"We need to get him up the hill," Dawn said, her voice leaving no room for argument.

O'Malley nodded, though he looked like he was about to have a heart attack. "Yes, Miss."

They hoisted Jennings up. He hissed in pain as his broken leg dragged over a root. Dawn winced in sympathy but didn't stop.

"Keep the leg straight," she ordered. "Don't let it twist."

It took them five minutes to scramble up the embankment. By the time they reached the road, Dawn's lungs were burning, and her silver dress was ruined, stained black with oil and red with blood.

Catrina was standing by the open door of the Lincoln, holding an umbrella over herself. She took one look at the bloody mess they were dragging toward her and shrieked.

"Oh my god! Don't bring him here! Look at him!"

Jennings, despite his condition, turned his head. His eyes narrowed at the woman screaming.

"Open the door, Catrina," Dawn said.

"No!" Catrina blocked the entrance. "He's bleeding everywhere! He'll ruin the upholstery! And think of the liability, Dawn! If he dies in our car, we'll be sued! We should just call 911 and leave."

Jennings let out a dry, dark chuckle that turned into a cough. "Liability," he muttered.

Dawn stopped. She let O'Malley take Jennings's weight for a second. She walked up to Catrina. She was shorter than her cousin, and barefoot, but in that moment, she loomed.

"Catrina," Dawn said, her voice low and dangerous. "If you don't move, I will send Aunt Eleanor the video of you and the senator's aide from last summer's polo match. The one you paid the stable boy to delete."

Catrina froze. Her hand went to her throat. "I... I don't know what you're talking about."

"Then let's test that theory. Get in the front seat. Now," Dawn said. "And I'll also tell her about the money you skimmed from the charity fund last month."

Catrina's face went white. "You know about that?"

"I know everything," Dawn lied. She didn't know about the fund specifically, but people like Catrina always skimmed. It was a safe bet.

Catrina scrambled into the front passenger seat without another word.

"Back seat," Dawn told O'Malley.

They maneuvered Jennings into the spacious rear cabin. Dawn climbed in after him. There was barely enough room for his legs. She had to sit on the floor, kneeling beside him.

"O'Malley, go," she said. "West Wing entrance. The service road. No lights."

"Understood."

The car pulled away. Dawn immediately went to work. She ripped the hem of her dress-silk was strong, good for binding. She tied a tourniquet above the gash on his thigh.

"This is going to hurt," she warned.

"Do it," Jennings gritted out.

She tightened the knot. His body seized, every muscle locking up. He grabbed her hand, squeezing it hard enough to bruise bone.

Dawn didn't pull away. She let him anchor himself to her. She watched his face, monitoring his pain levels.

"You're a doctor," he said, his voice tight. It wasn't a question.

"I was," she corrected. "Now I'm just a liability."

He looked at her, really looked at her, through the haze of pain. "You're not a liability," he murmured, his eyes drifting shut as the shock began to set in. "You're an asset."

The drive to the estate felt like an eternity. Every bump in the road elicited a sharp intake of breath from Jennings. Dawn kept her hand on his chest, monitoring the rise and fall.

"Stay with me," she commanded softly. "Don't you dare die on my upholstery."

His lips twitched. A ghost of a smile.

When they pulled up to the service entrance of the Montgomery estate, the house was dark. Good. Aunt Eleanor went to bed at nine, but she was a light sleeper.

"Catrina, go to the main house," Dawn ordered as the car stopped. "Take a shower. Burn that dress if you have to. And say nothing."

"I'm not going to burn a Valentino," Catrina hissed, stepping out into the rain. She looked at the blood on her shoes and gagged. "You deal with this... stray. I'm washing my hands of it."

She ran toward the main entrance.

Dawn turned back to O'Malley. "Help me get him to the guest room in the West Wing. The one near the old library."

It was the most secluded room. No servants went there unless called.

They carried him in. The transition from the cold rain to the climate-controlled stillness of the mansion was jarring. The house smelled of lemon polish and old paper.

They laid him on the four-poster bed. The pristine white duvet was instantly stained red.

"I'll get the first aid kit," O'Malley said, rushing out.

Dawn stood over Jennings. He was shivering now. Shock. She needed to get his wet clothes off.

She reached for his belt.

"Buy a man a drink first," Jennings mumbled. His eyes were open again, glassy but alert.

"You're in no condition for cocktails, Mr. Stafford," she said, unbuckling the belt.

The sound of wheels rolling on hardwood floor froze her.

Whir-clack. Whir-clack.

Her mother's wheelchair.

Dawn spun around. She stepped out into the hallway just as Eleanor Montgomery rounded the corner.

Her mother looked frail. The disease that would eventually kill her was already eating away at her muscle mass, but her spine was as stiff as iron. She wore a silk dressing gown and a look of supreme disapproval.

"Dawn?" Eleanor's eyes swept over her daughter's ruined dress, the mud, the blood. "You look like you've been in a war. Where is the gala? Where is Catrina?"

"We... we had an accident," Dawn stammered. The lie tasted like ash. Seeing her mother alive was a punch to the gut. She wanted to fall into her lap and cry, but she couldn't. She had to be the general now.

"An accident?" Eleanor's voice sharpened. "Is the car damaged?"

Not are you hurt. Is the car damaged.

"The car is fine," Dawn said. "But we picked up a... a friend. He was hurt. I brought him here."

"A friend?" Eleanor tried to look past Dawn into the room. "Who is he?"

"Just a friend from the city," Dawn blocked her view. "I didn't want to take him to the hospital and cause a scene. The press, you know."

Eleanor sighed, a sound of profound exhaustion. "Always the drama with you, Dawn. Always the stray dogs."

"I'll handle it, Mother. Please. Go back to bed."

Eleanor looked at her for a long moment. "Don't let him bleed on the Persian rug. That's an antique."

She turned her wheelchair and rolled away.

Dawn let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She turned back to the room. Jennings was watching her from the bed. He had heard everything.

"Stray dog?" he asked.

"Better than 'dead body'," she retorted. She closed the door and locked it.

Dawn moved with efficient brutality. She used a pair of shears from the sewing kit to cut the expensive Italian wool of his suit. Jacket, shirt, trousers. She stripped him down to his boxers.

His body was a map of violence. Old scars mixed with the fresh bruising from the crash. He was built like a fighter, not a CEO.

"O'Malley, call Dr. Evans," Dawn said without looking up. "Tell him it's a private matter. Double his fee. And tell him to bring a surgical kit, not just a stethoscope."

While they waited, Dawn cleaned the wounds. She poured alcohol over the gash on his leg. Jennings arched his back, a guttural sound tearing from his throat, but he didn't pull away.

"Breathe," she said.

"I am... breathing," he gritted out.

Dr. Evans arrived twenty minutes later. He was a man who knew which side of his bread was buttered. He took one look at Jennings, then at Dawn, and opened his bag.

"Gunshot?" Evans asked, eyeing a puncture wound on Jennings's side.

"Shrapnel," Dawn said. "From the crash."

"It looks like-"

"It's shrapnel," Dawn interrupted. She pulled a piece of paper from the desk. It was a pre-written non-disclosure agreement she'd had in her clutch for months. "Sign this before you start."

Evans squinted at it. "An NDA? Dawn, I've been your family doctor for-"

"Sign it," she said. "And I'll have Mr. Stafford's family office authorize a transfer of fifty thousand dollars to your practice tomorrow morning."

Evans blinked. Then he signed.

The surgery was makeshift but effective. Dawn assisted. She handed him instruments before he even asked for them. She tied sutures with one hand. She anticipated the bleeders.

Evans paused, holding a hemostat. He looked at her over his glasses. "I heard they revoked your license. I never believed you were capable of what they accused you of, but I didn't think you'd ever touch a scalpel again. Where did you learn to do a vertical mattress suture like that?"

"I read a lot," Dawn said flatly. "Focus, Doctor."

They worked for two hours. They set the leg. They closed the wounds. They stabilized him.

When Evans finally packed up, he looked shaken. "He needs a hospital, Dawn. If infection sets in..."

"He has me," Dawn said. "Goodbye, Doctor."

O'Malley escorted the doctor out.

The room was quiet again. The storm outside had settled into a steady drone.

Jennings was awake. He shouldn't be. He had refused general anesthesia, opting only for a local block. He wanted to be conscious. He didn't trust them.

"Water," he croaked.

Dawn held a glass to his lips. He drank greedily.

"You paid him fifty grand," Jennings said. His voice was stronger now. "You don't have fifty grand. Your father cut off your trust fund six months ago."

He knew her finances. Of course he did.

"I'll put it on your tab," she said, setting the glass down.

He looked at her. The suspicion in his eyes was warring with something else. Curiosity.

"What do you want?" he asked. "You saved me. You hid me. You bribed a doctor. You're not doing this out of the goodness of your heart. No one does."

Dawn sat in the velvet armchair by the bed. She was exhausted. Her adrenaline was crashing.

"I want you alive," she said.

"Why?"

"Because," she leaned forward, her eyes locking onto his. "Dead men can't sign checks. And they certainly can't destroy my enemies."

Jennings stared at her. For the first time, he didn't look at her like a socialite. He looked at her like a peer.

"Go to sleep, Jennings," she said. "The wolves will still be there in the morning."