Broken Warrior (The Weavers Circle 1)

“You’ve got a noticeable knot on your head. Sure about the hospital? You could have a concussion.”

“I was attacked last night and hit my head pretty hard, but I don’t think I have a concussion.”

“What happened to your chest? It looks like an animal got to you.”

Clay squinted at the slashes he could easily see through the ripped T-shirt. “The guy had some kind of clawed glove on or something, I guess. I couldn’t see really well. It all happened so fast, and there were several of them. Busted into my motel room and attacked. But they’ve been after me a while.”

“Why?”

Clay sighed and closed his eyes for a moment against the throb in his head. “No clue. All I know is, they stink to high heaven, and they’re ruthless motherfuckers.”

“Come on. Let me help you get this shirt all the way off.”

“Just rip it. It’s ruined anyway.”

Dane easily ripped the shirt away and winced when he got a good look at the wounds on Clay’s chest. Four fairly deep gouges went from under his arm to the middle of his stomach. “You should wash those, and then we’ll doctor them up with antibiotic cream. I’ve got some in my first aid kit in the truck. Go ahead and shower. Just knock on the door when you’re done.”

“Thanks. I appreciate the help.”

“No problem.” Dane turned and left the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Clay stood and the room swayed for a moment. He grabbed on to the counter and shut his eyes until everything felt normal. When he opened his eyes, he truly saw the bathroom for the first time. Holy. Fuck.

When Dane had helped him through the house, the interior had an air of neglect and disuse to it. What decorations were to be found looked dated and more than a little dusty. But this bathroom, it was like something out of a ritzy hotel or maybe someone’s incredibly extravagant house. Warm marble countertops and floors stretched on and on. There was a giant whirlpool tub on a tiny platform in front of a massive stained-glass window, and the damn thing was calling his name. The shower was big enough for more than one person and had three different shower heads.

But more than the beauty, the room looked prepared with stacks of fluffy towels. There was a mix of toiletries with a subtle woodsy scent. A razor. Even a toothbrush still in its original packaging. Jo had said she’d readied the room for him yesterday.

Yesterday.

She’d obviously known he’d be here, had deliberately come after him the night before, and he could only be thankful for her and her shotgun.

For now, he would let that go and concentrate on getting his blood-crusted jeans off. It took him a while to get them free of his legs. The bottoms of his feet were cut up from running barefoot through the parking lot, too.

He got into the shower and stood under the hot water for a moment, letting it wash over him. It stung when it hit his wounds, but he gritted his teeth and washed them anyway. He had no idea what could have been on those…claws. He’d told Dane it had been a glove, but that was because he was doubting what he’d seen. Those claws had looked pretty damn attached to the hand that wielded them.

It hurt like hell to wash the slashes, but he made himself be thorough. By the time he got out of the shower, the pain was unbearable. He wrapped a towel around his waist and bypassed the knocking on the door, just opened it and staggered through to the bed.

Dane was standing in the room with his duffle and a first aid kit. He dropped everything to help Clay to the bed. Clay would have preferred a pair of sweats, but he didn’t have the energy to dig them out. He got into bed in the towel.

Once he had the blankets situated over his groin, he pulled the towel out and handed it to Dane. “Thanks again for your help.”

“You’re not going to be thanking me in a moment. We should use Peroxide on those wounds, and it’s going to hurt.”

Clay closed his eyes rather than rolling them. It was his kind of luck. “Do it. I don’t want them getting infected.”

“What kind of fucker wears a glove with claws on it?” Dane muttered as he got out the first aid supplies.

“Who knows?”

Dane put the towel against Clay’s side and cautiously poured Peroxide on the wounds. “Fuck, sorry.” He grimaced when Clay went taut.

They both watched as bubbles formed over the wounds. “Guess that was a good idea,” Clay whispered, voice rough from the pain.

Dane smeared antibiotic ointment gently on the slashes, then stood there. “I’d cover them up, but I don’t have anything big enough.”