Chapter 23

TWENTY-THREE

Evelyn's pulse hammered as she stepped into the disheveled operating room, the sharp beam from her phone cutting through the darkness. The crash of the metal tray still echoed in her ears, but what rooted her in place was the sight before her.

Blood. Dark and viscous. A slick trail leading from the operating table to the far corner of the room.

Then she saw him.

A man slumped against the wall. Clothes soaked from rain and blood, mud caked around his boots. His face, pale and drawn, glistened with sweat. And in his hand, steady despite the agony in his eyes, a gun. And it was pointed directly at her.

Evelyn’s breath caught in her throat. Panic gripped her, but her medical instincts kept her feet planted. Fight or flight? Neither seemed possible. The door was too far. His aim? Rock steady.

His voice was a growl, low and ragged. “Don’t. Move.”

She couldn’t have moved even if she wanted to. Her feet were frozen, planted to this spot on the floor. Her eyes flickered over the scene, over him. The jagged tear in his thigh bled steadily, staining the floor. He wasn’t a junkie. No, this man had the look of someone who’d seen combat. Someone trained. Military.

“You… you need to leave,” she stammered, although the fear made her voice tremble.

A harsh chuckle slipped from his lips. “Tried that.” He winced as he shifted his weight. “I need help.”

The realization hit her like a gut punch. “You’re… you’re the one who shot that man.” Her voice faltered, the weight of her words heavy in the air.

He didn’t confirm it. His eyes remained cold, expression unreadable, but his silence was enough of an answer. She knew what he was capable of—and what that might mean for her.

Evelyn swallowed against her dry throat. The gun didn’t waver. She was trapped.

“Okay,” she whispered, her hands trembling as she moved toward the medical supplies. “But I need to clean the wound first. If I don’t, you’ll get an infection.”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, he seemed to weigh her words. Then he growled, “Just. Stitch.”

Her fingers fumbled for the needle and thread. The rain outside beat a frantic rhythm on the windows, echoing the fear thrumming through her veins. She worked quickly, her hands steadied by years of experience in the clinic, even though her mind screamed at her to run.

The man watched her, his eyes never leaving her face. As she stitched, Evelyn realized how deep in this mess she was.

Who was he? What was he running from?

“Done,” she said quietly, stepping back, the tension in her body refusing to release.

Exhaling slowly, he lowered the gun just a fraction. For a moment, she thought the worst might be over.

But then his legs wavered. He stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the operating table, his eyes still locked on her, but his strength was fading.

"I need ... somewhere to lay low," he rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Just until I get my strength back."

Evelyn’s heart sank. He wasn’t asking her. He was telling her. Her mind reeled. He wanted to stay? At her house? No. No way.

“You … you can’t stay with me,” she blurted, panic rising. “Please … I can’t?—”

He shook his head, silencing her plea. "It'll be over soon," he murmured, his voice low, almost soothing. "I'll be out of your hair ... and you'll never see me again."

There was no escape. She had no choice but to comply.

For now.

Rain hammered against the windshield, the rhythmic pounding almost drowned out by the roaring silence inside the car. The wipers swiped futilely, barely keeping pace with the torrent as Evelyn gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles ached. Her mind spun with frantic thoughts of escape, but every idea ended the same way: badly.

The cold metal of the Sig pressed firmly into her ribs, a constant reminder that she had no way out.

She risked a glance at the man beside her. Bishop sat pale as a corpse, his skin slick with sweat from the blood loss, but those eyes—sharp, calculating, always watching. He’d said little since they left the clinic, but the threat was unspoken but clear.

The porch light flickered through the rain as they pulled into the driveway. Evelyn’s stomach twisted with dread. Chloe was waiting inside, oblivious to the danger barreling toward her.

The hum of the engine was muted by the downpour. The car idled in the driveway, filled only with the sound of the rain’s relentless assault on the roof. The muzzle of Bishop’s gun nudged her side. "Move," he growled, his voice roughened by pain.

No choice. No escape.

The cold rain bit into her skin as she stepped out of the car, every instinct screaming at her to run, to grab Chloe and bolt, but the gun at her back ensured otherwise.

The porch creaked loudly beneath her weight, each groan of the wood like a shot fired into the quiet night. Evelyn reached for the doorknob just as it swung open.

"Mom!" Chloe’s eyes darted from her mom’s face to the shadowy figure stepping into view behind her.

Evelyn’s heart broke as she saw the realization dawning in her daughter’s wide eyes.

"Inside," Bishop ordered quietly, his voice as cold as the rain that continued to fall around them. The gun was now hidden from view, but its presence was palpable.

The warm air inside the house felt stifling compared to the chill outside. Liam, who had been sitting on the couch, shot to his feet, his eyes narrowing at the stranger following them inside.

“Who the hell?—”

“No.” Evelyn’s voice was barely a whisper, but it was enough to stop Liam in his tracks. “Don’t.”

Liam’s fists were clenched at his sides. She shook her head slightly, a silent plea not to make this worse.

"I wouldn’t," Bishop said flatly, his tone devoid of any warmth. "I’m not here for trouble. Just need a place to let my wound set. Then I’ll be out of your way by dawn."

Chloe clung to Evelyn’s arm, small fingers digging into her sleeve. Evelyn pulled her closer, her heart pounding in her chest. Bishop scanned the room with a soldier’s eye, calculating and tactical, making sure no one made a move that would change the balance of power he held.

"My husband’s clothes are in the closet," Evelyn said quietly. “They might fit.”

Bishop cast a look to Chloe for a moment before turning back to Evelyn. "Get them. No funny business," he warned, voice low and dangerous.

Evelyn moved to her bedroom closet, her hands trembling as she pulled out a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt. The scent of her late husband’s cologne still lingered faintly on the fabric, but she had no time to mourn, not with a gunman in her living room.

She made her way back and handed him the clothes.

“Tie yourselves up,” Bishop instructed, directing them toward a pile of scarves draped over a chair. “Don’t want any surprises while I change.”

Evelyn’s hands shook as she followed his command. Liam helped tie the scarves around their wrists, leaving them loose enough to slip out later if the opportunity arose. Bishop wouldn’t notice, not with the pain clouding his judgment.

He dressed quickly, but the new outfit did nothing to lessen the danger radiating off him. Sinking into Evelyn’s husband’s old leather chair, the gun still resting on his lap, his hand never strayed far from it.

“When’s your husband coming back?” he asked, his eyes never leaving Evelyn’s face.

Her throat tightened as the words caught in her chest. “He won’t. He passed away. A year ago.”

Bishop offered no sympathy or acknowledgment of her loss. He simply sat there, his back against the leather chair, the weight of exhaustion and pain pulling at his features. But his eyes—the cold, watchful eyes—remained wide open, sharp as ever.

“I just need to rest for a while,” he muttered, his voice thick with fatigue. “By morning, I’ll be gone. Out of your life. You’ll never see me again.”

Bishop’s hand rested lazily on the gun in his lap. Evelyn knew that until the sun rose, they were prisoners in their own home. And morning couldn’t come soon enough.