tempting.
“Welcome,” a familiar voice called from the counter.
Clarissa froze, blinking. Zane.
His face mirrored her shock. “Cla—Clarissa? Am I dreaming?”
She tilted her head, puzzled. “Why would you say that?”
“I thought you’d gone back with Atticus,” he admitted awkwardly, “and that I’d never see you around here again.”
“I’m here visiting my grandfather for a while,” she explained evenly.
“I see…” His gaze darted instinctively past her shoulder, searching for the tall, intimidating shadow he dreaded.
Clarissa caught it immediately. “Atticus is with my grandfather. I came out alone.”
At that, Zane’s shoulders sagged in visible relief. The boy was still terrified of Atticus.
She arched a brow. “I thought you worked at the dessert shop. What are you doing here?”
“Ah, well…”
“Zane! Stop standing around. We’re slammed back here.”
“Coming!” he shouted over his shoulder, then looked back at her with a sheepish grin. “This is actually my parents’ place. I’m just helping out. Please, sit wherever you like.”
Clarissa gave a small nod and slid into a random seat. In no time, Zane hurried back with a menu.
She wasn’t really hungry, so she ordered only a bowl of noodles. But when he returned, the tray was overflowing: noodles, pickles, stir-fried greens, braised tofu, and more.
Clarissa blinked. “I didn’t order all this.”
“These are on the house. For sister.”
Her brows knitted. “That’s too much. Your parents still have a business to run. I’ll pay.”
Zane shook his head firmly. “Please, don’t. They’re just small dishes. Nothing compared to what Atticus has done for me.”
Her heart gave a little jolt. “Atticus did something for you?”
Zane’s smile stiffened. He scratched his head nervously. “My family was in trouble not long ago. Atticus helped us out. Don’t think anything of this.”
Clarissa’s chest tightened, guilt swirling inside her. “He never told me. Thank you for saying so.”
“He wouldn’t. Atticus is too busy to bring up things that don’t matter.” Zane gave a forced laugh, clearly relieved that she didn’t press further, before slipping back to work.
Left alone, Clarissa ate slowly. Half a bowl of noodles and a few bites of side dishes were enough; the rest she couldn’t finish.
The Zane family was simple, kind, grateful. She hadn’t expected Atticus to be tied to people like them. The knowledge eased the heavy knot in her chest. James’s poisonous words suddenly seemed flimsy. Atticus had changed—she had seen it with her own eyes, felt it in his every gesture. How could she keep doubting him?
The guilt pressed harder. He was still enduring her grandfather’s punishments while she sat here in comfort. The thought left her restless, her appetite gone.
By two o’clock, most of the lunch crowd had gone. She pulled a bill from her purse and handed it discreetly to Zane. “Would it be all right if I stayed here until four? I’ll leave then.”
“Of course,” Zane said quickly. “You’re welcome anytime.”
Clarissa only smiled faintly in reply. She set her cash at the counter and returned to her table. Soon everything was cleared away, leaving only a sweating glass of sour plum soup before her.