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Owen hovers overhead, pale and shaking. “Is he…?”

My fingers fly to Devon’s pulse point. “He’s breathing. Heartbeat seems steady.” Thank fuck. “Come on. We need to get him home.”

As Owen and I struggle to lift the fucker up, anger and panic begin to swirl around in my chest.

I just paid five thousand dollars to get a man out of trouble that I don’t even like. Almost got Owen hurt in the process. Got held at knifepoint. Fuck, Logan is going to throttle me.

And somehow, I can feel in my bones that everything is only going to get worse from here.

CHAPTER FIVE

Christian

“Why’s this motherfucker so heavy?”

Dev’s dead weight sags against my shoulder. Grunting, I fumble with the lock on my front porch as sweat slicks my neck despite the cool night air.

“Because he’s like six foot four and I'm ten inches below that,” Owen pants. “Can you please open the door before I drop him?”

“I’m trying, fuck.”

The key turns so suddenly that we nearly faceplant under our combined weight. We stumble inside, both me and Owen cursing loudly as we dump Devon unceremoniously onto the couch. His head lolls to the side, dark lashes stark against his bruising cheek. Blood still crusts his lip.

Jesus.

I stand there for half a second, chest heaving, just… staring at him.

Owen slams the door shut and quickly throws the lock. “Okay. Okay. We need ice. Maybe a doctor? Should we call the police?”

“No. No cops.”

Owen blinks at me. “Christian, he's unconscious.”

“I know.” My pulse jackhammers, rage and adrenaline tangling with something colder underneath. Guilt, maybe. Or fear. “He probably has drugs in his system.”

Or in his pockets. Fucking hell.

Owen hesitates, then nods quickly. “Ice, then. Water. I’ll get—” He cuts himself off midstep, catching sight of Devon unconscious on the couch. “He’s really messed up.”

Yeah, no fucking shit.

I crouch down, fingers hovering uselessly for a second before I carefully brush Devon’s greasy hair back from his face. He groans faintly, the metal bar on the bridge of his nose twitching.

“Dev,” I murmur. “Hey. Don’t die on my couch, asshole.”

Owen shoots me a look. “That’s not helpful.”

“Shut up.” I press my thumb just under his eye to check the swelling, and he lets out a low, pained hiss that has me flinching.

Christ. Five fucking grand. And I don’t even like this asshole.

So why the hell does the sight of him like this make me sick to my stomach?

“Grab the ice,” I tell Owen, keeping my gaze on Devon's face. “And a towel. Some water.”

“You staying with him?”

I study Dev’s split lip and bruised jaw, the way his fingers curl weakly against the couch cushion like he’s searching for something to hold onto. “Yeah. I’ve got him.”