Page 92 of Laced With Secrets
“Are you hurt?” Dominic’s voice was rough, strained.
“I’m okay,” I managed, my voice muffled by his coat still covering my head. “I think—I think I’m okay. You?”
“I’m fine.” The lie was obvious in his voice—I could feel him shaking, feel the tension in his body that indicated pain he wasn’t acknowledging. But before I could argue, he was moving, carefully shifting off me while still using his body as a shield. “Stay under the table. Don’t move yet.”
He crawled out from under the potting table, glass crunching beneath him. I heard him swear viciously.
“Dominic?” I tried to follow, but he immediately pushed me back.
“No. Stay there. There’s glass everywhere and the structure might not be stable.”
“Dominic! Leo!” Blake’s voice from outside, frantic. “Can you hear me?”
“We’re alive!” Dominic shouted back. “Get paramedics!”
I heard running footsteps, multiple people converging on what remained of the greenhouse. Through the gaps in the debris, I could see emergency lights—red and blue flashing through thedestroyed walls, the framework now twisted and open to the night sky.
“The entrance is blocked,” Victor’s voice, sharp but controlled. “We need to move this framework?—”
“Carefully!” Richard warned. “The structure could shift?—”
While they worked to clear the debris, Dominic crouched beside the potting table, reaching in to touch my face. I finally pushed his coat away, and in the emergency lights, I could see he was covered in blood—small cuts across his face and arms, his shirt torn and soaked in places.
“You’re hurt,” I said, catching his hand. He was shaking.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said roughly, his free hand moving over me, checking for injuries with desperate thoroughness. “Are you sure you’re not hurt? The baby?”
“We’re okay,” I promised, seeing the terror still bright in his eyes. “Because of you.”
“I wasn’t gonna lose you.” His voice broke slightly. He pulled me toward him, careful of the debris, and kissed me—desperate and claiming and full of terror-fueled adrenaline.
When we finally broke apart, emergency personnel had cleared enough debris to access what remained of the greenhouse. Paramedics swarmed in, immediately checking us over. One of them examined Dominic’s back and swore softly.
“You’ve got metal fragments embedded in your shoulder,” the paramedic said, professional concern clear in his voice. “And these lacerations need immediate attention?—”
“Check my omega first,” Dominic ordered, not moving from my side. “And our baby. He’s pregnant. Make sure they’re both okay.”
“Sir, you’re seriously injured?—”
“Check. My. Omega.First.” The alpha command in Dominic’s voice was absolute, brooking no argument.
The paramedics exchanged glances but complied, bringing over portable ultrasound equipment. I watched Dominic’s whole body remain tense, coiled with anxiety, until the paramedic looked up and smiled.
“Baby’s heartbeat is strong and steady. No signs of distress. You both got very, very lucky.”
The relief that flooded through Dominic—and through our bond—was overwhelming. He sagged slightly, then immediately steadied himself as another paramedic began treating his injuries.
Blake appeared in the cleared entrance, his usually immaculate appearance disheveled, his expression caught between relief and exasperation.
“That,” he said, his voice carrying across the debris field, “was the most cowboy shit I’ve ever seen you pull.”
Despite everything, I felt a laugh bubble up. Dominic’s lips quirked slightly.
“Worked, didn’t it?” he said.
“Yeah,” Blake said, raking his fingers through his hair. “But what made you choose the potting table?”
Dominic grimaced. “Heavy cast iron legs bolted directly into the stone foundation, thick slate work surfaces designed to support hundreds of pounds of soil and ceramic pots. Built to last centuries. Seemed like the best choice at the time.”