CHAPTER 267: BITTER HANDS

Micah sat in the hospital room, perched stiffly on the edge of the sofa. Across from him, Flora lay resting, her brows knitted together, deep in thought. Nora stood by the window, arms crossed, her foot tapping rhythmically on the ground.

The cake sitting on the table had long been forgotten.

Micah checked the time on his phone for the third time in five minutes. Still no sign of Darcy.

After Flora’s condition abruptly worsened, a sombre mood settled over the room. Nora and Micah had fallen into silence, both visibly worried.

Micah poured water into a glass and took a sip, his eyes darting toward Flora, wondering what he should do. Should he leave? Maybe his presence made her uncomfortable.

"Where has he gone?" Nora suddenly asked, worry tightening her voice. She turned toward him. "Didn’t he say he was just going to grab something to drink?"

Micah pressed his lips together and nodded. "Let me call him," he said and tapped on his phone. The line rang once... twice...three times. Then it went to voicemail.

"He is not answering," Micah mumbled, thumb still hovering over the screen, ready to dial again.

Flora turned her head toward them and finally spoke. "He usually puts his phone on silent mode."

Nora slapped her forehead. "Right. He’ll do that."

Micah stood up, sliding his phone into his pocket. "I’ll go check the lobby. Maybe something happened," he said as he headed for the door. He left the room and scanned the corridor. It was quiet, no sign of Darcy.

He checked the line on the wall and followed the one that led to the lobby. As he walked further, rounding a corner toward the central wing, he came to a stop. His gaze locked on a familiar figure just a few steps ahead.

"Clyde?" Micah called, blinking.

The tall man stood half-turned in the corridor, one hand still clutching the edge of his coat. His other sleeve was soaked, darkened by what looked like spilled water. His normally composed posture was off. His shoulders were tense, jaw tight, and when he turned, there was something in his eyes that made Micah’s heart skip.

"What happened to you?" Micah asked, eyes drifting briefly to the wet patch on his sleeve.

Clyde didn’t answer immediately. He stood frozen, eyes scanning Micah like an X-ray, as if checking for an injury. His expression was... different. Cold. Rigid. Micah swore he saw rage flicker there, sharp, volatile, but it vanished quickly.

Clyde’s vision had been blurred a moment ago, too much noise in his head. But the second he heard Micah’s voice, everything snapped back into place. He took a breath. His fury, still burning hot from his confrontation with Darcy, loosened slightly at the sight of Micah. Whole. Unharmed.

He needed to see Micah. To know he was okay.

But even that didn’t completely ease the knot in his chest. His hands still trembled faintly. He couldn’t stop picturing, Micah unknowingly standing between a predator and his prey. He couldn’t stop the thought: what if something happened to him because of this? Because of that idiot Darcy?

He knew he had lost his temper with that black-haired boy. But he couldn’t control himself. He had sworn he would protect Micah. Even from himself. He couldn’t let some guy take advantage of his kindness.

So, he decided to warn Darcy. To stay away from Micah. But his emotions had got out of hand.

What made it worse was not the one-sided confrontation but the fear of his past episodes resurfacing. He wasn’t any better than Darcy. Was he?

He was also a ticking bomb...

But staying here, staying beside Darcy and his family, was more dangerous. He felt disgust pricking his skin, thinking some creep looming over Micah...

He clenched his jaw and grabbed Micah’s arm. "Let’s go," he said harshly, almost like a command.

His fingers curled tightly around Micah’s wrist, pulling him forward with an unexpected strength.

Micah was caught off guard. "Hey! What the hell?" he stumbled a step. "Let me go! I need to find Darcy, I’m worried about him..."

But the name didn’t land gently.

Clyde halted mid-step. His grip tightened as he turned just slightly to glance back at Micah. There was a flicker in his eyes, dangerous, unreadable.

Micah faltered. That look Clyde gave him made the hair on his arms stand... He gulped.

Clyde turned his head, masking his expression. "He is fine. He was at the director’s office."

Micah stared at him. Clyde’s voice was clipped, like he was forcing each syllable out through clenched teeth. Something was wrong. The tone was flat and bitter.

He bit his bottom lip, brow furrowed. That voice... it was how someone sounded when they were trying not to explode. He had never heard Clyde speak like that. The way he talked about Darcy was different. Like he was talking about an enemy...

What had happened? Weren’t they getting along this morning? Even ganging up on him? So why now... why did it feel like Clyde was holding back something? Like the very mention of Darcy’s name made him sick?

Still, Micah didn’t resist. He let Clyde pull him along, even though unease twisted in his stomach.

They exited the hospital wing in silence.

Clyde opened the car door. Micah quickly climbed in, half afraid the man might actually toss him inside if he didn’t move fast enough.

Once in the driver’s seat, Clyde started the engine wordlessly and drove. His eyes never left the road, his fingers tight on the wheel. The tension radiated from him.

Micah glanced sideways at him, then down at his phone. With a sigh, he texted Nora, letting her know that Darcy was at the director’s office. He apologised for ducking out, saying something urgent had come up.

They passed out of the city after a few minutes. The streets narrowed, the buildings thinned, and trees began to line the road ahead. A stretch of mountains appeared in the distance.

Eventually, they pulled up to a gate near the edge of the Mountain Road. Clyde parked the car but didn’t move to get out. He just sat there, shoulders tense.

Clyde didn’t look at Micah. His jaw twitched once, twice, like he was swallowing something bitter. Inside, he was clashing with himself.

He wanted to lock Micah away from all of it, from Darcy’s secrecy, from twisted doctors, from Ramsy’s dismissing attitude. He wanted to protect him from the cruelty of this world, even if it meant being cruel himself.

But he also hated himself for it. For losing control. For letting rage win again.