Page 16 of Knot Your Sugar

I'm just doing my job, but I can't deny feeling a certain satisfaction at having spotted that rogue flame before it escalated. Fifteen years in this job tunes your senses to a different frequency. I was already moving toward her, a knottightening in my gut, before my brain had fully processed the specific flicker of danger.

Elena sinks onto the plastic chair inside the small white tent with a sigh that seems to carry the weight of a thousand ruined pastries. Her hands are still trembling, a faint tremor she’s trying to hide by clasping them in her lap. Adrenaline crash. Classic.

"Here," I say, grabbing a bottle of water from the cooler. "Drink this. It’ll help."

She accepts with a small smile of thanks, and as our fingers brush, an electric jolt races up my arm. What the hell was that? I've touched plenty of people during rescues and never felt anything like it. Then, as I take a step back to give her some space, it hits me. A scent. It's faint, almost imperceptible beneath the lingering smokiness clinging to her clothes, but definitely there. It's sweet and oddly compelling. I remember noticing a whisper of it when we were first introduced this morning but dismissed it as my imagination.

My brow furrows. Betas usually have quite neutral scents, barely registering to an alpha nose unless you’re in extremely close proximity, and even then, nothing likethis. This is… different. Must be some exotic baking ingredient she uses, I reason. Some rare sugar or spice that’s permeated her skin. It’s the only logical explanation.

"I just don't understand how it happened," she murmurs, her voice pulling me from my olfactory detective work. "I checked the temperature settings… I know my apron was caught, but I should've had time to smell smoke. It caught on fire way too fast."

"Hey," I say gently, leaning against a supply table. "Festival setups can be temperamental. Wires get frayed, thermostats act up. It’s rarely user error in these situations."

"But I've been doing this for years," she insists, and those vibrant green eyes flash with frustration. "Iknowovens."

"I'm sure you do," I say, fighting the urge to brush a loose strand of hair from her face. "Like James pointed out, it was probably an equipment malfunction. If anything, that's on me. I'm responsible for making sure everything works properly."

She looks me in the eyes, surprise flickering in her gaze. "So you’re… you’re not blaming me?"

The wave of relief that washes over her face makes my chest ache a little, and I resist the sudden urge to reach out and caress her cheek. "For faulty equipment? Definitely not."

I find myself cataloging the light dusting of freckles across her nose, the way her bottom lip is slightly fuller than the top, the subtle curve of her neck where it disappears into her chef's jacket. She caught my eye earlier today and now has my full attention.

"Lieutenant Mercer?" Her voice, soft but firm, cuts through my inappropriate observations.

"Cole," I correct automatically, offering a small smile.

Her own tiny smile touches her lips. "Cole," she repeats, and the way my name sounds, spoken in her slightly husky alto, makes me stand a little straighter, my professional composure wobbling precariously. "Thank you for… well, for the swift intervention. And for not making me feel like a complete idiot."

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. "All part of the service, ma'am. Keeping competitors from incinerating themselves is in the job description."

"Elena," she corrects, mirroring my earlier informality, her eyes sparkling with a hint of amusement now that the initial shock is fading. "Ma'am makes me sound like I should be knitting and complaining about my hip."

"Elena," I repeat, and damn if her name doesn’t feel good on my tongue. I notice a slight dilation of her pupils as I sayit, a flicker of something that my alpha instincts immediately register.

The on-duty medic bustles in then, and I step back to give them room. I should be making my rounds, double-checking the other stations, filing an incident report. Instead, I find myself lingering, unable to leave until I hear the medic confirm she's unharmed.

"All clear," he announces a few minutes later, snapping off his gloves. "No burns, just a bit shaken. Take it easy for a few minutes, and if any redness develops on your skin later, use some aloe."

"Thank you," Elena says, her relief evident. As the medic departs, the afternoon sun, filtering through the tent’s translucent roof, catches the warm, almost reddish undertones in her brown hair, creating a halo effect that makes my breath hitch. For a crazy second, she looks almost ethereal, and entirely too beautiful for a first aid tent.

She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and looks up at me with determination that immediately commands my respect. "I'm ready. Can't let a little fire set me back, right?"

"Right," I agree, a genuine admiration stirring in me. I have to physically stop myself from reaching out, from offering a reassuring squeeze to her arm.Professional, Mercer. Keep it professional.

"We can also head back later though. No rush at all," I say, trying to inject a casualness I don't entirely feel into my voice.

"Oh, I'm good. And you don't have to walk me back," she says quickly, her concern genuine. "I'm perfectly capable of finding my station. You must have a million other things to do."

"Nonsense," I reply, perhaps a little too quickly. "What kind of Fire Safety Officer would I be if I can't even escort you back to your station? Besides," I add, a teasing note creeping in, "I need to make sure you don’t wrestle that rogue oven into submission."

She laughs, a bright, lovely sound that does entirely unprofessional things to my insides. "Alright, alright."

As we walk back through the bustling festival grounds, the air is thick with the competing aromas of sugar and spice. Elena glances at a family passing by, a little girl with pigtails pointing excitedly at a vibrant display of cupcakes, her face alight with pure joy.

"So, firefighting," Elena says, breaking the comfortable silence. "Was it always the plan? Did you dream of sirens and flashing lights as a kid?"

I nod, a nostalgic smile touching my lips. "Pretty much. My dad was a volunteer firefighter here in Lakeview, back when this festival was about half the size. I grew up listening to his stories, thinking he was the bravest guy in the world."

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