Page 51 of Carnal Urges
DECLAN
“It’s a subdural hematoma. Small, but dangerous. The mortality rate on these types of brain injuries is high. If the blood clot doesn’t resolve on its own in forty-eight hours, she’ll need surgery to relieve the pressure inside the skull and repair the injured vessels.”
“What’s the mortality rate?”
“The frequency of death in a certain population over a specific period of time.”
I have to physically restrain myself from pulling out my gun and shooting this idiot doctor in the face. “I meant what’s the mortality rate for subdural hematomas?”
“Oh, sorry. Fifty to ninety percent.”
That stuns me. “You’re telling me that most people with this condition die?”
“At least half of them, yes.”
When I stare at him in horror, he quickly backtracks.
“But most of these injuries are seen in the elderly or in patients who’ve been in car accidents or other highly traumatic events.Considering the age and overall health of this patient, her chances are much better than average.”
I hear myself growl, “They better be. If she dies, so do you.”
Because he knows who I am, he goes white. I jerk my chin at Kieran, who ushers the doctor out of the room before he can lose control of his bowels.
When the door closes, I tell Kieran, “Lock this whole fucking hospital down. Post men at all the exits and entrances and outside her room. Vet every person who wants to access this floor, including staff. Call O’Malley at the precinct and tell him we’re in charge of Mass General until further notice. I don’t want police interference, and I definitely don’t want anyone trying to kidnap my captive.”
“Aye, boss.”
He turns to leave.
“And Kieran?”
He turns back to me, waiting.
“I’m putting you in charge of this because I think that’s what she’d want. Don’t disappoint me.”
He vows, “I won’t, boss. Nobody will get near our lass.”
Our lass.Christ, now she’s the team mascot?
Kieran sees my face and does the smart thing and leaves.
When I’m alone in the empty room, I take a moment to compose myself. Then I enter the adjoining room where Sloane is.
Pale but alert, she’s sitting up in bed, playing with the TV remote control, clicking through channels. When she sees me, however, she stops.
“Oh god. It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“Aye. Subdural hematoma. There’s at least a fifty percent chance you’ll die.”
After a beat, she says, “Gee, don’t sugarcoat it.”
“Would you want me to?”
“No. But you don’t have to look so happy about it, either.”
I sit in the chair next to the bed, drag a hand through my hair, and sigh. “I’m not happy about it.”
“So that’s your sad face?”
