The horse collapsed the moment they reached town limits. Eliot hit the dirt hard, his shoulder taking the impact as he rolled, grunting through gritted teeth. The bullet hole in his side gaped open, a wet, pulsing wound that stained the dusty ground crimson beneath him.

Motherfuckers. They'd gotten lucky. Caught him off guard. But he'd taken three of them down before the fourth had squeezed the trigger. A fair trade, all things considered.

Blackwater loomed ahead—ugly, civilized, and full of people who'd probably rather see him dead. Perfect.

He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the black spots dancing in his vision, ignoring how every movement sent white-hot pain tearing through his torso. Blood soaked through his shirt, warm and sticky against his skin. His hand pressed against the wound, fingers coming away glistening red.

A crowd had gathered. Curious. Fearful. Eliot's gaze cut through them, cold and sharp, and they shrank back like the vermin they were. "Do I look like a sideshow?" he snarled, his voice raw but still carrying that dangerous edge that made men flinch.

One brave soul stepped forward—a shopkeeper, by the looks of him. "You need a doctor, mister. That wound—"

Eliot grabbed him by the throat, slamming him against the nearest building. The man gasped, hands scrabbling at Eliot's wrist as his feet left the ground. "Don't. Touch. Me." Eliot's eyes bored into his, dark and unyielding. "Point. To. The. Doctor."

The man's finger trembled as he indicated a building down the street. Eliot released him, letting him crumple to the ground, coughing and wheezing. "Smart choice," he muttered, before staggering toward the medical office.

The door practically splintered when he kicked it open. The sudden silence inside told him he'd interrupted something. Then his gaze locked on her.

Not a doctor. A nurse. And not just any nurse—one with eyes that could probably see straight through all his bullshit. Her hair was pulled back tight, accentuating the curve of her neck, and her lips were pressed into a thin line as she took in his bloodied state.

"You're bleeding on my floor," she said, her voice steady despite the situation.

Eliot laughed—a harsh, pained sound that brought up more blood, which he spat onto the wooden planks. "Sweetheart, I'm bleeding everywhere. Might as well make myself comfortable." He took a step toward her, swaying slightly but never breaking eye contact. "You gonna help me... or are you just gonna stand there lookin' pretty?"

Before she could respond, his legs gave out. He didn't fall—didn't let himself—but braced one hand against the wall, his knuckles white with the effort. "Better hurry," he breathed, his eyes raking over her body in a deliberate,肆无忌惮 assessment that made her flush. "Might not live long enough to... properly thank you."

Her response was lost to him as darkness threatened to pull him under. Not yet. Not before he knew if she'd be worth coming back for.