Page 26 of Knotting the Firefighters
Because that's not my call to make.
I'm a future fire captain, not law enforcement, and despite the fury building in my chest at whoever did this, the protective instinct making my jaw ache from clenching, I have to let proper channels handle the criminal aspects.
Even if proper channels have thus far failed spectacularly at protecting this particular Omega.
The thought brings memories of two weeks ago rushing back—the community center kitchen, the deliberate arson, the men laughing as they walked away from attempted murder. Gregory Mason and his pack, still walking free despite witness testimony and physical evidence, and every indication of premeditated violence.
Because Omegas don't matter to the system unless they're properly claimed.
The injustice of it sits bitter on my tongue, mixing with smoke residue and the overwhelming sweetness of Chief Murphy's scent. She shifts slightly against me, a soft sound escaping that might be distress or simply an unconscious adjustment, and my arm tightens reflexively, holding her closer, safer, mine.
That word again.
Mine.
Completely inappropriate, totally unfounded, entirely true in ways my logical brain refuses to accept while my instincts shout victorious affirmation.
"This is going to be complicated," I inform Juniper, the retriever, the kittens, and the universe. "So incredibly complicated."
Because Rodriguez wants her for the chief position…despite me obviously being a more loyal, better candidate.
The pack has been happily Omega-free for years, our dynamics balanced and functional without the complications inherent in adding that particular designation to the mix.
And then there’s Hayes…the fucker…
The station comes into view as we crest a hill, the new building gleaming in afternoon light like a promise of fresh starts and second chances. Bear's truck is already pulling into the lot, Silas visible through the windshield, probably composing mental lists of medical interventions and recovery protocols.
Home base.
Safe territory.
Pack.
I urge Juniper into a faster walk, Chief Murphy's weight negligible compared to the burden of questions I'm carrying. Questions about the fire, about whoever started it, about why this particular Omega has systematically dismantled my equilibrium in approximately forty-five minutes of unconscious proximity.
Questions I absolutely don't have time to answer while she needs medical attention and the scene behind us requires investigation and my pack is probably already forming opinions I'm not remotely prepared to address.
The retriever lopes alongside, tongue lolling but pace steady, occasionally glancing up at Chief Murphy like checking for signs of consciousness. The kittens shift in my jacket, tiny claws pricking through fabric to skin, reminding me that I'm currently smuggling livestock into what's supposed to be a sterile medical environment.
Rodriguez is going to love this.
The thought brings an almost hysterical laugh bubbling up, quickly suppressed because professionalism is already hanging by a thread without adding inappropriate humor to the mix.
We reach the station as the sun begins its descent toward the horizon, October light painting everything gold and amber and other warm tones that make Chief Murphy's hair look like literal fire against my chest. The pack emerges as I dismount—Silas moving with medical purpose, Bear hovering with poorly concealed worry, others I didn't text somehow having appeared anyway because I guess the prompting message of a fire brewing means there’s potentially injured civilians or the rare onset of one of our own being injured.
"How is she?" Silas asks, already assessing vitals with practiced efficiency, fingers gentle against her wrist.
"Breathing steadily. Pulse strong. Burns on her back, smoke inhalation, possible mild shock." The words emerge clinical, professional, completely at odds with the way my arms don't want to release their burden. "She's been out approximately twenty minutes."
"Let's get her inside." Silas gestures toward the medical bay, already moving. "Bear, grab the—what is that?"
"Golden retriever," I supply. "Found tied near the fire. I think?—"
The kittens choose that moment to make their presence known, mewing loudly enough that several heads turn in surprise.
"And kittens," I add unnecessarily. "Four of them. She went in to save them."
The silence is profound, broken finally by Bear's incredulity.
