Chapter 15
Emergency Protocols
~GRAYSON~
Time slows down.
That's what they always say in books—in the romance novels I write under my pen name where the hero watches the heroine face danger and everything becomes hyperaware, crystalline, achingly slow.
I've written this scene a dozen times. The moment of helplessness.
The desperate lunge that comes too late.
The sickening realization that you can't save them.
I never believed it was real.
Until now.
I watch Reverie slip backwards. Watch her feet lose contact with the wet hardwood floor.
Watch her arms windmill in that universal gesture of someone trying to catch balance that's already gone.
Watch the exact moment she realizes she's falling—eyes going wide, mouth opening in a scream that gets cut off when her head hits the floor.
The sound is hollow. Wet. Final.
Then she goes still. Completely still. The kind of still that makes your heart stop and your breath catch and every instinct you possess start screaming.
The three of us are frozen. Just standing there in her doorway like idiots. Like we've never seen someone get hurt before. Like we don't know what to do.
Three seconds. That's all it takes. Three seconds where my brain refuses to process what just happened. Three seconds where training and instinct are battling with shock and horror.
Then the paramedic training kicks in.
"Fuck!" I'm cursing and moving before I even realize I've made the decision. At her side faster than I could blink, my knees hitting the wet floor hard enough that I'll probably have bruises tomorrow. My hands are already reaching for her, checking for a pulse, for breathing, for signs of life.
Please be okay. Please be okay. Please don't let this be serious. Please don't let me lose someone else.
Nash is the next to curse—a string of creative profanity that would make a sailor blush. He's rushing over, his boots splashing through the water pooling on her floor.
"Is she—" He can't finish the question. Can't say the word we're all thinking.
"Turn the bath water off," I order, my voice sharper than I mean it to be. Clinical. The voice I used to use in ambulances when every second counted. "Before this apartment gets more flooded."
Nash doesn't argue. Just nods and splashes toward what I assume is the bathroom.
I look up at Theo. He's still standing in the doorway. Hasn't moved. His face is a mask—completely blank, expressionless, the kind of nothing that's actually everything. The kind of face he gets when he's having a flashback. When his PTSD is being triggered by something he can't control.
Shit. Not good. That's not good in any way. Because when Theo goes into that headspace, he's not here anymore. He's back in whatever hell he experienced overseas, reliving trauma that he won't talk about even when we beg him to.
But I can't focus on whether Theo is spiraling right now. Can't stop to help him process whatever's happening in his head. I have to assign him something useful before he loses his shit completely and I lose mine trying to handle both situations at once.
I point at him, making my voice firm and commanding. The voice he responds to. The one that cuts through the fog.
"Theo. Follow the delivery guy. Figure out who sent the flowers. I need to know."
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 the beginning 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?"
"She will be," Nash says with more confidence than I think any of us feel. He hangs up, closes the apartment door firmly so nobody can peek in or see what's happening. The click of the lock is oddly reassuring.
He's at my side immediately. "Is she actually okay? Or do we need to take her to the emergency room?"
I look up at him. Nash's face is tight with worry—more worried than I've seen him in years. His jaw is clenched, his hands are fisted at his sides, and his scent is spiked with anxiety that's making the air feel thicker.
I sigh. "She should be okay. But she did hit her head pretty hard, so I'll need to monitor her when she wakes up. Check for signs of internal bleeding or brain swelling. Concussion symptoms."
I pause, then add: "Sorry. It's the habit. From when I was a paramedic."
Past tense. Was. I was a paramedic for exactly six months and fourteen days before one traumatic ride set me careening out of that career path far too fast for anyone's comfort including my own.