Chapter Two

Holly

I'm having a rough day.

I know people say that when Starbucks runs out of their favorite syrup, and sure, that happened to me too, but it's not the only reason my day has been awful. Maybe I should have taken it as a sign that my day was going to be hell when a man ran into me on the sidewalk, upending my caramel latte—sadly without the caramel since they were out—all over my scrubs. He didn't even stop to apologize. I was already running late for my shift, and not only did I have to rush into the locker room to clean up and borrow a fresh set of scrubs, I had to go to work uncaffeinated.

Perhaps I could have made do with the disgusting hospital coffee and suffered through my shift, but it only got worse when I walked into a code blue and was quickly thrown into action, the adrenaline only wearing off hours later when the patients were all in stable condition. Before I could even settle down for a break, my supervisor was in my face, yelling at me for arriving for my shift a few minutes late. Minutes after he'd left, my phone lit up with a message from the bank reminding me to pay my mortgage by the end of the month, or they'll seize the house.

Christ, the thought of losing the house my aunt left me makes my heart clench with grief, but there is no way I can get that much money in two weeks. I barely have eighty bucks in my account, and even that has to last me until my next paycheck.

The final cherry on top of my shit day was when my supervisor found me just as I was about to leave to tell me a coworker had called in sick and I was needed to work a double. Despite how exhausted I was, I could only agree. I need as much overtime as I can get.

So yeah, I am indeed having a bad day, and all I want is to grab the bottle of wine I was gifted a few months ago and take a warm bath in an attempt to forget about everything. I'm not even going to bother with a glass. I'll drink the wine straight from the bottle.

The plan is simple, and I focus on that during the bus ride home. As much as I hate taking the bus, I have to save wherever possible, and the price of gas far exceeds the cost of a bus pass. I pull out my phone, tempted to spend money I can't afford to waste on a pizza, but my phone dies before I can even open the delivery app, saving me from myself.

I kick my shoes off the second I step into my house, dropping my purse to the floor. I am tempted to just collapse on the couch, but I force myself to stay up. I hightail it straight to the kitchen and dig around in the cabinets for the wine a friend from work got me for my twenty-fourth birthday a few months ago. I'm not much of an alcohol drinker, and I was going to regift it to someone that would actually appreciate the expensive bottle, but now, I am glad I kept it because I plan on indulging myself tonight.

Now if I can only remember where I stashed the darn thing.

"Where the hell is it?" I whisper impatiently, flipping open cabinets as I search for the bottle and letting out a triumphant sound when I find it. I grab it, but before I can open it, I hear a faint noise that makes me freeze. I stand still and wait for it to come again, and when it does, goosebumps rise all over my body.

The noise is low, but it sounds like the moan of a person in pain.

Oh fuck, did I walk in on a robbery? I blink back tears at the thought, more resigned than afraid.

This is my life. The hits just keep coming.

I grab the wine bottle by the neck and creep out of the kitchen, my survival instincts nonexistent. It would make much better sense for me to sprint out of the house and yell for my neighbors to call the cops, but I am more pissed than afraid. Life is already trying to cripple me, and now someone thinks they can just sneak into my house and get away with it? This house is the only thing left that I care about.

I'm not really sure what I plan to do when I see the intruder. I know that I won't be able to bring myself to actually hurt someone. I am a nurse, after all. But maybe brandishing it at them will be enough to scare them off. It's a plan that makes little sense, but my brain is at capacity.

I lift the wine bottle like it's a baseball bat and tiptoe through the house, listening for more noises. I check the two spare bedrooms as the most obvious places to look for something to steal, but they're empty. For a second, I think I imagined the noises, but just as I turn back toward the kitchen, I hear something again. This time, I can tell it's coming from the master bedroom's en suite.

I rush in there with the wine bottle poised to attack, but I am met with a horrific scene. Instead of the masked intruder I expected to be rifling through my things, a man lies passed out and bleeding on my bathroom floor.

All my nursing instincts take over, and I drop to my knees, quickly reaching for his wrist to check his pulse. It's slow but steady, and while this man is clearly injured, the fact that he is still alive is promising.

Since his top half is bare, it's easy to see the wound on his bicep. It looks like he was trying to bandage it when he lost consciousness. I quickly grab a clean towel from a drawer and apply pressure to his bleeding arm. For a moment, I think he's starting to come around because his eyes flutter and his body tenses slightly, but he falls slack against the tub again.

With my free hand, I reach for the sterile pads scattered on his lap still in their wrappers. I manage to get a couple open and replace the towel with the cotton pads. I'm almost certain he will need stitches, but this will do for now. His lack of consciousness is far more concerning.

"I need to call for an ambulance," I mutter to myself, looking around for the man's phone since mine is still dead in my bag. The man's eyes snap open suddenly and meet mine, sucking the breath from my lungs as I gaze into intense hazel eyes.

"No," he whispers weakly. "D-don't call."

Yeah, right. "I am not letting you die on my bathroom floor," I scold gently, reaching for his jacket and digging my fingers into it for his phone, gasping when they close around a metal object that I immediately realize is a gun.

I pull my hand back quickly and swallow hard before digging around in the other pocket, but it's empty. With no way to call for help, I consider my options quickly. I made an oath to save lives, and I cannot in good conscience not help this man.

His eyes flutter open again, and with a burst of energy, he reaches with his uninjured arm for my hand, grasping it tightly. For someone who's clearly exhausted and in pain, he really has a strong grip on my hand.

"Please. Help me." His words are slightly slurred, but clear enough.

I don't know what is going on or how he came to be in my house of all places, but my instincts are screaming at me to help him. There is something earnest in his expression that I can't ignore. I want to argue and remind him that the hospital is his best chance, but it's obvious I won't convince him. It makes sense if his wounds have anything to do with the gun in his pocket. Hospitals are required to report any gunshot-related or suspicious injuries. He wouldn't have broken into my house if he wasn't involved in something criminal. Still, something about his presence, despite his massive frame and the defined muscles of his torso and arms, makes me feel safe.

Shit, I am going to be in so much trouble for this.

"Okay," I say, reaching for the open first-aid kit on the bathroom counter. His hand drops from mine to rest on my thigh as I take out the antiseptic wipes, scissors, more sterile pads, bandages, and a staple suture gun. As I arrange everything I'll need on a clean towel before pulling on a pair of latex gloves, I whisper a silent prayer of thanks that my aunt, who'd been a traveling nurse, had kept this kit after her retirement—and that I hadn't thrown it out when she'd passed away.

I've done this plenty of times before, and even with limited equipment, I manage to clean, close, and dress his wound quickly. The man barely makes a sound as I tend to him. He'll need antibiotics to reduce the risk of infection, but there's nothing I can do about that now. I'll have to try again to convince him to go to the hospital when he's more lucid.

"I'm totally going to lose my nursing license," I whisper, more to myself than the man on my bathroom floor. To him, I ask, "Can you stand? We should get you someplace more comfortable than the tile floor."

"I think so," he says, then uses his good arm to brace against the tub as he stands. He's unsteady, so I dart forward, wrap my arms around his waist, and drape his arm over my shoulders.

Once he's on his feet, I give him a moment to get his bearings before slowly helping him out of the bathroom. I consider taking him to one of the spare bedrooms or even the couch, but I'm not convinced he'd make it that far, and he is much too large for me to move. Instead, I guide him over to my bed and help him settle against the headboard. Once he's seated, I check his wound to make sure the movement hasn't torn anything open, but the staples are holding nicely.

"How is your head feeling?" I ask.

"Like it's being split open. The light hurts."

I move quickly to turn off the overhead light that I'd turned on when I'd come searching for an intruder, leaving the bathroom light on, but pulling the door halfway closed so I have enough light to see.

"Did you hit your head? You might have a concussion. How's your vision?"

"It's better than it was," he tells me. "And yeah, I took a blow to the back of my head. I've been in and out of consciousness a few times."

Shit. Head wounds are not something to mess with. This man really needs a hospital. He must see the look in my eyes even in the dim lighting because he reaches out and snags my wrist.

"Promise me," the man demands, his glazed eyes boring into mine. "Promise me you won't call."

"You need to go to the hospital. If you have brain trauma or bleeding, you could die. If something happens to you—"

"No," he cuts me off. "No matter what, you can't call. I'll be fine."

He's clearly tired and struggling to stay awake, and for some reason, it hurts me to read the desperation in his eyes. It chips at my resolve. Despite my better judgment, I nod. "I promise. But I am going to wake you up throughout the night. If you aren't immediately responsive after the first attempt, I'm calling for an ambulance. I'm not letting you die in my house."

He nods reluctantly. "Fair enough." It seems he was waiting for my reassurance because his head finally falls against the pillow, and he's out cold in seconds.

I study him for a long minute, hating him a little when I consider the position he's put me in—that I've let him put me in. It's clear he is some kind of criminal, and I'm pretty sure I saw a motorcycle club patch on his jacket. My aunt must be rolling in her grave right now. From the time I came to live with her as a child, she'd ingrained in me that MCs and men on motorcycles could never be trusted.

I can only hope this man is somehow different. As I take in his features, I realize how devilishly handsome he is. He has a prominent nose, full beard, and pouty lips. Every inch of him is masculine and dangerous, with a body covered in tattoos. He isn't old, but the lines around his eyes and mouth even in sleep suggest a life hard lived. He looks to be in his early or mid-thirties.

Despite what I promised, I know I need to call the police.

I leave the bedroom and go straight to my purse, pulling out my cell phone. I plug it in and set it on the kitchen counter to charge. It's not too late to call the cops and report this incident to them. I might not even get in trouble if I call now. But something holds me back.

I run my fingers through my dark hair in frustration as I stare down at my charging phone. I'm going to have to stay up all night to check on him every hour. I need to get a look at his head wound too. He will also need to be monitored for a fever and any signs of shock. The hospital, of course, would be the perfect place for those things to happen. He would be monitored twenty-four-seven by fully equipped staff, and . . . the cops.

Make the call, Holly!

Surely, I cannot be hesitating and risking my very livelihood because I made a promise to a stranger, can I? Because that would be insane, and yet . . .

With a sigh, I walk to my bathroom and get out the cleaning supplies. With shaky fingers, I pick up the man's jacket, a shudder running through my body when I feel the weight of the gun in its pocket. I carefully take out the gun and place it in a drawer, hoping that now that it's out of sight, I won't have to think about it any longer.

"It's not too late to report him, Holly. You don't know this man!" my conscience admonishes, but I ignore that little voice as I pick up his discarded t-shirt lying on the floor. The jacket and shirt are coated with blood, but I block out everything in my head as I rinse them off in the tub.

I have never been in trouble with the law before. Hell, I was such a good student in school that everyone called me the teacher's pet, even if I did nothing but strive to get good grades. I put my head down all through college and worked hard to graduate with honors.

Everything I have done, including mortgaging the house my aunt left me to pay my college tuition, was so that I could be a nurse. All my sweat, tears, and blood were put into that one goal, and now . . .

I swipe my hair back as I take the shirt to the washing machine and hang the jacket to dry before heading back to scrub the bathroom. I focus on my task as I get to work, cleaning every inch of the bathroom until it's spotless and the strong smell of antiseptic has been replaced with the lemon scent of the cleaner.

With that done, I walk back to my bedroom to check on my patient. The man who is undoubtedly going to change my whole life.