CHAPTER TWENTY
Derek was in the living room with the hounds. He saw Sloane’s headlights cut the darkness as her car tore down the driveway, taking the curves at a breakneck speed.
By the time the garage door went up, Derek was on his feet, heading for the side entrance. Moe, Larry, and Curly were on his heels, their shrill barks telling him they could sense something was very wrong.
He yanked open the door. The automatic light over Sloane’s car was on, illuminating the darkened garage. The door on the driver’s side of her car was ajar. And Sloane was bending over the trash can, her shoulders heaving violently as she threw up.
Derek was down the steps in an instant. It wasn’t until he got closer that the sickeningly familiar smell of blood invaded his nostrils. Simultaneously, he saw the thin stream of red dripping down Sloane’s forearm, trickling down her wrist and hand, and sliding off her fingers onto the concrete floor. The splotches quickly increased in number.
His gut clenched.
He was beside Sloane in a heartbeat. She looked up dazedly as he reached for her, not really seeing him or even being fully aware of his presence. She was in shock, her face sheet white, her eyes huge and haunted.
Derek knew she was going to pass out even before he caught her.
When Sloane opened her eyes, she was lying supine on the sofa, her head propped up on cushions. The first thing she saw was the three hounds clustered around her, their expressive little faces filled with distress.
Recall took an instant.
Shards of pain jolted her memory.
She lurched upward, her gaze darting to her right arm, even as Derek eased her back into a reclining position.
“Sh-h-h, it’s okay,” he said in as soothing a voice as he could muster. “I’ve got it under control.”
Sloane saw that he had. Her arm was elevated, resting on two sofa cushions, and Derek was using towels to apply direct pressure to the wound. The bleeding had definitely slowed down. There was a small pail with two wash-cloths floating in it sitting on the floor. The water was a nauseating shade of red.
None of it mattered. There was just one thing Sloane cared about.
“My hand?” she asked hoarsely.
“Not even a scratch,” Derek assured her. His tone was soothing, but he looked like hell. “It was just coated with the blood from your arm.” He slid his hand behind her neck and raised her head slightly so she could inspect it herself—just as he had after washing off enough blood to determine the full extent of her injury. “See for yourself.”
She stared at her hand, turning it palm up, bending and flexing each finger, and feeling a surge of relief that defied words. “Thank God,” she whispered. Her gaze flickered briefly over the towels, then lifted back to Derek’s. “How bad is my arm?”
“It looks like a flesh wound. But we’re bandaging it and getting you to the hospital.” He leaned over her, scrutinizing her face. “Are you up to the ride if I carry you to the car?”
Sloane gave him a wan smile. “You don’t have to carry me.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“Yes. I’m up for it.” She paused. “Can we take your car? Mine’s got blood on the seat and the steering wheel…”
“We’ll take my car,” Derek interjected. He rose, pointing at the towels. “Hold those against your arm while I get bandages.” Waiting until she complied, he turned to leave the room.
“Derek?”
He stopped, giving her a questioning look.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?”
His jaw was set so tightly, it looked like it might snap. “Oh, I’m going to ask you lots of questions. But first I want to make sure you’re all right. Because after that, and after I hear what you have to say, I have a feeling I might want to kill you myself.”
Sloane leaned back weakly. “If the hospital doesn’t give me some hard-core painkillers, I might just let you.” She removed her left hand from the towels just long enough to scratch the hounds’ ears. “Don’t worry, you three. I’m fine.” She kissed the tops of their little brown heads, then reached across herself again to continue applying pressure to the wound.
Derek finished the bandaging process in record time and scooped Sloane up in his arms, along with the warm fleece blanket he’d wrapped her in. Sloane would never admit it, but the truth was she was very happy to be carried to the car. She was still dizzy and nauseous, and the trembling wouldn’t stop. From past experience, she recognized the signs of shock, combined with the adrenaline drop following her combat with Xiao’s punk. She leaned back in the passenger’s seat, her head cradled by the headrest, and tried to do some slow, deep breathing to ease the symptoms.
Just as Derek started the car, she remembered something, and her head angled toward him. “The switchblade is in my car. It’s a rubber-handled automatic, maybe eight inches long, with a four-inch blade. I don’t know if the prints are too smudged to make out, other than mine. But C-6 can use it any way they need to.”