His Christmas Savior

Chapter 2

ODESSA

He had a knife wound. A deep, gushing wound that should have been enough to make me run away from the place, but I brought him home.

I helped him on the couch with slow, careful movements as possible, but he still groaned and growled low like a wounded tiger.

He looked around my place with a certain degree of disdain, but to his credit, he did not make it obvious as others. Once I had arranged him on the couch, I instructed him in a breathless voice, “Stay here until I am back.”

By the time I came back with the pathetic excuse for a first-aid kit, he hadn’t moved an inch. He was exactly where I’d left him, with broad shoulders propped against the couch, breath shallow, skin pale with pain. But his eyes… God, his eyes were wide open now, fixed on me like I was the only thing anchoring him to consciousness.

And it shouldn’t have mattered. He was hurt. He was suffering.

But the way he looked at me, with slow, deliberate heat that sent a rush of warmth up my neck, blooming across my cheeks in a blush I couldn’t hide, pain or not, he still managed to unravel me with a single look.

“I need to see the wound,” I said, dropping to my knees and averting my gaze from his intense ones.

Without a word, he began to unbutton his shirt. His bloodied fingers struggled with the last button when I helped him and peeled the shirt off him.

He was built like a sin carved into muscle and skin—broad chest, sculpted lines, the kind of body that made models look airbrushed and insufficient. But the moment my eyes reached the wound, the heat inside me snapped into something sharper,

“This is bad,” I muttered, looking at the deep gash.

“If we could stop the bleeding,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Look, mister, you need a doctor. This is way too risky, and I am—”

“No doctors. No hospitals.” His voice was low, rough with pain. His skin was damp, sheen with sweat. But his jaw locked tight like he was hanging on with nothing but willpower and spite.

“Fine,” I muttered under my breath, pushing my hair back with a shaky sigh. “But if your wound gets infected or my questionable first-aid skills end up killing you, that’s on you. So, don’t die on me.”

For the briefest second, something flickered at the corner of his mouth. A tiny smile of amusement, gone almost before I could convince myself it was real.

“Do your best,” he murmured, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.

I actually did try my best, though my hands trembled the entire time. Cleaning the gash with disinfectant was torture, for both of us, I’m sure, but the pathetic collection of supplies in my apartment made it even worse. My medical kit was the kind you buy at a dollar store to make yourself feel prepared. Not exactly ideal for patching up a half-dead stranger.

What unsettled me most wasn’t the blood, or even the severity of the wound, but it was him. This man didn’t make a sound, not a grunt, not a hiss, and not even a twitch. Anyone else would have been howling or threatening to punch me for pouring disinfectant into open flesh. But he… he just breathed through it, slow and steady, like pain was an old friend he’d learned to tune out.

At one point, when he turned his head slightly away, I caught a clean view of his face. And God, I wish I hadn’t. It only made everything harder. He had the kind of masculine beauty that hit you low in the stomach with sharp jaw, defined cheekbones, lashes too long for a man who looked this dangerous. And the scent rolling off him… warm, dark, a shockingly expensive cologne that didn’t belong anywhere near my tiny apartment.

Focus, i***t, I scolded myself while wrapping the bandage. He could be anyone. A criminal. A fugitive. Someone very, very bad.

Because who else refuses hospitals and cops?

My stomach tightened. “I really shouldn’t have brought him home,” I whispered under my breath.

“Then why did you?”

I jumped. His eyes were open now—sharp, awake, staring straight into me. The intensity of that gaze almost knocked the air out of my lungs.

“What?” I squeaked, caught completely off guard.

“Why did you bring me home?” he repeated, his voice low, cutting straight through every excuse I could have made.

Heat crawled up my neck. “Clearly… I’m an i***t,” I muttered, looking anywhere but at him.

I expected him to push more, needle me, mock me. But he didn’t. He let my answer hang there, accepted or ignored, but I couldn’t tell which. I finished bandaging him as well as I could, though the result wasn’t anything to be proud of. When I finally washed my hands and tossed the bloody cotton into the trash, my heart was still thudding too fast.

“I need another favour,” he said quietly, the strain in his voice unmistakable now.

I turned toward him. “What is it?”

“Painkiller.”

“Right. There’s a pharmacy two blocks away. No idea if it’s open, though.” I grabbed my purse, already mentally calculating what cheap generic brand I could still afford.

“Wait.” His voice was weak, but still somehow commanding. “My jacket. There’s money inside. You’ll need it.”

I stared at the coat draped over the armrest—heavy, dark, expensive-looking. My instinct screamed at me to refuse, to cling to the last shreds of pride I had left. But pride didn’t pay rent, and my wallet was practically empty.

With a sigh, I reached into the jacket pocket.

My fingers brushed crisp bills. Stacks of them.

I froze.

It was more money than I had seen in… God, years. Definitely not the kind of cash normal people carried around for emergencies.

Slowly, I turned my gaze back to him. “Christ,” I whispered. “What do you do for a living?”

He didn’t answer. Of course, he didn’t. His eyes had fallen shut again, his breathing slow and uneven.

Maybe I had just invited the wrong man into my home.

And maybe, just maybe, it was already too late to undo any of it.