Page 56 of Knotting the Firefighters
Silas immediately takes command, medical training overriding pack hierarchy.
"Get her in the back. We need to transport to nearest medical center immediately."
I want to protest—know Wendy hates hospitals, hates being patient rather than provider, would fight medical intervention with every fiber of her stubborn being if she were conscious.
But Chief Rodriguez speaks before I can formulate objection.
"She needs proper attention. Those burns don't look good, especially after she went back into that scorching environment."His weathered face creases with concern that seems genuine rather than performative. "Murphy isn't a fainter."
Silas nods, already moving toward the van's medical supplies.
"She's not according to her files. Maintains monthly performance reviews even here in Sweetwater Falls, always passes with exemplary marks. This suggests underlying issue we need to identify."
Underlying issue.
The phrase makes my stomach drop because it implies something beyond simple exhaustion, beyond accumulated injuries, beyond the trauma of repeated near-death experiences.
"Fine," I hear myself saying, voice rough. "But I get final say if it becomes urgent medical matter."
Because she'd want that.
Would want someone who knows her, who understands her boundaries, making decisions if she can't advocate for herself.
Aidric's voice cuts across my reasoning, sharp with challenge:
"Why? Because she's your girl?"
The question hangs there, loaded with implications about territory and claims and the complicated history we share.
I turn slowly, deliberately, meeting those storm-gray eyes I used to lose myself in, letting him see exactly how serious I am.
"Yes." The word emerges flat, uncompromising. "She's fucking mine and always will be, so respect it, Hawthorne, or I'll gladly force you to."
His jaw clenches, that familiar muscle tick indicating I've hit exactly the territorial nerve I intended. We stare at each other across charged space, three years of unresolved tension crystallizing into this moment, both of us clearly seconds from physical confrontation.
Tom Rodriguez's voice cuts through with authority that brooks no argument.
"Stand down. Both of you. Now."
The command works—barely—both of us stepping back though neither breaks eye contact.
Silas's urgent voice provides necessary distraction.
"Murphy really doesn't look good. Driver, step on it!"
The words make me turn back to where they've laid Wendy on the medical bench, and my breath catches at how pale she's become, how shallow her breathing sounds, how wrong everything about her stillness feels.
This isn't exhaustion.
This is something worse.
"Can I hold her?" The question emerges before I can filter it, need to touch her overriding any concern about appearing weak or possessive.
Silas barely glances up from securing equipment.
"Sure. Just stay still while I set up another IV."
He fires off orders with practiced efficiency.
