Hot.

It felt like someone was jabbing red‑hot wires straight into her bones, slow and vicious.

Rosalind Whitmore let out a muffled groan, forcing her heavy eyelids apart.

Everything was dark. The thick curtains only allowed a few streaks of moonlight to slip in.

This wasn’t right. This definitely wasn’t the hospital room she remembered from the twenty‑first century.

In her nose—aside from that unmistakable soap smell unique to state‑run guesthouses—there was something else mixed in. A man’s scent.

The hard plank bed under her made her whole body ache, and the rough army‑green sheet scratched against her skin.

Where the hell was she?

Rosalind’s head was a total mess, like someone had boiled her brain into porridge. And then, all at once, memories crashed over her, pouring in like a broken dam.

1985. August fifteenth. Mid‑Autumn night.

Third floor of the state‑run guesthouse.

Yvette Whitmore’s smug face, the one she could never hide… and that cup of doctored orange soda…

She was back.

Back to the night that had wrecked her entire life.

In her last life, she’d drunk that soda, stumbled around half‑conscious, walked into the wrong room, and fallen straight into that bastard Xavier Morrison’s arms.

Then Yvette had marched in with people to “catch them in the act.”

For the sake of “reputation,” Rosalind had been forced to marry Xavier… and ended up dying miserably on a cold operating table.

Rosalind bit down hard on the tip of her tongue.

The stabbing pain cut through the fog in her mind.

She remembered now. This time, with the last bit of strength she had, she hadn’t run to Xavier’s 302.

Instead, she’d shoved open the door to 301 next door.

So… this is room 301?

The sound of running water suddenly cut off.

A soft click came from the bathroom door handle.

Rosalind Whitmore’s heart shot right into her throat. She froze on the spot, barely daring to breathe.

A tall, broad figure stepped out of the bathroom.

His upper body was bare, a towel hanging low around his waist. Water trailed along every hard, defined line of muscle, dripping off him and sliding into the towel’s edge. It was the kind of sight that made it impossible to look away.

In the dim room, those wide shoulders and tight waist gave off a quiet, terrifying strength.

Rosalind swallowed before she even realized it. That build was insane—way, way above Xavier Morrison’s, whose body had long been wrecked by booze and women.

The man didn’t seem to notice someone lying on the bed. He just walked over to the table, grabbed a pack of cigarettes, and bit one between his lips.

He didn’t light it. Just held it there, not too loose, not too tight.

A soft scratch—

The match flared, lighting up half his face.

High brows. Straight nose. Jawline sharp enough to cut someone.

Tough. Cold. And carrying that unmistakable authority of someone who’d been at the top for a long, long time.

Rosalind’s breath hitched.

Magnus Morrison.

It was actually Magnus Morrison.

Xavier’s elusive uncle—the one person in the entire Morrison family nobody dared to cross. The living “grim reaper.”

In her last life, he’d already become a legendary commander before he even hit his prime.

She was thinking about him again—the one person who’d shown her even a sliver of kindness right before she died.

And right then, the drug in her system surged again.

Rosalind Whitmore felt the heat slam into her, fiercer than before, like she was being held over open flames.

The man in front of her suddenly seemed like the only lifeline she had left.

Magnus Morrison must’ve picked up on something. He heard a second breath—urgent, shaky—not his.

The match in his fingers snapped with a sharp crack.

He whipped around, gaze slicing straight toward the bed like a blade.

“Who’s there?”

His voice was low, icy, and rough around the edges, the kind that made people instinctively tense.

Rosalind knew she had no other options left.

Outside the door, messy footsteps thudded closer, mixed with Yvette Whitmore’s sharp, shrill voice.

She’d brought them here.

If Rosalind ran out now, she’d land right in Yvette and Xavier Morrison’s hands. And that ending… would be even uglier than the one she’d lived through before.

Better to gamble everything than fall into the trap of those two.

Rosalind threw off the blanket in one desperate motion. Using every bit of strength in her burning body, she stumbled forward and crashed straight into the man’s arms.

“Please… help me…”

Her voice came out soft and trembling, thick with tears.

Magnus went rigid on impact.

A warm, feverish body had suddenly pressed against him. Even through the fabric, the heat rolling off her was enough to set anyone on edge.

And then there was that scent—sweet, dizzying—wrapping around him and sinking straight into his lungs.

Magnus Morrison had spent ten solid years buried in military life, and getting this close to a woman was… yeah, absolutely not his comfort zone. His first instinct was pure reflex — shove her away.

His rough, calloused hands clamped down on Rosalind Whitmore’s shoulders, ready to peel her off him.

"Let go!"

His voice dropped low, sharp, a vein at his temple throbbing hard.

But Rosalind wasn’t letting go of anything.

The cool scent of a fresh shower lingered on him, and the second she touched him, that burning heat under her skin eased just a little. She clung tighter, scrambling up like someone drowning who’d suddenly seized a lifeline.

Her slender arms locked around his neck, and her flushed face rubbed helplessly against the solid planes of his chest.

"Not letting go…"

"I’m burning up…"

"Please… help me…"

Her mind was slipping, thoughts melting into a haze. Her lips brushed over his collarbone without meaning to, leaving a warm, wet streak across his skin.

Magnus’s breath stuttered, completely thrown off.

Twenty‑eight years of rigid discipline, and he was still a normal man — this kind of temptation was a straight-up ambush. Heat shot up the back of his skull, instincts surging faster than his brain could keep up.

The hand that had been pushing her away somehow ended up resting at her waist.

Her waist was so slim he could probably span it with one hand. Soft, too — dangerously soft.

Magnus clenched his jaw, dragging himself back from the edge.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Who sent you here?"

He had just wrapped up a covert mission, and things were tense as hell. God knew how many people were watching him right now. It was hard not to wonder if someone had tossed a honey trap straight at his face.

Rosalind Whitmore could barely make out a single word he said. All she felt was that his muscles were way too solid, pressing against her and making her squirm in discomfort.

She let out a small, annoyed whimper. Her hand started wandering down his chest, restless and desperate, like she was hunting for a cooler spot to cling to.

Magnus Morrison’s abs tightened instantly, going rigid like a slab of stone. He grabbed her wandering hand in a quick, forceful grip, strength slipping out of his control.

"Stay still."

His voice came out low and rough, like it dragged through gravel.

"Mm… it hurts…"

Her wrist throbbed under his hold. She frowned hard, and tears welled up uncontrollably.

She tipped her face up toward him. Even in the dark, those watery eyes stared at him without blinking, painfully soft and helpless.

Magnus froze, his grip loosening without him even realizing it.

He looked down at the girl in his arms. Her hair was a total mess, her face flushed to the point of glowing, and the strap of her nightdress had slipped off, exposing a stretch of pale skin.

He sucked in a harsh breath, ready to toss this troublesome girl back onto the bed, when a sudden commotion burst from the hallway outside. His movements halted instantly.

"This one! Room 301!"

"I saw Rosalind go in myself! She must’ve misunderstood Xavier and ran off to find another man!"

"Hurry! Kick the door in! We can’t let my sister do something stupid!"

That fake, sugary tone—Rosalind could recognize Yvette Whitmore even with her eyes shut.

"Yvette, calm down… what if you’re mistaken…" Xavier Morrison put on his best ‘reasonable’ act beside her.

"Mistaken about what? A man and a woman hiding together behind a locked door—what do you think they’re doing?"

Rosalind’s whole body shook harder, fear flooding her eyes in an instant.

She clung to Magnus Morrison’s arm like she was drowning, her nails digging so deep he could feel the sting.

"Don’t open the door…"

"Please…"

"They’ll kill me if they get in…"

Magnus lowered his head to look at her. Her eyes were filled with raw panic, like she’d already fallen off a cliff and was grabbing him as the last branch.

He had no clue what mess was going on, but that whole “catching someone cheating” drama outside? He’d seen that routine plenty of times.

Normally, he wouldn’t bother sticking his nose into this kind of trouble.

But right now, this trembling woman was literally in his arms.

And the worst part was… the second she touched him, instead of pushing her away, something hot and instinctive curled up in his chest, making his pulse thrum in a way he didn’t want to admit.

The doorknob rattled violently from the other side.

"The door’s locked! There’s definitely something shady going on!"

"Kick it! I said kick it down!"

Bang.

Bang. Bang.

Each slam hit Rosalind Whitmore like a hammer straight to the heart, making her breath hitch in fear.

She shut her eyes, hopelessness washing over her.

It’s over.

She finally got another shot at life, and she was still going to fall into the same damn trap?

Right then, a broad, warm hand cupped the back of her head and gently pushed her face into a solid chest that radiated heat.

Magnus’s low voice rumbled above her, steady and unshakable.

"Don’t be afraid."

Just those two words, and Rosalind Whitmore’s panicked heart suddenly steadied, like someone had hit a pause button on all her fear.

Magnus Morrison kept one arm around her as he strode to the bed. Without the slightest hesitation, he tucked her straight into the blankets. The quilt wrapped her up tight like a dumpling, leaving only her eyes peeking out.

“Stay put. Don’t move.”

With that, he turned and headed for the door.

His tall, solid figure moved with a calm certainty, like a wall that could block out every bit of trouble trying to break in.

Rosalind curled deeper into the blanket cocoon. The faint, clean scent he’d left on the pillow drifted around her, and her heart—which had been racing like it wanted to jump out of her chest—finally started to settle.

She watched Magnus walk to the doorway. He didn’t rush, just tightened the towel at his waist with a smooth, practiced motion. Then, right as another heavy slam hit the door from outside, he pulled it open in one decisive move…