22
Mick’s right arm was horribly tender, every move sent sharp twinges, sometimes down to his fingertips and sometimes up to his shoulder and neck—he’d probably wrenched it but good blocking a hundred pounds of leaping wolf. These twinges were less intense than before. Way better than the moment Patty had grabbed his arm; which was infinitely better than the screaming agony as he’d extracted his arm from the dead wolf’s mouth.
He flexed his fingers and wished to God he hadn’t. His lame attempt to suppress a sharp hiss of breath was thankfully masked by the high whine of the accelerating turboshaft engine.
So he nestled his right arm in his lap and watched Patty fly.
“You’re very smooth.”
“Why thank you, Mr. Quinn. Now shut up, I’m busy here.”
She’d taken it completely the wrong way.
