He hesitates. His eyes flick from me to Reverie's still form on the floor, then back to me. I can see the war happening behind his gaze—the need to stay versus the need to complete a mission.
"She'll be fine," I tell him, putting every ounce of certainty I don't feel into my voice. "I'll handle it. I've got her. Go."
He nods slowly. Then he's moving—rushing out of the apartment with the kind of speed that suggests he's grateful to have a task, grateful to not have to stand here and watch someone lie motionless on the floor.
I hear the door to the stairwell open and slam shut down the hallway.
He's taking the stairs. Theo never takes the stairs unless it's an emergency or he's in full military mode. His knees hurt too much. But right now he's operating on adrenaline and training, and pain doesn't register the same way.
I turn my full attention back to Reverie.
Pulse first. Always check pulse first. That's what they taught us in paramedic training. ABC—Airway, Breathing, Circulation. But pulse comes before you move them, before you do anything else, because you need to know if there's still life to save.
My fingers find the side of her neck, pressing gently into the soft skin just below her jaw. Searching for that reassuring thump-thump-thump that means life, means hope, means she's still with us and not lost to whatever void swallows people who hit their heads too hard on wet floors.
Please. Please let there be a pulse. Please don't make me do CPR on an Omega I barely know but already care about too much. Please don't make me fail someone else the way I failed?—
There.
Strong and steady. Maybe a little fast—probably around ninety beats per minute instead of the normal seventy—but present. Real. Vital. She's alive and her heart is working and blood is flowing to her brain which means there's hope.
Thank god. Thank every deity that might be listening to the prayers of an Alpha who doesn't pray nearly often enough. She's alive and breathing and her heart is beating and that's all that matters right now.
Breathing next. I watch her chest—the rise and fall visible even through the wet towel wrapped around her body. Shallow but regular. Ten, maybe twelve breaths per minute. Not great but not terrible. Good enough. She's getting oxygen. Her brain isn't being starved.
Now check for bleeding. Head wounds bleed like crazy even when they're minor—something about the vascularity of the scalp, all those tiny blood vessels right under the surface. If there's blood we need to know immediately so we can assess whether we're calling 911 or handling this ourselves.
I carefully slide my hand under her head, feeling through her wet hair for the point of impact. Her hair is cold, soaking wet from the bath she was in before this disaster. It makes it harder to assess—hard to tell what's water and what might be blood.
But my fingers come away clean. No blood. No sticky warmth that would indicate an open wound. Just cold water and thebeginning of a bump—I can feel the swelling under my palm, already forming into what's going to be a nasty goose egg by tomorrow.
Concussion. Definitely a concussion based on the mechanism of injury and the loss of consciousness. But no external bleeding means we might not need the emergency room if she wakes up alert and oriented. Might be able to monitor her here with proper protocols. Might not have to explain to emergency room doctors why three Alphas who aren't her official pack are hovering over an unconscious Omega in her flooded apartment.
I scoop her up in a heartbeat. She's lighter than I expected—too light, really, for an Omega her height. The towel has come loose, barely clinging to her body, and I'm acutely aware that she's essentially naked in my arms.
Not the time, Grayson. Not the time to notice how soft her skin is or how perfect she fits against your chest. She's unconscious and possibly concussed and you're having inappropriate thoughts. Focus.
I carry her to the couch—a small, worn thing that's seen better days but looks clean and comfortable. Lower her carefully, supporting her head the entire time because you never move someone with a head injury without stabilizing their neck.
Nash is back, water dripping from his jeans where he must have waded through the bathroom flood. He's carrying an armful of towels—dry ones from what looks like a closet.
"We need to get her out of that wet towel," he says, his voice tight with worry. "Or she's going to get sick on top of everything else. Is her head okay? Should we call an ambulance?"
I nod, taking the towels from him. "She should be okay. Pulse is strong, breathing is regular. But she did hit her head hard. We'll need to watch for signs of concussion when she wakes up.Confusion, nausea, sensitivity to light. If she shows any of those, we take her to the ER immediately."
Nash is staring at me. "You sound very calm about this."
"Training," I say shortly. Then notice something on the floor. "Her phone. Check if whoever she was talking to is still on the line."
Nash nods, handing me the towels before rushing to pick up the phone from where it's lying in a puddle. He puts it on speaker, water dripping from the case.
"Hello?" His voice is cautious.
"Oh thank god!" A woman's voice—professional, concerned. "Is everything alright? I heard shouting and then nothing."
"This is Nash. Uh, we have a bit of a flooding situation," he says, moving toward the door. "Can you call Reverie back later? Sorry for the inconvenience."
"Of course. I hope she's okay?"
