Whispers of Destiny: His Belated Love novel Chapter 71

Rosemary was yanked out of her slumber by a persistent knocking that was playing tag with her ears – it felt both far and near, as she lived in a block with six flats on the floor, and it was anybody's guess whose door was being beaten down.

She peeled her eyes open with effort, feeling like her temperature had spiked yet again. Even her breath felt scorching and dry on her face. Exhausted and drained, she soon slipped back into the arms of Morpheus.

Outside, Maxwell had been knocking for ages without any sign of life, and calling her was a bust too. If it wasn't for the faint ringtone he could hear inside, he'd have thought Rosemary wasn't home.

The man's brows were knitted tight, and the vibe he was giving off was more aloof than usual. He dialed Christ's number: "Get a locksmith over to Apartment 603, Building 3 in the 7th complex."

Half an hour later, the door swung open.

Maxwell strode towards the bedroom without bothering with the lights; his steps were so brisk that it almost seemed like he was in a panic.

As soon as he pushed the door open, he felt the heat in the room slapped a sheen of sweat on his skin. He squinted, and in the hazy light seeping through the window, he made out the shape on the bed.

It was a small lump, curled up and lying on her side under the covers.

Rosemary was turned away from the door, deep in dreamland.

Maxwell's heart, which had been suspended in mid-air, dropped back into place, but the feeling of relief was soon replaced by a flare of anger. She'd made such a fuss about moving out on her own, and now here she was, with zero sense of caution. He'd been knocking and unlocking the door, and he was standing right in her bedroom, yet she was out like a light.

The lock on the door was a basic model, crap quality, probably only good for pretending it's locked. Forget about burglar-proof; any beefy guy could probably yank it off with a good tug.

The condo's security was a joke; he'd waltzed in twice without so much as a by-your-leave, and the neighbors were a mix of the old and sick people.

Rosemary was a single woman living in a place like this; if someone with bad intentions came along, she'd be long gone before anyone noticed the stench.

The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. Maxwell strode over and looked down at her with a scowl, "Rosemary."

No response.

But Maxwell saw her bury her face deeper into the pillow, probably sick of his nagging.

He let out a snort and bent over her: "If you can hear me, get up. Stop faking."

It was only when he got closer that he noticed the unnatural flush on the half of her face that was visible; her breathing was heavy, and her lips were parched.

Maxwell's Adam's apple bobbed, and he reached out to touch her forehead.

It was burning up. She had a fever.

Maybe it was because he'd just come from outside. But his palm felt cool against her forehead, and Rosemary, in her delirium, snuggled towards the comfort and pressed her face right against his hand.

Maxwell couldn't recall the last time they'd been so closely intertwined in such intimate dependence.

He remembered that just after they got married, she'd snuggled up to him at a night due to her menstrual cramps, hinting for him to warm his hands and place them on her stomach.

Mr. Templeton was always pampered by others; since when had he ever pampered anyone else?

He didn't warm her belly; instead, he called a doctor with a cold face.

After that, Rosemary never showed her vulnerable side in front of him again.

Now, as she leaned into him, Maxwell froze for a moment; he felt his heartbeat uncontrollably speeding up even though he knew she wasn't aware.

His palm rested on her feverishly hot and delicate face, feeling like he was touching a flame; the heat raced up his arm and spread through his body.