Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 93 - Ninety Three

Marissa had just finished her bath, the warm, lavender-scented steam a soothing balm after the day’s activities.

She stood before the tall, silver-framed mirror, naked, drying herself. Her long, dark hair was damp, unbound, and curling in the humid air. Her nightgown, a simple, modest creation of pale, cream-colored silk, was laid out on the bed, waiting. She was at her most vulnerable, her guard completely down, her mind at peace.

She slowly began to change into her night wear, her movements unhurried. She pulled on her simple, pale cream colored silk nightgown, the fabric cool and smooth against her warm skin. She was about to reach for her robe when she heard it.

It was not a knock. It was a heavy, desperate fumble at her doorknob, followed by a loud, splintering thud, as if a heavy weight had just been thrown against the solid oak.

Marissa’s blood ran ice-cold. Her peace shattered. Her heart, which had been beating with a slow, calm rhythm, leaped into her throat. Carlos. Ashlyn. Senna. The house was full of enemies.

"Who is there?" she called out, her voice sharp, her body instantly tensing.

She didn’t wait for an answer. Her eyes darted around the room, searching for a weapon. She grabbed the nearest, heaviest object—a thick, crystal perfume bottle from her vanity. It was solid, heavy, and its edges were strong. She held it aloft, her knuckles white, her body poised, her back to the wall, as the door was violently opened.

A man staggered in, lurching, his shoulder hitting the doorframe.

He was a mess. It was Derek.

But it was not the Derek she knew. It was not the cold, sarcastic Duke, nor the smug, boyish man from the garden. This was a different, terrifying creature. His dark hair was disheveled, plastered to his forehead with sweat. His fine, white shirt was unbuttoned, ripped open to the waist, revealing a broad, heaving chest. He was breathing heavily, his breaths coming in short, harsh, painful-sounding gasps.

And he was bleeding. His left hand was wrapped in a crude, bloody bandage, but it was not enough. Dark, red, viscous drops of blood were falling from his fingertips, staining her clean, pale carpet, a trail of crimson contamination in her room.

Marissa lowered the perfume bottle, her fear instantly consumed by a wave of shock. "Your Grace?" she breathed.

She watched, frozen, as he staggered, his movements clumsy, like a drunkard. He looked... wild.

"What’s wrong with you?" she asked, her voice sharp, but now laced with a new, different kind of alarm. She fumbled for her robe, which was hanging on a hook, trying to cover the nightgown she wore beneath, her eyes never leaving him. She pulled it on, her hands shaking as she tried to tie the belt, her mind racing. He’s not drunk. This is not wine. He looks... he looks like a hunted animal.

Derek didn’t seem to hear her. His head was on a swivel, his unfocused gaze darting around the room, as if he were being chased, as if he were seeing things in the shadows that weren’t there. He looked lost, and he looked dangerous.

He saw her. His eyes, hazy and wild, finally landed on her as she stood in the doorway of the bathing room.

And he lunged.

Marissa didn’t even have time to scream. He crossed the room in two, huge, stumbling strides and grabbed her. His hands were like steel bands on her arms. He slammed her back against the doorframe, his body pressing her into the hard wood. His face was inches from hers, and his breath was coming in hot, desperate gasps.

Marissa was, for the first time in a long, long time, truly, purely, terrified. Her heart felt as if it had stopped. He was so strong, and he was completely out of his mind.

"Derek!" she cried, the name a sharp, panicked sound, her hands trapped between his chest and hers.

At the sound of his name, in her voice, something seemed to cut through his haze. He flinched, as if she had slapped him. He was still holding her, but his grip, which had been brutal, eased slightly. He was still breathing hard, his eyes closed, his whole body trembling. He was fighting.

She could smell the sour, sharp scent of the salt of his sweat, and... something else. A heavy, cloying, unnaturally sweet perfume.

Senna.

The recognition hit her like a slap. This was Senna’s scent. She’s sure if it.

She looked at him. He was a man lost in a fog, driven by a force she couldn’t understand. He could still hear it, a faint, phantom jingle-jingle in the back of his mind, the sound of Senna’s bell, the sound of the magic, telling him to take, to possess.

He leaned forward, his entire body shaking with a terrible, violent restraint. His lips were so close to hers they were almost touching. He was going to kiss her. Marissa was trapped, she squeezed her eyes shut, her body rigid, bracing for the assault—

But it never came.

Instead, his head, heavy as a stone, dropped. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, in her still-damp hair. He didn’t kiss her. He just... inhaled.

He took a deep, shuddering, desperate breath, as if he were a drowning man who had just found air.

And he stopped.

He inhaled again. He smelled her.

And she was... wrong.

No. He was wrong.

She smelled... right. This is the smell he had been expecting.

She did not smell of cloying, heavy, sweet perfume. She smelled of lavender. She smelled of soap. She smelled clean, and warm, and real. She smelled like... Marissa.

He pulled his head back, his movements jerky, confused. His grip on her loosened more, though his arms were still around her. He stared down at her, his eyes, still glazed and wild, trying, and failing, to focus.

"You’re... Marissa," he said, his voice a low, rough, and deeply confused whisper. He inhaled again, a deep, shuddering breath, as if he was going to die if he doesn’t. "You... you smell like... you."