Let Me In. Donna Kauffman

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      The next thing he remembered was being jolted awake by a booming crash. He instinctively tried to dive off the bed to the floor for cover until he determined the situation, then came screamingly awake when hot daggers of pain knifed through him, pretty much everywhere.

      “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

      That was Tate’s voice, shouting, then she was there, pushing him back down onto the bed from his slumped-over position, half on–half off the mattress.

      “Heard—a crash. Thought—”

      “Never mind,” she told him, her matter-of-fact tone telling him she’d likely figured out the chain of events. “Just lie back down, you’re in no condition to—”

      “Actually,” he said, bracing his weight on one hand, on his good side, as she helped shift his legs back to the bed, “I don’t think I’m as bad off as I thought.”

      “Why? Because you didn’t actually explode an internal organ just now? We still don’t know what’s busted up in there, so—”

      “I know what shape I’m in.” Or he certainly did now. Now that the rainbow of consciousness-threatening pain was settling down into something that was merely excruciating, he was beginning to sort out the sources.

      White light flashed through the room, creating a strobe-light effect, followed almost immediately thereafter by a wall-rattling crack of thunder. Neither of them flinched, but simply continued maneuvering him back into bed.

      He put his hand on hers when she started to pull the covers around him. “I can manage.”

      She stilled. “Three hours ago you could barely move your head two inches to the right, so you’ll have to forgive me if I make assumptions regarding your general health and well-being.”

      He wanted to tell her he was the very last person whose well-being she should ever care about, but they both knew the only reason she was nursing him back to any level of health was so she could find out just how much jeopardy he’d put hers into.

      “I’m beaten, not broken,” he told her, then immediately wanted to bite his tongue off at the look that flashed across her face. “Tate—” he began, only to have her cut him off with a quick tuck of the coverlet over him, making him grunt a bit in pain.

      She continued on, straightening the corners with crisp efficiency, her gaze no longer anywhere in the vicinity of his. “Rest,” she instructed. “I’m making soup.”

      His stomach growled at that announcement, but she merely arched a brow, still not looking at him as she stalked to the door. “Sounds like a ‘yes, ma’am,’ to me. I’ll be back later.”

      And she was gone, down the hall, and from the sounds of it, out the front door, which he heard slam shut behind her a moment later.

      Straight out into the storm. But then, he supposed she was in a storm regardless of whether there was a roof over her head or not.

      I can take care of myself.

      Her words echoed in his head. As did all the others he’d heard her speak. Both here, and during her debriefing.

      He blocked those out. All of them. Because she was right. If she’d ever proven anything, and she certainly hadn’t needed to at that point in her quite illustrious career, it was that she could take care of herself.

      She hadn’t needed him then. And she most definitely did not need him now.

      The best thing he could do for her was to figure out the fastest way to get on his feet, so they could solve the problem at hand before the problem took them out of the equation.

      Of course, it would be a hell of a lot easier if he knew exactly what the problem was. He didn’t look forward to the moment when he had to explain that little detail to her. All he could hope was that she had, unwittingly or not, the information he needed to fill in the crucial parts of the equation that were still blank.

      So focus, dammit. Focus.

      And though his head pounded like it was being used as an anvil, and his body screamed like a little girl every time he moved any part of it, he spent the next twenty minutes doing as thorough and methodical an assessment of his physical situation as he could. Tate’s assessment was that his physical situation wasn’t all that great, and if anyone could be an observational judge of that, she could. But he was the best judge of all. And while realistically, Tate wasn’t that far off, he knew that willpower and a high tolerance to pain would expedite him through a fair chunk of recovery time.

      Mostly he was thankful that the past twelve hours seemed to have been the trick needed to get the last of the drugs out of his system, or at least diminished to the point where all he had left was a splitting hangover of a headache. He could live with that.

      Thunder rattled the cabin walls again as Derek slowly worked his way into more of a sitting position. Well, his head was propped up higher than his chest now, anyway. It was a start. His stomach СКАЧАТЬ