Page 40 of Knotting the Firefighters
The words explode across the space with enough force that several Alphas actually flinch, bodies jerking in involuntary response to Omega authority they weren't expecting. Because society teaches that Omegas are soft, submissive, incapable of commanding respect through voice alone.
Society is wrong.
I've never seen Alphas move so fast.
They scramble with sudden coordination, bodies jerking into motion like marionettes whose strings just got yanked by a particularly aggressive puppeteer. Two distinct lines beginforming—ragged, imperfect, but recognizable as attempts at military-style organization.
I step over my miniature animal fortress, the kittens watching my departure with accusatory meows while the retriever maintains his post. My boots click against concrete as I walk down the center aisle between the frantically organizing lines, each step measured, controlled, radiating the kind of authority that comes from years of command rather than designation biology.
"I have been serving in the field of fire and chaos for YEARS," I announce, voice pitched to carry across the entire station. "And this is by far the most disgraceful set of firefighters I've ever been forced to witness!"
They flinch again—grown Alphas, probably most of them taller and heavier than me, recoiling from words like they're physical blows.
Good.
"You will suit up in less than one minute," I continue, letting each word land with drill-sergeant precision, "or you'll spend the next month minimum as towel boys—cleaning this entire station of dog poop, kitty litter, and doing laundry until your hands bleed from detergent!"
The effect is instantaneous.
Alphas explode into motion with coordination they absolutely didn't possess thirty seconds ago, hands flying to gear with sudden efficiency, helping each other secure straps and buckles, transforming from chaotic mob into something approaching functional crew.
I roll my eyes at the dramatics—the scrambling, the panicked exchanges, the way they're treating my commands like divine mandates rather than basic operational standards.
This shouldn't be revolutionary.
This should be baseline competence.
But apparently Station Fahrenheit has been operating without proper leadership long enough that basic discipline feels like boot camp.
Movement in my peripheral vision draws attention—Bear standing exactly where I left him, waiting, watching, completely at ease despite the chaos I've unleashed around him.
Our eyes meet across the distance, and I let my gaze travel deliberately down his form, taking inventory. He's big—that fact hasn't changed since medical bay—but right now I'm assessing him professionally rather than appreciating aesthetically.
"Do you actually have turnout gear?" The question emerges skeptical, because men his size often require custom equipment that stations don't always stock.
His smirk returns, confidence radiating from every line of his body.
"Custom fitted. Have at least three complete sets, actually. Benefits of planning ahead and having disposable income."
I bob my head, acknowledgment and approval combined.
"Hope you enjoy taking orders." The words carry weight beyond their surface meaning, testing his willingness to submit to command structure despite our earlier flirtation.
His grin widens, eyes darkening with implications that have absolutely nothing to do with firefighting.
"I enjoy it both in employment and in the bedroom." The wink he adds is absolutely shameless, completely inappropriate, devastatingly effective at making heat flood my cheeks.
Focus, Murphy.
Professional environment.
Not the time for sexual tension.
I huff, forcing down the blush threatening to reveal exactly how affected I am by his casual innuendo.
"Then get your suit. Now."
His expression shifts—playful humor replaced by genuine concern.
