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.
