Page 52 of Knotting the Firefighters
The bandages on her back were visible even from distance—white gauze soaked through with blood in places, evidence of burns sustained earlier today mixing with previous injuries that hadn't fully healed.
She went back into a burning building.
With existing burn injuries.
Without waiting for medical clearance.
The fury mixing with my relief creates toxic cocktail, makes my hands shake where they grip Luna's reins, makes breathing difficult past the lump of terror lodged in my throat.
She could have died.
Could have burned.
Could have been lost while I was riding around town like idiot searching for someone who was busy being hero.
I dismount without grace, barely remembering to secure Luna's reins to nearby fence post before my feet carry me forward with single-minded determination.
Everyone around me becomes background noise—civilians, firefighters, police officers all fade into irrelevance while my world narrows to the woman standing thirty feet away looking exhausted and magnificent and completely unaware of how close I am to completely losing my shit.
Another Alpha has his hand on her arm.
Big bastard, easily 6'4", built like he could benchpress small vehicles.
The sight makes something primal snarl in my chest, territorial instinct flaring hot and immediate despite my usual ability to control such impulses. Because that'smyOmega he's touching,myWendolyn he's showing concern for,my?—
Except she's not mine.
Not really.
Not in any way that grants me actual claim or right to jealousy.
But rationality has abandoned me approximately three hours ago when she stopped responding to messages, when I realized she could be anywhere doing anything dangerous, when the possibility of losing her became real enough to taste.
I move before conscious thought catches up, body operating on instinct and need and overwhelming urge to touch her, confirm she's solid and real andhere.
The world narrows further, peripheral vision darkening until there's only Wendolyn—red hair catching afternoon light, green eyes tracking scene with professional assessment, freckled skin flushed from heat and exertion.
Mine.
The word thunders through my system with possessive certainty, Alpha biology demanding acknowledgment even ashigher brain functions recognize I'm about to make spectacle of myself.
Don't care.
Let them watch.
Let everyone see that she's mine, has been mine, will continue being mine regardless of temporary arrangements or pack complications.
A scent hits me then—familiar, devastating, carrying memories I've spent three years trying to bury.
Cedar and black amber.
Aidric Hawthorne.
My ex, the Alpha I'd thought could replace my need for Omega in my life, the relationship that had burned so spectacularly we'd both fled California to escape the wreckage.
Not now.
Deal with that complication later.
