Psycho villain I Raised Wants to Marry Me-Chapter251 – Flo butterfly

Atticus never pretended to be a good man. He wasn’t. He was darker, colder, and more ruthless than the men he crushed beneath him. He had wormed his way into her heart through lies, through manipulation. She had treated him like family—her little brother—and he had turned that tenderness into a weapon. He had bent her life around his until she couldn’t escape. He had forced her to fall in love with him.
And he would destroy anyone who tried to take her.
Yes, it was despicable. But he didn’t care. He would do anything to keep her.
And yet—looking down at Clarissa now, fragile and flushed from drink, tears glistening on her cheeks—something twisted inside him.
For the first time, doubt. For the first time, hesitation.
Because she hadn’t fallen for him. Not the man he was, not the monster he’d become. She had fallen for the boy she thought he was—the bright, hopeful Atticus she believed she’d raised.
His fists clenched hard enough that his knuckles cracked.
He had her. She belonged to him. So why wasn’t it enough? Why was his chest still burning with unease? Why, even after planting his devices, after binding her tighter to him, did her pain still feel like knives in his own skin?
He drove in silence, his hand tight on the wheel. Beside him, Clarissa’s sobs faded until sleep finally claimed her.
When they arrived, he carried her upstairs and laid her gently on the bed. He made her hangover soup, coaxed it between her lips, cleaned her skin with patient hands, and tucked the blanket tight around her.
Only when she was breathing evenly did he leave her side.
But as he passed his bookshelf, his gaze sharpened.
The rows of books were neat, undisturbed at first glance. But his instincts screamed otherwise. Subtle, but unmistakable—the spines had been shifted. Someone had been inside his room.
And only one person in this house would dare.
Clarissa.
His eyes narrowed, dangerous heat flaring beneath the calm mask.
For years, she had never once pried into his secrets. She had trusted him completely.
Atticus’s eyes lingered on the bookshelf. The rows of spines looked neat, untouched—but he could see it. Subtle shifts, the faintest trace of disturbance. Someone had been there.
If it was Clarissa…
His hand curled into a fist at his side.
......
Clarissa’s night was restless. Her dreams twisted and darkened until Atticus appeared before her. His familiar silhouette drew her closer instinctively.
“Atticus?” she whispered.
But when he turned, his gaze was cold, merciless—like a stranger’s.
“Who do you think you are, calling me that?” His sneer dripped with cruelty, his eyes sharp with bloodlust. Then his hand shot out, clamping around her throat.
She clawed for air, panic consuming her—until the dream fractured. The scene shifted, and suddenly she was staring into a raging inferno.
Her mother. Clementine, curled up within the flames.
“Mom!”
Clarissa screamed, tried to run to her—but her legs wouldn’t move. No matter how she pushed, cried, begged, she couldn’t reach her. All she could do was watch the fire swallow her mother whole.
“Mom!”
She jolted awake with a gasp, her body slick with cold sweat, chest heaving as though the nightmare still had its hands around her throat.
Wiping her damp forehead, she blinked at the familiar outlines of her bedroom. Home. She was home.
Last night… she had been drunk, but not unconscious. She remembered the steady warmth that carried her. Atticus must have brought her back.
Her stomach twisted. The thought of facing him made her pulse race with unease. He was sharp—too sharp. The smallest hesitation, the faintest lie, and he would see through her. She would have to tread carefully.
She stepped into the living room. “Atticus?”
Her voice echoed, unanswered.
The kitchen—empty. His bedroom—empty. Relief swept through her like a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.
And then—
A flicker of silver-white caught her eye.
A butterfly. Tiny, its body glowing faintly pink with a shimmer of blue, its wings translucent like glass in the sunlight.
Beautiful. Too beautiful. But wrong.
October in Westhaven wasn’t a season for butterflies. And how could one appear inside the house?
A chill ran through her spine. Clarissa snatched a glass from the table, covering the creature before it could escape. The delicate wings fluttered against the glass, unharmed.
She stared at it a moment longer, unsettled.
At least Atticus wasn’t there. Back in her room, she washed her face, poured a coffee, and dialed Oriana.
“Oriana, I need you to check something for me.”
Her assistant’s voice was lazy at first, warm from sleep and the glow of last night’s shopping spree. But the moment she heard Clarissa’s request, the tone sharpened. “Miss Clarissa… are you sure? That’s Atticus we’re talking about. You and him—did you two…” She trailed off, hesitant.
Clarissa’s reply was calm, clipped, chilling. “I’m sure. And you must not breathe a word of this to anyone. If you learn anything, you come straight to me. No one else.”
“…Oh. Oh, of course. Then, Miss Clarissa, are you coming into the office today?”
“No. But everyone needs to think I’m there. Atticus included. You’ll make sure they believe it. Do you understand?”
Her voice carried steel, her usual softness gone. “If you make a mistake, Oriana, you’ll bear the consequences.”
Oriana swallowed. She had almost forgotten that beneath Clarissa’s gentleness was a woman raised in power, capable of cutting as sharply as any man. She straightened immediately. “I understand, Miss Clarissa. I won’t fail you.”
“Good. Thank you.”
Clarissa ended the call, drew a steadying breath, and changed her clothes. Minutes later, her car slid from the garage, heading back to Callum’s.
At this hour, Callum was lounging in the yard, soaking in the autumn sun. His eyes widened when Clarissa’s car rolled into the drive.
“Back again? What’s going on?”
“Grandpa, I need you to look at something for me.”
Her tone was clipped, serious. Callum frowned but waved her inside. “Come on then. Let’s talk in the house.”
Once indoors, Clarissa carefully set a glass on the table. Inside, a delicate, silver-white butterfly fluttered faintly.
“Grandpa… do you know what kind this is?”
“Since when did you start collecting butterflies?” Callum chuckled, but when he leaned in for a closer look, the humor drained from his face. His expression hardened.
“Grandpa?” Clarissa started to speak, but he suddenly seized her wrist.
“Girl—have you touched this thing? Come into contact with it?”
She shook her head quickly. “No. I only caught it because it seemed strange. A butterfly in this season, and in my house, of all places… Is there something wrong with it?”
Callum set the glass down with deliberate care. “This is no ordinary butterfly. It’s called the Flo butterfly. Highly poisonous. A single speck of the powder on its wings can kill a grown man instantly.”
Clarissa’s breath hitched.
“Normally, they don’t just hatch on their own,” he continued grimly. “Someone has to rear it from the larval stage—feed it poison as it grows, then force it to hatch in its cocoon.”
“Hatch?”
Callum’s eyes narrowed. He hesitated, then asked, “Clarissa, do you know about witchcraft?”
She blinked. “Witchcraft? I’ve heard of it, but… I’ve never seen it. Grandpa, are you saying that sort of thing actually exists?”
“I’ve seen it with my own eyes.” His voice was low, solemn. “In remote places, there are witchcraft masters—some heal, some kill. Insects and medicine, twisted together into sorcery. It exists. And this butterfly is one of the deadliest forms of it.”
Clarissa felt her scalp prickle. “Why would anyone raise something like this?”
“There are many reasons,” Callum muttered. “The Flo butterfly is considered one of the strongest Gu insects. If raised with its master’s own blood, it will obey, never harm its owner. To anyone else, it’s death incarnate.”
Her voice trembled slightly. “Safe… and dangerous at the same time?”
He nodded. “The process requires enormous amounts of blood. The owner must also consume a toxic herb called Seven-Leaf Clover. An ordinary body can’t withstand it. You have to feed it every three days for a month. Miss once—and the poison turns on you instead.”
Clarissa’s face drained of color.
“Once it’s hatched, the Flo butterfly will follow its host, defend him… even kill for him.” His eyes flickered to her, unreadable.
Clarissa swayed, catching herself on the edge of the chair.
Just then, the butterfly inside the glass gave a faint shiver. Its wings began to melt, releasing a thin trail of green smoke.
“Grandpa—what’s happening?”
“The sun,” he said, nodding to the light streaming through the window. “These creatures can’t stand heat. Once exposed to sunlight, they disintegrate completely.”
And within seconds, the butterfly was gone—reduced to nothing, not even ash left behind.
Callum turned back to her sharply. “Where did you find it? Tell me the truth. Was it in Atticus’s possession?”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “…I don’t know. But I saw it come out of his room.”
The old man’s face darkened with fury. He slapped the table, rising to his feet. “Atticus! That damn brat dares play with this filth? I’ll beat him senseless!”
“Grandpa, don’t!” Clarissa caught his arm, stopping him.
“You’re still protecting him? Girl, do you even know what this thing is capable of? It kills.”
“I know.” Her voice was firm. “I’m not protecting him. Just—please, sit. Listen to me.”
Reluctantly, Callum sank back down, though his jaw was still tight with anger.
Clarissa drew in a slow, steadying breath. “Grandpa… something’s wrong with Atticus. I can feel it. I want answers, but I can’t let him know I’m looking. If he does, I’ll never find out the truth.”
Callum studied her in silence for a long moment. Then he sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging. “I told you before… Atticus isn’t a man you can handle.”
Her lips parted, but no words came.
She had always known it. Atticus could never truly be called good—not with his nature. That darkness wouldn’t change easily.
But still…
Even knowing that, she couldn’t give up hope.
If her love, her persistence, could change him—even slightly—she would try.
She wasn’t selfless; But Atticus was different. She loved him. She pitied him. Pitied the fate of the boy she had raised with her own hands.
Clarissa drew in a steady breath and looked Callum straight in the eye. “Grandpa… let me handle this.”
His gaze bore into her, heavy and searching. “Girl, if you uncover the truth—if this man betrays you—what will you do then?”
Her lips parted. For a heartbeat, silence lingered. Then her eyes hardened with resolve. “If it’s true… I won’t protect him. I’ll face it. I’ll end it.”
“Even if you love him?”
Her chin dipped once. “Even if I love him.”
For a long moment Callum studied her, then let out a long, weary sigh. “Good. You’ve finally understood. Atticus may matter to you, but that doesn’t mean he’s right for you.”