Page 4 of Knotting the Firefighters
The maple-syrup voice, close to my ear, steady as a heartbeat. "Almost out."
Fresh air hits my lungs like salvation, like resurrection, like every second chance I never thought I'd get. Stars wheel overhead, clear and bright in the Montana sky. Someone's setting up oxygen, someone else calling for ambulance backup, but all I can focus on is the circle of faces above me.
Calder's familiar amber eyes, wild with fear and something else—rage, maybe, or recognition of what this means.
Three strangers in Station Fahrenheit turnout gear, their faces lit by the orange glow of the building burning behind us.
"The Ironwood Pack," I gasp between coughs that taste like copper. "Gregory Marco. Dimitri. They?—"
"We know."
The captain's voice is granite, unforgiving as mountains. Storm-gray eyes that miss nothing, that have already catalogued every detail.
"We saw them leave."
"Laughing."
The big one—Bear?—adds, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. "They were fucking laughing."
I close my eyes, feeling tears finally spill over, hot as the smoke still in my lungs.
Six months of running, six months of hiding, six months of pretending I could disappear into vintage dresses and small-town anonymity.
They'd found me anyway.
Tried to end me anyway.
But I'm still breathing. Still alive. Still here despite Gregory's best efforts to erase me like a mistake he could burn away.
And somewhere between the oxygen mask being placed over my face and the gentle hands checking me for burns, between Calder's familiar presence and these strangers who pulled me from flames, I make a decision.
No more running.
No more hiding who I used to be.
If Gregory and his pack wanted to play with fire, they'd forgotten one crucial detail.
I know how to fight it better than anyone.
I just need to remember how to be her again. The woman who'd worn chief's bars. The woman who'd run into flames instead of away from them. The woman who'd saved lives and commanded respect and never, ever backed down.
The woman who'd never needed an Alpha's protection because she was too busy protecting everyone else.
As the EMTs load me onto a gurney, I catch the captain's storm-gray eyes.
"Ma'am?"
His voice is carefully professional, but something flickers in his expression—recognition maybe, or professional curiosity.
"Chief."
The word comes out rough from smoke, raw from disuse, but firm as bedrock. "It's Chief Murphy."
He starts to open his mouth, probably to argue that I'm a civilian now, that I don't hold that rank anymore, that I'm just another victim in a vintage dress. But another voice cuts through the chaos like a blade through smoke.
"Murphy?"
An older voice, full of authority and sudden understanding. "Wendolyn Murphy? LA Fire Chief Murphy?"
