Page 21 of Knotting the Firefighters
But it's his scent that devastates me completely.
Cedar and black amber crash over me like a wave, immediately recognizable from that night but intensified by proximity. Without the smoke and chaos between us, his pheromones hit every receptor I possess, speaking directly to primitive parts of my brain that don't care about independence or complications or the fact that I can't breathe.
Alpha. Protector. Safe.
My knees finish their complete betrayal, turning to water as his scent wraps around me like sanctuary.
He adjusts seamlessly, one arm sliding under my knees while the other supports my back—careful of the burns I don't remember mentioning but he's noticed anyway. The princess carry should be embarrassing, would be under any other circumstances, but right now it just feels like salvation.
"I've got you," he says, voice calm despite the chaos surrounding us.
Professional.
Controlled.
Everything I'm not in this moment.
"Keep those kittens secure."
I try to respond, to maintain consciousness through pure stubbornness, but my body has reached its limit.
The dancing spots of darkness that have been threatening finally coalesce into something overwhelming. His scent—cedar, amber, and absolute safety—is the last thing I process as my eyes roll back.
Should have minded my own business.
FIREFLY OF SCORCHING TROUBLE
~AIDRIC~
The weight of her in my arms registers like a punch to the solar plexus—not heavy, butsubstantialin ways that transcend mere physics.
Chief Wendolyn Murphy, decorated firefighter turned small-town baker book cafe perfectionist, hangs limp against my chest while four tiny lives mewl desperately from the bundle of scorched wool clutched to her sternum.
My boots pound against cracked concrete as I sprint from the collapsing structure, each stride measured to minimize jostling while maximizing speed. The building groans behind us—that distinctive metallic shriek of support beams surrendering to physics and flame. Fifteen years of training scream that we have maybe thirty seconds before the entire roof caves, and I'm not about to waste a single one.
The October wind hits my face first, blessedly cool after the inferno's oppressive heat. Then her scent crashes over me with the subtlety of a freight train derailing straight through my carefully maintained composure.
Vanilla, wildflowers, and smoke.
The combination shouldn't work—sweetness mixed with Montana grassland and the acrid bite of destruction. Yetsomehow it creates something intoxicating, something that bypasses my logical brain entirely and speaks directly to the part of me that's pure instinct, pure Alpha biology screamingmine, protect, claim.
I nearly stumble.
Almost drop her right there because the intensity of my reaction makes my knees momentarily unreliable, which is completely unacceptable for someone who's carried victims twice her size through worse conditions.
"Focus, Hawthorne," I mutter through gritted teeth, forcing my legs to obey despite the way her scent is systematically dismantling every defense I've spent years constructing.
Juniper waits where I left her, my bay mare stamping nervously as embers drift through the air like malevolent fireflies. The golden retriever has mercifully stopped its frantic barking, though its attention remains fixed on the woman in my arms with an intensity that borders on possessive.
Join the club, buddy.
The thought emerges unbidden and deeply unwelcome.
I don't “do” possessive.
Haven't felt anything remotely resembling territorial instinct toward an Omega since?—
Don't go there. Not now.
