ripped near the ribs. His watch was expensive too, a heavy silver thing that caught the flashlight with a dull gleam.
His face was pale beneath a sheen of sweat.
But his eyes were not weak.
They fixed on Claire with such cold, violent focus that her body finally remembered to be afraid.
“Leave,” he said.
Claire looked at the blood pooling beneath his hip.
“No.”
She dropped to her knees beside him.
The moment she reached for his wound, his free hand shot up and wrapped around her wrist.
His grip was shockingly strong.
“You do not know what you are doing,” he rasped.
“I know exactly what I’m doing,” Claire snapped, more out of terror than confidence. “You have a gunshot wound, you’ve lost a dangerous amount of blood, and you’re trying to intimidate the only person in this room who can keep you alive. Let go.”
His eyes narrowed.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then his grip loosened.
Claire pulled his hand away from the wound and pushed his coat aside. That was when she saw the gun holstered at his hip.
Her mouth went dry.
The details snapped together with awful clarity.
The tailored clothes. The expensive watch. The weapon. The fact that he was bleeding in her garage instead of an ambulance bay.
This was not a random victim.
This was a man other dangerous men had tried to kill.
Claire reached for her phone.
“I’m calling an ambulance.”
His hand closed over hers again.
“No hospitals. No police.”
“You don’t get to make that decision when you’re bleeding on my floor.”
“I do tonight.”
“You need a trauma room.”
“I need to not be found.”
The words landed between them like a warning bell.
Claire stared at him.
“Who’s looking for you?”
His jaw tightened.
“People you do not want to meet.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one that keeps you alive.”
Claire should have stopped then.
She knew it. Even before everything that came after, even before the black SUV, before the men at her door, before the name Luca Moretti started appearing in news articles she suddenly wished she had never read, she knew this was the moment where a smarter woman would have chosen herself.
But Claire Bennett had spent three years being trained to make impossible choices fast. She knew what happened when bleeding went unchecked. She knew how quickly a person’s face could turn gray. She knew the difference between drama and shock.
This man was not pretending.
He was dying.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
He hesitated just long enough for her to know he considered lying.
“Luca.”
“Last name?”
“No.”
“Fine. Luca No Last Name, I’m Claire. I’m going inside for supplies. You’re going to stay awake, keep pressure on this wound, and not shoot anyone while I’m gone.”
His mouth twitched despite the pain.
“You give orders like you expect them followed.”
“I work in the ER. I’m used to men arguing while actively bleeding out.”
She stood, but his voice stopped her before she reached the door.
“Claire.”
She turned.
The way he said her name made the garage feel smaller.
“You should not help me,” he said. “You should leave me here.”
She looked at him, really looked.
