Her own stomach growled, but the sight of the food before her — carefully arranged, still warm — made her feel hollow. The hunger was there, but her appetite wasn’t.

Still, she forced herself to eat a few bites.

When Eleven returned later, she could hear the sound of running water from the bathroom.

Clarissa was in the shower. The table, however, looked almost untouched — barely a few bites gone from each plate.

Eleven said nothing. She quietly tidied up the dishes and stepped back out.

In the hallway, Atticus was waiting again. His gaze landed on the table, on the uneaten food. His expression darkened.

“She still won’t eat?” he asked.

Eleven shook her head, gesturing silently.

Atticus’s jaw tightened. He inhaled deeply, fighting down the anger rising in his chest. Then he waved his hand, dismissing her.

“Go downstairs,” he said quietly.

When Atticus entered, Clarissa was already asleep.

The vast bed made her look impossibly small — her figure half-hidden beneath the sheets, swallowed by the shadows.

The room was cloaked in darkness. Atticus walked quietly to her side, his movements deliberate, soundless.

On the bedside table, the tiny bird stirred. It opened its beak as if to chirp, but the moment it caught Atticus’s cold, piercing stare, it froze — trembling in silence.

Atticus turned away and sat on the edge of the bed.

For a moment, he simply watched her — her steady breathing, the faint rise and fall of her chest. Then, as if compelled, he reached out, fingertips trembling slightly, wanting to touch her face.

Before he could, Clarissa’s eyes snapped open.

Their gazes met in the darkness. The tension in the air was electric.

With a sharp motion, she sat up and flicked on the bedside lamp. The warm light spilled over both of them, revealing her expression — pure, unguarded disgust.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” she hissed.

Atticus met her glare, his voice calm, almost weary. “Clarissa, is this really necessary between us?”

Her laugh was cold and humorless. She was too tired to play along anymore. Pretending only prolonged the illusion — and he wouldn’t let her go, no matter what she said.

“That’s what I should be asking you,” she spat. “What the fuck are you pretending for now? It’s over, Atticus. Over. Do you understand? We’re done. There’s nothing left between us—”

Before she could finish, he lunged forward, pinning her to the mattress.

“Shut up!” His voice broke with rage. His eyes were bloodshot, raw. “Don’t say that! Don’t fucking say that! You’re mine, Clarissa! You’ll always be mine!”

His anger only fueled her defiance. Seeing the pain twisted across his face, she felt something cruelly satisfying stir inside her. For once, she wasn’t afraid.

A sneer curved her lips. “I don’t belong to you,” she said, her tone deliberate, venomous. “I don’t love you anymore, Atticus. I hate you. I despise you. Love you forced through lies and control will rot from the inside out. A man like you—” she paused, meeting his gaze squarely— “deserves to die alone.”

“Shut up!”

The sudden crash that followed made her flinch. For a split second, she thought he’d struck her.

But the pain never came. Instead, a metallic scent filled the air — blood.

Clarissa blinked. The first thing she saw was the splintered headboard — and Atticus’s bleeding hand pressed against it.

The solid wood had caved in where his fist struck, jagged shards sticking out, glistening dark red under the light. Blood ran freely down his arm, dripping onto the sheets like plum blossoms blooming in the snow.

“You…” Clarissa’s voice faltered. For a moment, she felt something twist in her chest — pity, fear, she didn’t know. She forced it down.

Atticus gave a low, ragged laugh. “Heh… heh…”

Then, without breaking eye contact, he gripped the largest splinter buried in his palm — and ripped it out.

Blood splattered instantly. A few drops hit Clarissa’s face. She froze, the warmth of it sending a chill down her spine.

“Atticus—” she started, but before she could move, he pressed his knee into the bed, trapping her beneath him.

He was bleeding heavily now, but it was as if he didn’t feel the pain at all. He braced his arms on either side of her, caging her in.

Clarissa’s pulse quickened. Something was wrong — deeply wrong — in the way he was looking at her.

“What do you want?!” she snapped, voice shaking despite herself. “Let me go!”

Atticus’s gaze burned into her. “Are you really that heartless toward me?”

Clarissa clenched her fists. Her patience snapped. “Atticus, how long are you going to keep lying to yourself? We’re done! You don’t love me — you just want to own me like some kind of prize. This isn’t love. This is a cage.”

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “For everything I’ve done for you, for everything we once were — let me go. It’ll free you, too. You don’t love me, not really. You’re just afraid of losing control. The Wraith family is already hunting you down.”

Atticus was silent for a long moment. Then, he said quietly, “You’re right.”

He reached out with his uninjured hand, his fingers brushing against her cheek.

“But there’s one thing I’ll never admit,” he murmured. “Clarissa, I love you.”

He meant it — every word. She could see it in his eyes, the kind of wild devotion that bordered on madness.

He loved her so much it broke him — loved her until every breath she took decided his fate, loved her until the thought of losing her made his world collapse. He loved her so deeply he’d rather burn everything around him than see her with someone else.

Clarissa’s heart clenched at his words. She saw herself reflected in those dark, desperate eyes — and the illusion shattered.

She blinked once, steeling herself, and looked away.

She wouldn’t be swayed by him again.

He was a master of pretense — charming, calculating, and impossibly convincing. Once, he’d used that very charm to win her heart. Once had been enough. Clarissa wasn’t about to be fooled again.

She laughed bitterly, the sound sharp as glass. “Who would believe that? Atticus, you’ve played the devoted-lover act to death. Stop pretending. Do you really think I’d ever fall for it again?”

She turned away, her expression hollow. “I don’t even know what’s true anymore. Atticus, I’m tired. I’m just an ordinary woman. Please… if you have any mercy left in you — let me go.”

Her detached tone sliced through him. Atticus felt something inside his chest tear open, leaving nothing but raw, bleeding emptiness. The pain was almost physical. Clarissa, I gave you everything — and you threw it away like it meant nothing.

He wanted to beg her, but the words caught in his throat. Nothing he said would reach her now.

Instead, he simply pulled her into his arms.

“Atticus, don’t you understand what I’m saying? Let go of me!” she snapped, struggling against him.

He held tighter. His voice trembled. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

“I can’t watch you with another man. I can’t live without you.”

Clarissa stared at him, her voice breaking with exhaustion. “But I don’t want to see you anymore. Do you know how painful this is?”

“Painful?” he echoed, laughing bitterly. “You talk about pain, but the moment I’m gone, you run to Mark! You think I didn’t see?”

Clarissa froze, then drew in a shaky breath. “Mark and I… we go way back. He’s from my world. We were in love once. If it weren’t for what happened, we would’ve been married by now.”

Atticus’s expression darkened, his body going rigid.

She went on, quietly but firmly. “He could’ve given me a life I wanted — a simple one. You can’t, Atticus. You were born into a world I don’t belong to. Secrets, deception, power — that’s your life, not mine. We’re not compatible. You can’t call this love if every day I have to live in fear.”

Atticus’s breathing grew uneven, his jaw clenched so hard it trembled. He reached for her — then stopped halfway, his hand suspended in the air.

Clarissa exhaled shakily. She was so tired she could barely keep her eyes open. “I’m done talking. I need to sleep.”

When he didn’t move, she raised her voice. “Atticus! I said I’m tired. Won’t you even let me rest now?”

He reached out suddenly, gripping her chin and forcing her to meet his gaze. His voice was low, almost a growl. “Is that why you’re so desperate to leave me? Because of him?”

“Let go of me!” she hissed, shoving him hard.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The air between them throbbed with tension, thick and electric.

“Clarissa, are you in such a rush to ditch me because you’re dying to run back to that old fling of yours? Ha… Keep dreaming. That’s never gonna happen!”

“What the hell are you doing?! Let go of me!” Clarissa shoved at him with everything she had, but—like always—her strength melted against him like it was nothing. In the next breath, his mouth crashed over hers, swallowing any protest.

She tried to scream, nails raking a bloody scratch down his cheek. She bit his lip hard enough to taste copper, but Atticus didn’t even flinch.

Rip. Fabric tore again, sharp and final. Cool air hit her bare skin, and Clarissa snarled, “Atticus! Get off me!”

Atticus licked the blood from the corner of his mouth, fingers clamping her chin. A cold smirk curled his lips. “Funny. You used to beg for me to take you like this.”

His hand slid lower, deliberate, possessive. That smirk widened. “See? Your body’s way more honest than that pretty little mouth of yours, Clarissa.”

“It was you…”

It was him—he’d slipped her those damn drugs, turned her into this.

But the words died in her throat as Atticus kissed her again, deeper this time. Her knees buckled; her whole body went soft against her will.

Atticus pinned her to the bed, his breath hot against her ear.

“Clarissa,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, “you haven’t been taking your medication lately. Tell me—could you be carrying my child?”

The words hit her like a slap. Clarissa’s pupils widened in shock. “Let me go! Don’t touch me!”

Her desperate resistance only deepened the shadow in his eyes. The fear in her face—raw, instinctive—cut deeper than any blade. Something inside Atticus broke, reason snapping like a brittle thread.

“You don’t want my child?” His voice trembled with fury. “Then I’ll make sure you’ll never forget who you belong to. No man will ever touch you again.”

When she awoke, everything looked untouched, as though the night had been a bad dream. But her body told another story—aching, weak, covered in bruises that marked what couldn’t be undone.

She lay there motionless, staring blankly at the ceiling. Not crying. Not screaming. Just… empty.

After a long time, she forced herself to move, dragging her exhausted body toward the bathroom.