Chapter280 – A male succubus!
Atticus returned home. After showering, he walked straight out to the balcony. From there, he had a direct view of Clarissa’s place.
She was hanging laundry on her balcony, wearing loose loungewear, her hair tied up in a messy bun. Abyss trotted beside her with a basket in its mouth. When she finished, she patted the creature and the two of them went back inside together.
Atticus stood there in the shadows, eyes darkening, emotions simmering beneath the surface.
Soon, the bedroom light across the way went dark—she always slept early.
Atticus withdrew his gaze and pulled his curtains shut, plunging the room into darkness. Years of training made the transition effortless; his eyes adjusted instantly. He walked to the study next door and switched on the light.
With a soft click, the room brightened. Every wall was lined with shelves packed full of art books.
Atticus reached out at random and pulled one down. Inside was an illustration of a woman seated at a piano onstage. She wore a black dress, her long hair swept back, her posture calm, elegant, breath-stealing.
He raised a hand and brushed his fingertips across the woman’s cheek in the drawing, his gaze burning as if the paper might ignite.
“Clarissa…”
Her name slipped from his pale lips again and again, a low murmur edging on obsession. His dark eyes deepened, unreadable. Slowly, he bent down and pressed his lips to the page, his breath growing unsteady…
He didn’t know how long he lingered like that before finally setting the sketchbook back in its exact place. Then he turned and headed to the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, wrapped in a towel, he returned to the bedroom.
The room was immaculate—black and white, clean lines, an almost oppressive simplicity. On the white bed lay the one thing that broke the monotony: a neatly folded set of women’s pajamas. Conservative, cotton-linen, short sleeves, long pants.
Atticus lay down and pulled the clothing into his arms. They’d been washed a long time ago, yet he still held them carefully—breathing in as if some part of her still lingered there.
“Clarissa… Clarissa…”
Wrapped in that faint scent, he finally drifted to sleep.
At dawn, his internal clock snapped him awake. He sat up, rubbing his hair, then stared down at the pajamas beside him.
A moment later, he folded them with practiced care, remade the bed, and headed to the kitchen. He prepared a simple breakfast, eating absently while his mind churned.
For the past two years, every thought of her had brought a sharp, suffocating ache to his chest. At first he had drowned himself in cigarettes, alcohol, nightlife with Ronan—anything to shut his mind up. Then came the insomnia, the migraines… sometimes three days without sleep, yet still strung tight as wire.
Eventually, he’d fallen seriously ill, whispering her name even in delirium. Ronan had been forced to beg Daphne to trick Clarissa into handing over a set of her pajamas.
And somehow—miraculously—his condition had improved.
From that day on, he could only sleep by holding her clothes, breathing in the ghost of her scent.
Thinking about her coming today made his heartbeat spike again. He quickly finished his sandwich and coffee, grabbed his coat, and left.
......
Clarissa woke at 7:00 AM. After washing up, she changed clothes and prepared Abyss’s meals, water, and snacks with her usual efficiency. She placed everything neatly in the living room.
She crouched down and rubbed its head. “Sweetie, you’re staying home today. If you’re bored, I’ll have Phoenix bring you back, okay?”
She arrived at the building at exactly 8:55. After checking the time, she sped up. By the time she reached the rooftop, it was already 9:05.
Clarissa knocked lightly. “Dr. Atticus, I’m here.”
“Come in. It’s unlocked.”
The moment she stepped inside, she smelled a rich, soothing aroma of tea. A thin trail of incense curled up from a burner beside the low table. Atticus sat at the center—no white coat today, but a stunning black robe that only made his presence more striking. He was arranging a tea set with elegant, precise movements, long fingers moving so smoothly that the utensils seemed to dance beneath them.
The scene in front of her was more beautiful than any painting.
Clarissa froze. She didn’t move until Atticus lifted his head and gave her a soft smile.
Her heart jolted violently, and she immediately looked away.
His voice reached her, calm and warm. “Miss Clarissa, come sit.”
“Hm…” She inhaled deeply and forced herself to walk over.
Atticus poured her a cup of tea and handed it to her. “Try this.”
“Thank you.” She drank it in one breath. “Could I have another?”
His smile deepened. “Of course.”
He set a plate of pastries in front of her. “Have some.”
Clarissa picked up a white pastry, took a bite, and her eyes brightened. “Does Dr. Atticus like these too?”
They were all her favorites.
“I’m not fond of sweets,” he said.
“Then these…”
She suddenly realized—every choice he made somehow catered to her tastes.
Atticus smiled faintly. “I guessed.”
Clarissa stiffened, lowering her eyes. She wrapped her hands around her cup. “Dr. Atticus, is today’s session the same as yesterday’s?”
“In psychotherapy, rushing only causes setbacks. I’m helping you relax first. It makes the next step easier.”
“Oh…” Clarissa nodded slowly. “I understand.”
Atticus poured himself a cup of tea and asked casually, “How did you sleep last night?”
“Pretty well. I slept straight until morning.” Clarissa frowned slightly. “But I can’t remember what I dreamed at all.”
She had slept unusually soundly, but unlike before, her dreams were a complete blank.
“Is that an improvement… or a bad sign?”
Her serious expression almost made Atticus laugh, but his face remained perfectly composed—calm, professional, focused. “It’s not a sign of deterioration. When symptoms worsen, the body reacts first—strain, resistance, discomfort. You didn’t experience any of that.”
“That’s good.” She let out a breath, just about to continue her questions when Atticus turned away. He walked to a cabinet and pulled out what looked like a full set of calligraphy tools.
He arranged everything neatly on the table, then called over, “Miss Clarissa, come here.”
He handed her a pen. “Can you draw?”
“Yes.”
“Then try sketching whatever you remember from your dream. There are paints if you need them.”
Clarissa stood before the blank page for a long moment before finally beginning. Soon, a vivid scene took shape.
“Dr. Atticus, I’m finished.”
Atticus stepped forward. His gaze deepened. Black feathers and pale silver butterflies swirled across the page.
He pointed to the empty center. “Why is there nothing here?”
“I’m not sure,” Clarissa murmured, shaking her head. “I kept feeling like they were circling something, following something… but every time I tried to look for the end of it, I couldn’t.”
“Did you feel tired while walking? Any trouble breathing? Any heaviness or pressure?”
“No. I felt… comfortable, actually. The feathers and butterflies looked eerie, but they didn’t seem to want to hurt me.” Suddenly remembering something, she added a small black dot in a corner.
Atticus asked quietly, “What’s this?”
“It only started appearing recently. I couldn’t see its face—just a dark, moving shape.”
Atticus’s fingers curled tightly at his sides. His heartbeat kicked up without warning.
“Dr. Atticus? Dr. Atticus?”
Her voice finally pulled him back. He blinked. “Hmm? What is it?”
Clarissa eyed him curiously. “What were you thinking about? I called you three times.”
“Nothing. I was just analyzing your… condition.”
“Sorry for interrupting.”
“It’s alright. I’ve nearly figured it out.” He offered her a gentle smile.
Before Clarissa could ask anything else, Atticus said calmly, “It’s already noon. Miss Clarissa, have lunch here. We’ll continue afterward.”
“What? Noon already?”
She looked up at the clock. It really was noon.
Time always seemed to slip away around Dr. Atticus.
“I’ll have someone bring lunch and a few supplies I need for the afternoon. Please wait here for a moment.”
“Alright.”
Atticus stepped out. The moment the door closed behind him, his steps lost their steadiness. His pace quickened as he made his way to the balcony at the end of the hall. The cold wind slapped his face as he leaned forward, breathing hard. Sweat gathered at his temples—born from excitement, agitation, and something dangerously close to madness.
“Clarissa…”
Being alone with her in that quiet room—her scent, her voice, her soft gaze—it was pleasure. He wanted to grab her, hold her, kiss her senseless.
He crushed that urge down with every ounce of discipline he had left.
Don’t be impulsive.
Don’t scare her again.
Back inside, Clarissa waited a long while. When Atticus still didn’t return, boredom nudged her into wandering around the room.
The ‘office’ was enormous—more like a luxury suite than a consultation room. There was a tea room, a bedroom, a workspace, shelves upon shelves of books, and a tea table arranged like a painting.
She walked to the bookshelf—and immediately spotted her album displayed front and center.
Just then, Atticus returned with a lunchbox in hand.
When she looked at him, the words slipped from her lips before she could stop them:
“Dr. Atticus… are you… a fan of mine?”
Their eyes met. Atticus remained perfectly calm. He set down the lunchbox and nodded openly.
“Yes. I like your music very much. Every piece. Is that alright?”
“Of course!”
Clarissa opened the lunchbox, then realized she sounded overly excited. She ducked her head, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m really happy to have a listener like you. I just didn’t expect it… most of my fans are girls.”
Atticus’s gaze lingered on her, deep and unguarded. His voice dropped into something soft, warm, almost intoxicating.
“Your music has saved many people. Healed many hearts. I admire that kind of music. And…”
His eyes swept over her—gentle, burning.
“I like beautiful people like Miss Clarissa.”
His tone was mild, like a breeze drifting through spring air, but the words stirred her heart like ripples spreading across water.
Clarissa felt her pulse jump. She glanced up at him—handsome, smiling, impossibly mesmerizing.
A male succubus!
The thought flashed through her mind before she could stop it.
He said he liked her? Surely she misheard. He must’ve meant her music.
Clarissa smiled politely. “I also admire people like you, Dr. Atticus. Doctors save lives. I’ve always respected that.”
When she didn’t react the way he’d hoped, Atticus withdrew his gaze effortlessly. “Let’s eat first. I’m a bit hungry.”
“Okay.”
As expected, Clarissa ate heartily. Atticus wanted her to stay for dinner, but she declined politely—just moments ago, she had seen Abyss pacing anxiously by the door through her home camera feed, refusing to eat. Worried, she decided to head home.
Seeing her determination, Atticus swallowed his displeasure and forced a gentle smile.
“Alright. Be careful on the road.”
“I will.”