Chapter 114 Two Years #2
"Immediate family only," Dr. Thornton replied automatically.
"I'm his fiancée," Clara lied, the word leaving her lips without a shred of hesitation.
Dr. Thornton paused, looking at her intently. He took in the wild desperation in her eyes, the tear tracks on her pale face, and the way her knuckles were locked white around the bed rail. "Room 412," he said softly. "ICU. Only for a few minutes. He needs absolute quiet."
Clara was throwing the blankets off before Justin or Celina could stop her. Her legs immediately buckled the moment her feet hit the linoleum, the pain in her side sharp and blinding, but she didn't care. She would crawl down the hallway if she had to.
Celina caught her before she hit the floor, steadying her weight, and quickly maneuvered a wheelchair into place. "Come on," Celina murmured gently. "I've got you. Let's go."
They moved through the sterile hospital corridors in absolute silence - past the bustling nurses' station, through the heavy double doors marked ICU, and down a long hallway that smelled heavily of antiseptic and unexpressed fear.
Room 412.
Celina pushed the door open gently.
Inside, Clara felt her heart shatter into pieces.
Dominic lay in the center of the room, so profoundly still he looked like a statue.
There were tubes everywhere - snaking down his throat, taped to his arms, and tracing across his bare chest.
A massive bank of monitors surrounded the bed, hissing and beeping, dictating every forced breath and artificial pulse.
His face was devoid of color, his dark hair still matted with the dried blood they hadn't had time to clean away. Bruises were already blooming along his jawline, his neck, and his forearms - violent evidence of the struggle his body had endured.
But the monitor showed a rhythm. He was alive.
Clara wheeled herself right to his bedside, her hands trembling as she reached out to cover his hand with her own. His skin felt terrifyingly cold.
"Dominic," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I'm here. I'm right here."
There was no response. Only the mechanical hiss of the ventilator forcing air into his damaged lungs.
"You have to wake up," Clara said, fresh tears spilling over her lashes.
"You have to fight. Jasmine needs you. She needs her father."
She squeezed his cold fingers, trying to pour her own warmth into his veins.
"I need you, Dominic. I know I never said it. I know I kept pushing you away, pretending this was just a game, just temporary until Warren Johnson was caught. But I need you. And I..."
Her voice broke completely, a sob tearing from her throat.
"I love you. I love you, and you don't get to die before I tell you that. You don't get to be a hero and then leave me here alone. That's not how this ends."
The machines kept up their rhythmic, uncaring song. Dominic didn't move.
And Clara sat there, anchoring herself to his cold hand, and prayed.
The next three days were a waking nightmare painted in sterile shades of hospital grey.
Clara flatly refused to leave his side. The ICU nurses tried to order her back to her own room; she completely ignored them.
Dr. Mitchell came by twice a day to check her surgical wound; Clara barely acknowledged her presence.
Celina brought food that went untouched; Justin brought daily updates on Jasmine that Clara heard but couldn't fully process.
Her entire universe had shrunk to the boundaries of Room 412. She did nothing but watch the monitors, waiting for any sign that he was fighting his way back to her.
On the second night, Dominic's fever spiked dangerously.
An infection from the trauma, the doctors warned. A common, lethal complication. They swarmed the room, pumping him full of high-dose antibiotics, changing his lines, and adjusting his medications. Clara watched from the corner, gripping her sides, feeling utterly helpless.
He's slipping away, she had thought, a cold dread wrapping around her spine. He's letting go, and I can't reach him.
But by the morning of the third day, the fever broke.
And on the fourth morning, Dominic’s eyes finally opened.
Clara had fallen into a light, exhausted doze, her head resting on the edge of his mattress, her fingers still loosely entwined with his. She jolted awake the exact second she felt his fingers twitch against her palm.
A slight, weak squeeze.
Her head snapped up.
Dominic’s eyes were open. They were unfocused and clouded with sedation, but they were undeniably open.
"Dominic," Clara breathed, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs.
His gaze drifted slowly until his dark eyes locked onto hers. She could see the immediate, desperate question forming in them, even though he couldn't speak around the plastic tubing in his throat.
"Jasmine is safe," Clara said immediately, her free hand slamming down on the nurse's call button. "She is perfectly fine, Dominic. Not a single scratch on her. You saved her. You saved both of us."
A visible wave of relief flickered through his eyes, followed instantly by profound exhaustion. His eyelids fluttered, pulling him back under the heavy veil of sedation.
But he had been awake. He had heard her.
The room was suddenly flooded with nurses and specialists, checking his vitals, adjusting dials, and speaking in rapid medical shorthand.
"His numbers are stabilizing," one of the nurses turned and smiled warmly at Clara. "This is excellent. He's turning a corner."
Dr. Thornton arrived twenty minutes later. He reviewed the updated charts and gave a definitive nod. "He's over the hump. If he continues to improve at this rate, we can extubate him tomorrow and start weaning him off the heavy sedation."
For the first time in four agonizing days, Clara felt like she could actually breathe. "He's going to be okay?" she whispered, terrified to let herself hope.
"Barring any sudden setbacks, yes," Dr. Thornton said. "He has a long road of recovery ahead, but his chances are excellent now."
Clara just nodded, unable to speak past the massive lump of emotion in her throat.
He's going to live. Dominic is going to live.
The next afternoon, they successfully removed the ventilator.
Dominic woke slowly, his throat dry and his voice incredibly hoarse when he finally managed to form a word.
"Clara."
She was at his side in a heartbeat, leaning over the rail so he could see her clearly, her hand instantly finding his. "I'm right here," she promised.
"Jasmine?" The word was a fragile whisper.
"Safe," Clara assured him, smoothing a stray lock of dark hair from his forehead. "She's with Celina and Justin. She asks about you every single day, Dominic."
Dominic closed his eyes, and Clara watched a single tear trace down his temple into his hair.
"Warren?" he asked after a long pause.
"Dead," Clara said quietly, her voice steady. "Samuel Torres shot him at the scene. Reid is in federal custody, and he's completely cooperating with the police. The immediate threat is over."
Dominic nodded slowly, absorbing the information. Then, his eyes opened again, focusing on her with a sudden, intense sharpness. "You were shot," he murmured. "I saw you fall. I saw the blood..."
"I'm fine," Clara cut him off gently. "It was just a clean through-and-through in my side. I'm already healing. I'm okay."
"You threw yourself in front of Jasmine," Dominic said, his voice laced with a mixture of profound awe and lingering terror.