Page 103 of Knotting the Firefighters
His Wendolyn.
The phrase surfaces from somewhere—memory or dream or overheard conversation, possessive terminology that should probably trigger independence reflexes, but instead just makes me feel warm.
His.
Belonging to someone.
Being claimed by Alpha who smells like safety, sounds like home, and holds me like I'm precious rather than burdensome.
His Wendolyn.
Whoever "his" refers to in this increasingly confusing situation.
The thought should concern me—loss of identity, reduction to possession, all the feminist principles I've spent years defending.
But I'm too tired to care.
Too exhausted to fight.
Too comfortable in these arms to protest terminology that feels right despite logical objections.
Darkness claims me fully, awareness dissolving into dreams that mix memory with fantasy, that blur lines between what happened and what I wish had happened, that transform reality into something softer around the edges.
PACK DYNAMICS AND DECLARATIONS
~BECKETT~
My fingers move through Wendolyn's hair with gentle repetition—rhythmic motion that's simultaneously soothing for her and meditative for me, providing ananchor point while chaos erupts around us.
She's completely unconscious in my lap, a dead weight that speaks to profound exhaustion rather than simple sleep. Poor thing is absolutely spent, body clearly pushed beyond reasonable limits by Alpha, who apparently couldn't keep his hands to himself for more than thirty consecutive minutes.
Not that I'm judging.
Much.
The evidence of their marathon is impossible to miss—generous hickeys decorating her throat like territorial artwork, bite marks visible even through the high collar of pajamas someone dressed her in, the particular flush to her skin that suggests repeated claims and enthusiastic participation.
Calder marked her thoroughly.
Possessively.
With clear intention of ensuring anyone with functional eyes understands she's been claimed.
I try not to smirk at the display, maintaining a neutral expression while internally appreciating the artistry. Because those aren't accidental love bites—they're strategic placement, visible even when she's fully clothed, designed to make a statement about ownership and desire and the particular brand of possessiveness that only bonded Alphas achieve.
Speaking of bonded Alphas?—
My gaze tracks to the culprit currently engaged in a glaring contest with our pack leader, Aidric, who's been throwing a spectacular fit for approximately twenty minutes now.
Silas occupies a position between them like a referee at a boxing match, his expression carrying the particular exhaustion of someone who's mediated too many Alpha conflicts and is rapidly losing patience with both parties.
Meanwhile, I get to enjoy this.
Sitting comfortably with our Omega, whose scent is absolutely divine.
Letting her nap like the world revolves around her.
Which, technically, it does now.
