Bound By Blood: The Billionaire's Contract

The heat radiating from the undercarriage was intense, fighting against the cold rain. Dawn could hear the hiss of water hitting hot metal. "Miss Dawn! It's going to blow!" O'Malley was at the top of the ridge, shining a flashlight down. "Throw me the jack handle!" Dawn screamed back. O'Malley didn't argue. He slid down the mud, the tire iron in his hand. He handed it to her, his face pale. Dawn took the heavy iron bar. She didn't strike the glass blindly. She aimed for the corner, where the stress points were highest. She swung with her entire body weight. Crack. The safety glass spiderwebbed. She swung again. And again. On the fourth blow, the laminate gave way. She used the hook of the iron to peel the sheet of glass back like a sardine can lid. She crawled inside. The world tilted. The interior was a mess of deployed airbags and loose luggage. Jennings Stafford was suspended by his seatbelt, his body hanging at an awkward angle. As soon as she got close, a hand shot out. It clamped around her throat. Dawn froze. The grip was weak, trembling, but the intent was lethal. "Get... away," Jennings rasped. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth. He thought she was the assassin coming to finish the job. Dawn didn't pull away. She didn't panic. She looked straight into his dilated pupils. She placed two fingers on his wrist, right over the radial artery. "Thready pulse. Tachycardic," she said, her voice calm and professional, cutting through the chaos. "Multiple rib fractures are compromising your breathing, and you have a compound fracture of the left tibia. I can feel a hematoma forming on your chest. If you don't let go, you'll pass out in thirty seconds and burn to death in two minutes." Jennings blinked. The medical jargon seemed to short-circuit his fight-or-flight response. His hand dropped from her throat. "Who..." "Dawn Hoffman," she said. "I'm getting you out." She reached for the seatbelt release. It was jammed. Of course it was. "O'Malley! Knife!" O'Malley passed her a pocket knife. She sawed through the thick webbing. As the belt gave way, Jennings's weight shifted. She braced herself, catching him before he could crash into the door panel. He was heavy. Solid muscle and dead weight. He groaned, a low, guttural sound of agony that vibrated against her chest. "I've got you," she whispered near his ear. "I need you to push with your good leg. On three." "I can't..." "You can, or you die," she said. "One. Two. Three!" He pushed. She pulled. They tumbled out of the broken window together, landing in the mud. The pain must have been blinding, but Jennings didn't scream. He just clenched his jaw so hard she thought his teeth would shatter. "Move! Move!" O'Malley grabbed Jennings's other arm. They dragged him ten feet, twenty feet. The mud made it impossible to get traction. Dawn's bare feet were cut and bleeding, but she didn't feel it. Whoosh. The gas tank ignited. A wave of heat slammed into their backs, throwing them forward. Dawn landed on top of Jennings, shielding his head with her arms. The explosion roared, shaking the ground. Debris rained down around them-bits of metal, plastic, and burning rubber. For a moment, they just lay there. Dawn could feel his heart hammering against her own. She could smell the copper scent of his blood mixing with the expensive musk of his cologne and the acrid smoke. He was looking up at her. His face was streaked with mud and blood, but his gaze was clear. He was assessing her. Even now, on the brink of death, he was calculating. "You're... Montgomery's daughter," he whispered. "Yes," she said, pushing herself up. She wiped the rain from her eyes. "And you're heavy."