Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 94 - Ninety Four

He was still holding her, but the violent, possessive grip was gone. He was now clinging to her, as if she were the only solid thing in a spinning, nightmarish world. He pulled away, his body trembling, and then, in a gesture of a desperate, and broken surrender, he put his head on her forehead, his own skin burning with fever.

He was breathing heavily, his entire body shaking with the force of his restraint.

"Help me," he whispered, his voice a raw, broken plea. "Please."

The plea, the "please," the sheer, raw vulnerability in that single word, shattered Marissa’s fear. He was a victim.

She looked at his bleeding palm, the one he had clutched to his chest, now pressed against the white silk of her robe, staining it. She looked into his eyes, into the confused, pained, and desperate fire.

A small, almost tiny smile of... something... touched his lips as he saw the terror in her face melt into a new, sharp concern.

She’s worried about me, he thought, a single, clear, dazed thought in the middle of the storm.

Her gaze, her cool, assessing gaze, made him want to kiss her, more than the drug did. It was a clear, sharp, real desire. He shook his head, a violent, angry motion, trying to shake the new, impossible thought away.

Marissa’s hand, the one that wasn’t trapped between them, came up. She touched his forehead. He was burning.

"You’ve been drugged," she said, her voice a sharp, sudden, and shocked whisper. She didn’t just mean with wine. This was something else.

Her mind, which had been frozen in terror, now snapped into its familiar, cold focus.

"I’ll prepare an antidote," she said, her voice now calm, authoritative. She grabbed his good arm. "Come with me. Now."

She pulled him, stumbling, from her bedroom into the large, adjoining bathing chamber. The air was still warm and steamy. She did not hesitate. She saw his blood-soaked shirt. She did not bother with the buttons. She grabbed the torn fabric and ripped it open, pulling it from his shoulders. She tossed the bloody garment aside. She was all business.

She pushed him, a dead, staggering weight, and he sat, heavily, on the edge of the large, marble tub. "Get in."

He was too weak, too dazed, to obey. With a sigh of frustrated impatience, she grabbed his legs and swung them, one by one, over the side. He tumbled, in a clumsy-like heap, into the empty, dry tub.

She carried a bucket and poured its contents into the tub. A torrent of ice-cold water flowed from the bucket, slamming into Derek’s bare chest, covering his legs, his waist.

He roared, a loud, shocked, animal sound, his entire body convulsing from the sudden, freezing shock. The heat, the fire, the need in his blood, met the icy, mountain-fed water, and his senses exploded.

Marissa ignored his roar as she turned to her small, hidden cabinet of herbs, the ones she had brought from her aunt’s home. She grabbed a mortar and pestle, and a handful of three different dried, fragrant leaves. She began to grind them, her movements fast, efficient, and practiced.

Inside the tub, Derek was at war. The cold water was a blessing and a curse. It was a new, clean, real pain, a pain that fought the drug, that kept the cloying fog at bay. But the drug was still there. The need was still there.

And she was there.

He closed his eyes, trying to block her out. But he could hear her. The thud-thud-thud of the pestle against the stone mortar was a maddening, rhythmic sound. He could smell the sharp, green, herbal scent as she crushed the leaves.

He opened his eyes. He couldn’t help it. And he saw her.

She was standing at the counter, her back to him. Her robe, damp from their embrace, had fallen slightly, exposing the long, pale, elegant line of her neck and one smooth, pale , perfect shoulder.

He stared, his mouth going dry. The drug, the heat, it all came rushing back, a tidal wave of unfiltered, and ravenous desire. He felt, in that moment, like a hungry, mad wolf, a starving animal that wanted, simply, to devour her.

He clenched his fists, his bloody palm stinging, and he dunked his head, forcing himself under the ice-cold water, holding himself down until his lungs burned, trying to drown the monster that was rising inside him.

He burst up, gasping, shaking his head, sending a spray of water across the marble floor. He looked at her. She was still there. Still crushing the herbs. Still so infuriatingly, so beautifully, calm. The thud-thud-thud of the pestle was the only sound, a countdown to his own, complete loss of control.

He dunked his head again, deeper this time, a silent, desperate, animal growl bubbling from his lips under the water.

"Control. Control. Control. Control yourself, Derek." He thought to himself.

Marissa finished grinding the herbs. The antidote was ready. She turned, her face a mask of a focus so calm. She was leaning over, adding the crushed herbs to a cup. The line of her hip, the curve of her spine, the image of her face.

She walked to the tub, her movements unhurried, as if she were merely tending to a sick child.

She sprinkled the dark, green, fragrant powder into the water. It began to cloud, turning the clear, icy pool into a murky, herbal bath.

"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice the calm, detached voice of a physician. "The herbs will take a few minutes for the symptoms to vanish. The cold water should be helping, so..."

He raised his head from the water. His battle was over. He had lost.

He looked at her. He saw her face, her eyes, her concern. He saw the woman who had saved him, the woman who had smiled at him, the woman who had shut the door in his face. And the drug, the restraint, the pain, and this new, terrifying, all-consuming need for her—it all just... broke.

He didn’t say a word.

He reached up, his good hand, his right, shooting out of the water. He grabbed her hand, the one that was still holding the empty cup.

Marissa gasped, her eyes wide with shock. "Derek, what are you—?"

And he pulled.

He pulled her, with all of his remaining, desperate strength, into the tub.