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.
