There were three types of reactions to nerve-racking situations: fight, flight, and freeze. From an early age, the former had been grilled into my kind. You fight when encountering an enemy. You give them hell.

The same could not be said for the blue-eyed man standing in front of me.

I couldn't help but watch him, the tension radiating off his stiff posture. He looked like he was trying to will himself into action, but the only thing moving was his gaze, glued to the blood spreading on his couch. For a split second, I almost felt sorry for him.

But then, I remembered: this wasn't about him. It never had been.

"Relax..." I trailed off. What was his name again? Wyatt? Warren? Winston? "I'm not going to bite."

He didn't respond. Instead, his jaw clenched tighter, and his eyes flicked briefly to the gun resting on the table between us.

Yeah, that wasn't helping.

I leaned back against the cushions, ignoring the ache in my side, and let out a low sigh. "Look, I don't need a hero right now. I just need a place to crash for a few hours."

His eyes flickered to me, doubt clouding the blue depths. "You broke into my house."

"Yes, yes. I thought we were past that already."

"You're bleeding out on my couch."

"This?" I glanced down. "A scratch. I'll be fine."

Even if it did hurt like a bitch.

"I—"

"Look, I didn't come here for a doctor. I came here for a roof over my head," I interrupted, cutting him off before he could argue. "I don't need your sympathy, and I certainly don't need you playing hero. Just let me rest, and I'll be gone before you know it."

He hesitated, his jaw working as though he wanted to say something—anything—but held it back. His eyes narrowed, the gears turning in his head. I could tell he was calculating the risk, trying to decide if helping me was a mistake he was willing to make.

Not that he had a choice in the matter. I wanted to do things the easy way, but I wasn't against relying on the hard way either.

"Why me?" He sighed, running his hand through my hair. "Why my place."

"Lionel thinks rather lowly of you," I shrugged.

I knew my brother well enough to know he wouldn't consider checking this shit excuse of a house for me which was exactly what I needed until I could figure out what the hell happened tonight.

Scratch that. I knew what happened: my men shot me. What I needed to know was why and if Lionel was behind it, but I needed to get off their radar for a few days first.

"Why me?" he asked again, his voice tinged with confusion and frustration. "You could've gone anywhere else. So why here?"

Of course, he was a whiner.

I let out a breath, my hand pressing against my side where the blood had slowed but still felt warm against my skin.

"You're weak," I muttered and he shot me an offended look. "It's true. Nobody's going to look at you and think I could be hiding in your house. You're safe."

His brow furrowed deeper. "Safe?" He seemed to choke on the word, as though it was too absurd to be true. "You're in my living room, bleeding all over my furniture, and you're telling me I'm safe?"

I shrugged or attempted to at least. "No one's looking for you. They're looking for me."

He fell silent, still staring at me like I was some kind of puzzle he couldn't quite piece together. I didn't care. Let him think whatever he wanted. I was in no shape to explain anything.

"I'm not going to get involved," he finally said and I genuinely laughed at that.

"What would you be able to do?" I eyed him. He was tall I'd give him that. A little shorter than my 6'0 stature, but not small by any means. However, he was pretty skinny for his height and clearly missed one too many trips to the gym judging by his arms and legs. To put it bluntly, he was a stick figure. I was sure I'd be able to take him even if I was injured.

That being said, he was by no means of the word ugly.

"I'm not asking you to get involved. All you need to do is keep your mouth shut for a few days and you'll be fine. I'll even make it worth your while."

He blinked at me, clearly thrown by the casual way I was treating the situation. His lips parted, but the words seemed to fail him for a moment.

"Make it worth my while?" he echoed, sounding almost incredulous.

I gave him a flat look. "Don't be dense. I see that piece of shit you call a car, this house, and not to mention the fact that you're involved with Lionel. You need money. So, keep quiet and I'll pay off whatever you owe my brother and more. Then when I'm gone, you can go back to your boring little life, pretending this was all a fever dream."

He blinked a few times and hesitatingly asked, "And if I say no?"

My eyes trailed to the gun on the table and his followed. "I think we both understand that isn't an option, no? Take the offer while I'm being nice."

He visibly swallowed, his eyes darting between me and the gun. I wasn't exactly threatening him—not directly anyway—but I knew the power dynamics. I had the upper hand, and he could feel it.

His mouth opened as if to argue, but then he closed it again, a resigned exhale escaping his lips. "Fine," he muttered.

I nodded slightly. Of course, he caved. They all did eventually. "Smart choice." He took a few steps back, glancing around the room as if he wasn't sure what to do next. He slowly started toward another room and I tilted my head, watching him. "Where are you going?"

He paused. "To my bedroom?"

This guy...

"Not happening. I don't trust you to not try and call the police. Take a seat."

"I told you I wouldn't—"

"Take a seat," I repeated sternly. He visibly deflated and walked to a chair beside the couch.

His eyes flickered to me again and he sighed. "At least let me wrap it."

I glanced down at the wound. "You want to clean the wound of the guy who broke into your house?"

"I don't want the guy who broke into my house and also happens to be the brother of my debt collector to be a corpse before the sun rises," he retorted.

I studied him for a minute, taking in the bags under his eyes and the clear exhaustion in his tone. He looked closer to a corpse than I did. I almost laughed at the irony of his words. He wasn't wrong, though. It wouldn't do either of us any good if I bled out here.

"I'll live," I told him. "But if you insist, I'm not going to stop you. However, if you try anything I'll—"

"Kill me," he finished.

"Exactly."

He stood up from his chair with a hesitation that spoke volumes, but I could see the resignation in his movements. "I need to get the first aid kit from the kitchen."

"Go on," I allowed and he turned to walk, but before he could get too far, I added, "I just have one question."

"What is it?"

"What's your name again?"