Wounded Man

Samantha’s pulse hammered. Floor it and he might shoot. Stay still, and he might kill her anyway. Damned if she did, damned if she didn’t.

“Open the door!” the man barked, voice raw and ragged.

Without thinking, she hit the unlock. He collapsed into the passenger seat, blood slick on his hands, and snapped another order:

“Drive!”

“If you want the car, take it. It’s not mine—the owner’s got insurance,” she said, voice shaking but trying to stay cool.

“I don’t want the damn car. Just drive. Anywhere. Get me the hell out of here—*now*!” he growled, gun wavering in her direction, weak but still lethal.

She threw it in gear and rolled forward as the light turned green. No clue where to go. Panic screaming in her head, one insane thought surfaced: *home*. She couldn’t explain it. She was terrified.

Like he could read her mind, he asked while she drove the dark streets:

“Your place. You live alone?”

“Yeah, by myself,” she answered on reflex. The second the words left her mouth, she cursed herself for being so honest.

“Then we’re going to your house. I need this bullet out. I can’t go back to mine,” Adam said, voice tight, hoping she’d play ball.

He was sure Oliver’s guys were staked out near his place. He had to patch the wound and juice up his phone to reach one of his people.

Samantha gripped the wheel, nerves screaming. A bleeding, armed stranger inches away—after she’d just told him she lived alone—had her spiraling about what the hell she’d do once they got there. Another thought gnawed at her: luck had officially ditched her. Everything in her life was spinning out of control, and this night was just piling on the disasters.

The silence in the car was thick, broken only by Adam’s low groans of pain. Needing to cut the tension, Samantha blurted the first thing that came to mind (not the smartest move).

“You get caught up in a robbery or something?” she asked, eyes glued to the road.

“Do I *look* like a damn mugger?” Adam shot back, turning to her, clocking the nerves in her white-knuckled grip.

“Didn’t know they had a specific build,” she fired back, sarcasm slipping through.

Adam narrowed his eyes, sizing her up. *Not just pretty—sharp tongue too,* he thought.

“If that’s what’s worrying you, relax. I’m no crook. This?” He nodded at the blood. “Gift from my girlfriend… scratch that, *ex*-girlfriend.”

Samantha flicked him a quick glance, taking in the soaked shirt. Compared to him, she’d gotten off easy—Douglas’s betrayal had only cost her a pint of ice cream and the lingering bad taste.

“Welcome to the club,” she muttered, irony thick, still not meeting his eyes.

Nerves had her running her mouth. She sucked in a breath, trying to rein it in—one wrong word and the armed guy might snap.

Minutes later, Samantha pulled up to her house. Before they got out, Adam made it clear:

“I’m not here to hurt you, so don’t do anything stupid. Just need the bullet out and my phone charged. Then I’m gone—no harm done,” he said, as earnest as he could manage.

For the first time, Samantha really looked at him. Under the dim streetlight, his face was half-shadow, but something in his eyes felt real.

“Let’s go, please. I don’t want anyone spotting us,” she said, grabbing her bag and stepping out.

Adam followed, gun still in hand, scanning every corner. No one around, but he wasn’t dropping his guard.

Only once they were inside did Adam’s shoulders loosen a fraction. Samantha turned the deadbolt, and the second she faced him again, he swayed, knees buckling. Instinct took over—she caught him, their faces inches apart. He steadied himself against her, eyes locked on hers until she jerked her gaze away, pulse hammering.

Under the dim living-room light, she finally saw him clearly. Even pale, bleeding, and half-dead on his feet, the man was *striking*—dangerous good looks that no amount of pain could erase.

“Bathroom,” he rasped, snapping her out of it. “This is gonna get messy.”

She half-carried him down the hall and eased him onto the tub’s edge. He looked like hell.

“What else do you need?” she asked, voice shaky. She didn’t know who he was, but she wasn’t letting him bleed out on her tile.

“First-aid kit, strongest booze you’ve got, thin knife or scalpel, and plug in my phone—please,” he said, surprisingly polite for a guy holding a gun ten minutes ago.

Samantha took the phone he handed her and slipped out of the bathroom to grab everything. All she wanted was for him to dig the bullet out and *leave*—praying he didn’t die on her floor. She dug a spare charger from her bag (thank God it fit) and plugged it in. Then she snagged the tequila (the only hard stuff she had besides beer) and remembered the rubbing alcohol in the cabinet. She hauled it all back, noticing he looked way too calm about this—like he’d done it a dozen times before.