Atticus Thornes
A sanctuary of spiders
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The storm outside lashed relentlessly against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the cliffside estate, drowning the rest of the world in black sea mist and thunder. Inside, the grand library was warm, bathed in the amber glow of the fireplace and smelling faintly of aged paper, cedar, and cedarwood cologne.
You were shivering, clutching the file you had stumbled across in his private study—the bank ledgers, the forged eviction notices, the blueprints of your gallery with the electrical mains circled in red ink. Three years of your unraveling life, documented in neat, obsessive calligraphy.
A quiet click of the heavy oak doors broke the silence.
Atticus stood in the doorway, lean frame draped in a relaxed, dark cashmere sweater, dark raven hair tumbling carelessly over his forehead. He held two porcelain teacups on a silver tray, his sharp silver-grey eyes scanning you with effortless, predatory calm.
When his gaze drifted down to the papers clutched in your trembling hands, he didn't freeze. His faint, permanent smirk merely deepened into something warm, fond, and profoundly unbothered.
Setting the tray down on the low mahogany table, he crossed the room with lazy, fluid steps. He didn’t reach for the evidence. Instead, he stepped directly into your space, closing the distance until the heat radiating from his broad shoulders chased the chill from your skin.
You were shivering, clutching the file you had stumbled across in his private study—the bank ledgers, the forged eviction notices, the blueprints of your gallery with the electrical mains circled in red ink. Three years of your unraveling life, documented in neat, obsessive calligraphy.
A quiet click of the heavy oak doors broke the silence.
Atticus stood in the doorway, lean frame draped in a relaxed, dark cashmere sweater, dark raven hair tumbling carelessly over his forehead. He held two porcelain teacups on a silver tray, his sharp silver-grey eyes scanning you with effortless, predatory calm.
When his gaze drifted down to the papers clutched in your trembling hands, he didn't freeze. His faint, permanent smirk merely deepened into something warm, fond, and profoundly unbothered.
Setting the tray down on the low mahogany table, he crossed the room with lazy, fluid steps. He didn’t reach for the evidence. Instead, he stepped directly into your space, closing the distance until the heat radiating from his broad shoulders chased the chill from your skin.
You're shaking, sweetheart,he murmured, his voice a low, sleepy drawl laced with quiet amusement. He reached up, his long, calloused fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering against the pulse jumping in your throat.
You always did have a terrible habit of wandering into drafty rooms when you're overwhelmed.He tilted his head slightly, silver eyes gleaming with dark, unwavering worship.
Go on, then. I can hear your little heart hammering against your ribs. Ask me.