Chapter 307: This Is Not How I Planned to See You Shirtless
Micah stepped inside Clyde’s room cautiously, almost like he was intruding on sacred ground. The air was still, filled with that same faint sandalwood scent Clyde always carried. The heavy curtains let in just enough light to draw soft shadows across the wall. His gaze roamed the room, the meticulous orderliness that was so undeniably Clyde.
He wandered toward the bed and sat down, the mattress barely dipping under his weight. His fingers absentmindedly brushed the linen fabric until something on the nightstand caught his eye.
A wooden prayer bead bracelet lay there. Micah frowned. Hadn’t he seen that exact bracelet on Clyde’s wrist in the car earlier? He felt puzzled. How did it get here?
He reached out and picked it up, letting the beads roll between his fingers. It was warm, freshly worn warm. That was strange.
His mind started piecing together possibilities, but before he could settle on one, a movement in the corner of his vision snapped him to attention.
Clyde stepped out of the walk-in closet. His hair was slightly mussed, his eyes fixed on his phone, and... Micah’s breath caught, his chest was bare. The defined lines of muscle shifted subtly as Clyde moved and Micah stared, lips parted. But then his back came into view. The smoothness of his skin was broken by something that made Micah freeze entirely.
At first, Clyde didn’t notice. After Micah had left him wandering around the house, he had headed toward his room to change clothes. Then his assistant had contacted him about troubles at work. He was scrolling through the file on his phone, walking toward the bathroom. But then he caught a shadowy figure from the corner of his eye.
Micah sat frozen on the bed. Eyes wide, his gaze locked on him, not on his face but on his back.
Clyde stopped mid-step, a flicker of realisation passing through his expression. His shoulders tensed, the phone lowering slowly in his hand. His instinct screamed to reach for his shirt, to turn away, to hide, but it was already too late.
Micah was on his feet in an instant. He closed the distance between them in two strides, his eyes wide, disbelief and fury dancing in their depths. His hand reached out before he could think, fingertips brushing slightly against the ridged, pale lines that covered Clyde’s skin.
The scars were unmistakable, long, uneven, raised in some places and faint in others, running diagonally across his back like strokes from a cruel brush. They weren’t fresh, but they were deep enough that no time could fully erase them. The patterns... It was evident... It was lashes from a whip or belt, not a single stroke but many, repeated until the skin broke. Meaning: deep hate. Deep viciousness.
Micah’s throat tightened painfully. "How? Who? When?" the words blurted out of him in a cracked whisper, his voice trembling under the weight of the sight. His eyes stung, burning for a moment.
Why were these scars on Clyde’s back? Who had done it? Oh, god. Micah’s heart clenched so hard he felt it was perishing.
Clyde’s muscles flinched under his touch, a faint shiver running through him.
"Micah..." Clyde called out hoarsely.
"Who did this to you? Tell me!" Micah’s voice snapped upward into raw anger. "Were you kidnapped or something?"
Clyde shook his head once, short and firm, but his eyes slid away.
Micah’s other hand joined the first, palms pressing against Clyde’s back. He traced the scars slowly, as though he still could not believe it. "Was it your parents? A Sibling? Grandparents? The nanny? Who?" His breath came faster, voice shaking. "I am gonna kill them!"
Clyde’s eyes closed for the briefest moment. Each touch made him want to step away and lean into it at the same time. "Stop it..." he whispered, the sound almost lost in the stillness of the room. His mind filled with nightmares he had long since forced into the dark, cold eyes, the sting of leather, the silence afterwards.
How could he say he was not completely innocent either? He had always been the ugly stain in the relationship between his mother and father. And his uncle....
A mess too tangled to explain... He had never thought that changing clothes would result in revealing his scars. He had tried so hard not to let Micah see them. But now...
But now, under the open light from the walk-in closet, the scars were undeniable. Faded compared to years ago, yes, but still a brutal testimony when laid bare.
Micah’s hand gripped his arms suddenly, forcing him to turn around. Clyde stumbled half a step before facing him fully. The protest on his lips vanished when he saw Micah’s expression, tear-brimmed eyes, jaw clenched against the surge of emotions threatening to spill over.
The fury, the grief, the way Micah looked at him as if the world had just shifted, it all stripped Clyde’s defences bare.
"It was my father," Clyde said finally, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
Micah stared, the words stabbing his chest like a knife. "Why?" his voice trembled. "Why would he do that to you? You’re...you are so perfect in everything... why would he?"
Micah’s stomach twisted. He couldn’t imagine how much pain Clyde had experienced under that torture. Not just physically, but also emotionally. For God’s Sake... the one who had hurt him had been his father...
Micah couldn’t find a reason that made sense. In his world, his father, Jacob, had been the definition of gentle. Even when he disagreed or was disappointed, Jacob Ramsy would never raise a hand. Not to mention how he had stood up against Albert Ramsy, his grandfather, to protect him, to shield him, to let him do what he liked. The thought of a father doing this...
Clyde’s gaze fell to the floor. "It doesn’t matter... he had been gone for more than ten years. So..."
"Does it hurt still?" Micah asked softly, though the tension in his voice betrayed his struggle to hold himself together.
"No," Clyde said, shaking his head. "Not anymore."