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He walked back inside.
Chapter 28 - Sloane
The rock gave out under her left boot.
She felt the surface crumble, her weight already committed to the downhill stride. Her ankle turned. She grabbed for the nearest branch, missed, caught the next one with her palm sliding on bark. Her leg swung wide. The edge of the outcrop caught her shin below the knee, stone ripping through her leggings in a clean, vicious line.
She hit the ground on her hip. Rolled. Lay still.
The gash ran from mid-shin to the top of her boot. Four inches, deep enough that the skin gaped open, the edges white for one suspended moment before the blood came. It came fast. Bright red, sheeting down her calf, pooling in the fold of her boot.
She tore a strip off her tank top. Wrapped it tight, knotted it once. The fabric darkened immediately. She stood, tested the leg, started walking.
The compound was twenty minutes downhill. She made it in thirty-five, catching herself on tree trunks when the leg buckled, her jaw locked against sounds she refused to make.
Her cottage was empty. She went straight to the kitchen sink, turned the tap, and unwound the bandage with clumsy fingers. The water ran pink. She was braced against the counter, working a cloth over the wound, when the door opened.
Chris filled the doorway. His eyes went to her face, then her leg, then back to her face.
“Training,” she said. “I slipped.”
He crossed the room in four strides, pulled a chair from the table, and set it beside the sink.
“Sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding. Sit down.”
She sat. Not because he told her to, but because her leg was shaking badly enough that standing was becoming a performance she wasn’t sure she could hold.
Chris crouched in front of her. He took her calf in both hands, turned her leg toward the light. She watched him study it with the same focused attention he gave ward maps.
“It needs cleaning. Proper cleaning.”
He went to the cabinet above the stove, came back with a first-aid kit she hadn’t known was there. Gauze, antiseptic, tape. He soaked a pad, crouched again. His hand cupped the back of her calf, steadying her.
“This is going to sting.”
She nodded, bracing herself.
He pressed the pad to the cut. She hissed through her teeth. He worked in silence, cleaning the wound in slow passes, his thumb running a line just below her knee that was firm enough to be medical, gentle enough to be something else.
“You didn’t have to come,” she said at last, breaking the silence.
“The bond went sharp forty minutes ago. I left the briefing.”
“Viktor must have loved that.”
“Viktor told me to go.” He turned the pad, found a clean section. “He could see it. I suppose he understands better than even I do.”
Her mouth pulled. She looked at the ceiling.
“I’m not used to this,” she said. The words left her mouth before she’d approved them.
“Used to what?”
“Being looked after.”
