Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 96 - Nintey Six

Minutes later, Derek awoke.

His first sensation was pain. A dull, throbbing, pounding headache, and a sharp, fiery, stinging in his left palm. His second sensation was cold. He was wet. No... not wet. He was damp. And he was... warm.

He opened his eyes. This was not his room. It was not Senna’s. The air smelled of lavender.

He was in Marissa’s bed. He was still shirtless, but he was under a thick, warm, and blessedly dry quilt, which had been thrown over his damp trousers.

"Are you feeling alright now?"

He turned his head. Marissa was sitting in a chair beside the bed, a few feet away. She was fully, and very properly, dressed in a thick, high-necked, woolen robe. Her dark hair was brushed smooth and tied back in a simple, severe braid. Her arms and legs were crossed, and she was watching him with the cool, detached, and utterly unreadable expression of a physician.

The memories came flooding back. The smoke. The bell. The illusion. The kiss. The bite. Her, in the water. Her, turning her back. His loss of control. Her hand, flashing out.

A wave of deep, and utterly agonizing humiliation, worse than any drug, worse than any wound, washed over him. He, the Grand Duke, had acted like a base, rutting animal. He had lost control. He had forced himself on her. And she had... she had neutralized him, as if he were nothing more than a common, drunken brawler.

He couldn’t look at her. He lowered his head, his gaze falling to his own hands, his wet hair dripping onto the pristine, white pillowcase. "I apologize," he whispered, his voice a hoarse, rough, and deeply ashamed sound. "I... I didn’t mean to disrespect you."

There was a long, heavy silence. He expected her to shout. To scorn him. To demand he leave.

Instead, he just heard the soft rustle of her robe. She got up from the chair. He saw, from the corner of his eye, that she was holding a small, wooden bowl and a roll of clean, white, cotton strips. She walked to his side.

"Your hand," she said. Her voice was not angry. It was not cold. It was just... calm. A simple statement of fact.

He was so consumed by his own shame that he, unthinkingly, held out his right hand, his good hand.

She looked at it, and then back at his face, her expression unchanging. "No," she said, as if speaking to a slow, dim-witted child. "The injured one."

"Sorry," he muttered, his face burning. He pulled back his good hand and slowly, awkwardly, held out his left.

She didn’t sit. She crouched down beside the bed, bringing herself to his level. She placed the bowl on the bedside table. She began to clean the wound. Her touch was not gentle. It was not the soft, hesitant, fumbling touch of a noblewoman. It was firm, practiced, and deeply impersonal, the touch of a doctor who had seen far worse.

He winced as the herbal mixture she was using stung the raw flesh, but he did not pull away.

"Make sure not to get this wet for a few days," she said, her voice still that same, calm monotone as she worked.

He just nodded, his gaze fixed on the top of her head, on the dark, neat part in her hair.

"Who drugged you?" she asked, her hands never stopping.

He hadn’t expected the question. "Senna," he replied.

"Isn’t she your mistress?" Marissa asked, her voice still perfectly flat. "Why would you two need to use such... tricks?"

He looked at her, at this strange, complicated, and utterly baffling woman who was calmly bandaging a wound he had gotten while trying to force himself on her. He had insulted her. He had embarrassed her. He had terrified her. And she was healing him. He suddenly, desperately, wanted her to know the truth.

"She saved my life once," he said, his voice low and rough. "Years ago, before my brother... before everything. I was lost in a blizzard in the north with a poisonous arrow on my arm. I would have died. She found me."

Marissa paused, her fingers just for a second, as she began to wrap the clean, white, cotton strip around his palm.

"I have been looking after her ever since," he continued, the words coming out in a sudden, honest rush. "I owed her a life debt. I gave her money, I gave her protection. And... the rumors just... started. They turned it into an affair."

"Why didn’t you clarify?" Marissa asked, her movements starting again, her fingers wrapping the bandage, tight and secure.

"Because she needed it," he said, frustrated. "She said she was an orphan, that her whole family was massacred in the North. She said she needed my name, my reputation as her protector, just to be safe. And..." He hesitated, but he had come this far. "I needed her, too. As a cover-up. As a distraction." He met her gaze, his eyes full of a sudden, dark, and very real seriousness. "To avoid... unwanted attention... from the royal court."

Marissa finished her task. She tied the last knot, her work neat and precise. She understood. The "skiver" duke, the "playboy," the "man obsessed with his mistress"—it was all a shield. A shield against a danger so great he had to hide his true self.

She had finished. She stood up, brushing her hands. "Anyways," he said, his voice awkward again as he flexed his newly bandaged hand. "Thank you. For your help. For... for everything."

"Consider it my good deed for the day," Marissa replied, her voice still cool, but the sharp, icy edge was gone. She walked to her vanity, picked up the bowl, and then, as if it were an afterthought, she walked back to him. "Later," she said, "you can repay the favor."

She stood before him, the anger and the awkwardness gone, replaced by a simple, quiet truce. She raised her hand, the one that was not holding the bowl, and, in a gesture that was purely, startlingly calm, she placed the back of it against his forehead, checking his temperature.

Derek just... froze. Her hand was cool. It was soft. And it was just... there.

A faint, involuntary, and deeply surprised chuckle escaped him.