"Mari," Derek said softly, his voice a low rumble in the quiet tent.
Marissa stopped moving. Her hand, which had been adjusting a silver fork, froze. She stood still for a heartbeat, her back rigid. Then, she slowly raised her head.
She looked at him. Her eyes swept over his wet hair, plastering to his forehead. She looked at his bare chest, slick with water droplets that caught the candlelight. She looked at his damp trousers clinging to his legs.
"You are wet," she observed. Her voice was calm, almost conversational, but Derek could hear the undercurrent of anger vibrating beneath the surface.
"I was bathing," Derek said stupidly, stating the obvious because his brain had temporarily stopped working.
"I see," Marissa said, her voice turning cold. She picked up a linen napkin and folded it with sharp, precise movements. "Cleanliness is important, even in war."
