I wonder if she bought these pajamas hoping to share Christmas with someone. If she imagined wearing them Christmas morning with a pack, making breakfast together, exchanging gifts. If she's been alone too long and these bright, cheerful pajamas are her way of trying to create holiday magic in a life that's been pretty devoid of it.
I retrieve an ice pack from her freezer—a small one that looks like it's been used before, wrapped in a thin dishtowel. Then I grab a clean washcloth, run it under cold water, wring it out.
I lay the cold cloth over her forehead carefully, avoiding the bump on the back of her head. Position the ice pack under her head where the swelling is worst.
Her temperature is up. I can feel it in the heat radiating from her skin, see it in the flush spreading across her cheeks. Not good. She's either having a stress response to the trauma or she's developing a fever.
Please don't get a fever. Please don't let this turn into something worse. Please let her wake up soon so I can check her pupil response and make sure there's no brain injury.
Without thinking, I scoop her up into my arms again. Settle onto the couch with her cradled against my chest, her head resting over my heart where she can hear the steady thump-thump that says safe, that says protected, that says pack.
She fits perfectly. Like she was made to be held exactly like this. My maple-honey scent mixes with her vanilla-caramel-citrus in a way that feels right. Natural. Like chemistry that can't be denied.
I adjust my hold, making sure her head is elevated slightly. Making sure she's warm but not too warm. Making sure I can monitor her breathing.
Please be okay. Please wake up soon. Please don't let me fail someone else.
Nash appears in the doorway, wet and bedraggled. "Bathroom's under control. Turned off the water, mopped up what I could. The apartment below got some water damage but nothing catastrophic. I left a note under their door apologizing."
He looks at me holding Reverie. His expression softens.
"She's going to be okay," I tell him. Tell myself. Tell the universe.
"Yeah," Nash says quietly. He comes closer, perches on the arm of the couch. Reaches out to brush a strand of wet hair off her face with surprising gentleness.
We sit there in silence. Waiting. Watching. Hoping.
With how Theo looked earlier—that blank mask that means trauma flashback—and Nash's worried expression that he can't quite hide, and my own rapidly beating heart that won't slow down even though the immediate crisis is over...
This Omega, Reverie Bell, might just be our kryptonite.
CHAPTER 16
Burning Bridges & Bouquets
~THEODORE~
The delivery guy is almost to the elevator when I catch up to him.
My knees are screaming at me—a dull, burning ache that shoots up into my thighs with every step. Taking the stairs at a dead run when I know better. When every physical therapist I've ever seen has told me in no uncertain terms that stairs are the enemy. That I should take elevators whenever humanly possible. That I'm going to need knee replacements before I'm forty if I keep pushing myself like this.
But Grayson gave me a mission. Gave me something to focus on besides the flashbacks trying to claw their way up from the dark places I've shoved them. Need the distraction from the image of Reverie lying motionless on that wet floor, her head at an angle that's too similar to other images I can't unsee. Need the adrenaline to override the PTSD trigger that's making my hands shake and my breathing come too fast.
Focus on the mission. Complete the objective. Don't think about the bodies. Don't think about the blood. Don't think aboutthe ones you couldn't save no matter how fast you ran or how hard you tried.
He's got the massive bouquet balanced in his arms—probably fifteen pounds of flowers, vase, water, and presumption. He's already pressing the elevator button with his elbow, shifting his weight from foot to foot with impatience. Clearly eager to get out of this building and away from the three aggressive Alphas who just blocked him from completing what should have been a simple delivery.
His scent is all wrong. Stressed. Anxious. The kind of anxiety that comes from knowing you've stumbled into something bigger than you expected. Smart boy. He should be nervous.
"Hey." My voice comes out rougher than I intend. Combat voice. The one that makes people stop and pay attention whether they want to or not.
He turns. Looks at me. His scent spikes with anxiety—that sharp, acrid smell that means fight-or-flight response kicking in. Smart. He should be nervous.
"Who's the sender?" I ask, keeping my voice level. Conversational. The calm before the storm.
He groans, shifting the flowers in his arms. "I don't know, man. I'm just doing my job. They don't tell us that information. It's supposed to be private."
I nod slowly. Step closer. The hallway suddenly feels smaller.
