A smile breaks across her face as Derrica flattens her palm lightly over the damp fabric. The soft glow of her magic follows after; yes, she is so inclined. Loxley's coat blots the brightness of it, sends stray beams slanting up oddly across chin and jaw.

"I'm not hurt," Derrica tells him. There is a dull ache across the side of her face that might be an ugly bruise in the morning, with a matching set splotched along her thigh and hip. "It could have been so much worse."

How easy would it have been to cut her throat rather than try to haul her away?

Her palm is tacky with his blood when she lifts it, only just enough to slip her arms in beneath his coat.

"I didn't even see him coming," is accompanied by a frown, but not any kind of blame. Just...assessing. Knowing a danger is present and experiencing the full force of it are two different things entirely.