Page 220 of Knotting the Firefighters
Survive together.
Heal together.
Build new futures from the ashes of old threats.
Gregory is dead or neutralized—either way, he's gone. His shackles are broken. His hold on my psyche is severed.
And everyone I love—every single person I've allowed into my carefully guarded heart—is safe.
That realization, standing in dawn light with a pack surrounding me and our old fire house burning behind us, brings peace that transcends circumstances.
It's over…and we can start anew.
The nightmare is finally over.
And somehow, impossibly, we're all still here.
Alive.
Together.
Safe.
And finally…free.
EPILOGUE: HAZE OF DESIRE
~WENDOLYN~
My skin is on fire.
Literally, actually on fire. Not in the tragic-inferno way, but in a sticky, desperate, frantic kind of way that makes me want to claw every stitch of clothing off and crawl into the freezer. Or crawl into the lap of any Alpha in the vicinity and beg for relief.
But that's not what I'm doing. I'm sitting in a folding chair in Station Fahrenheit's temporary conference room, sweat-slick and trembling, while everyone else pretends this is just another ordinary morning.
Which is ridiculous. Nothing is ordinary about today.
The station is—was—still smoldering. Half the town reeked of wet ash and heartbreak. Our temporary HQ is a single-wide with zero airflow, every window taped against the autumn wind and not a single working fan to move the swampy heat that clings to my skin and ruins my focus.
The meeting starts with a bang—literally, Bear accidentally smacks his head on a cupboard getting the donuts—but the agenda is supposed to be about rebuilding logistics. Aidric at the head of the table, me to his right, every rookie and veteran packed tight.
I can't focus.
Words are noise, air is liquid, my vision tunnels and blurs as I try to track itemized supply orders. My uniform clings—nylon glued to every curve, heat dragging sweat down my back, pooling between my thighs. Prickles of static shoot up my arms every time I try to shift in the seat. Fuck, even the texture of the fabric is agony. I have a sudden, violent urge to strip naked and roll around on the scratchy carpet just to get some relief.
My fingers tremble as I try to take notes. The pen slips. I drop it—twice—before giving up and bracing my hands under the table, white-knuckled.
My scent is changing. I know it. Vanilla and smoke, but now sharper, wildflower whipped into something urgent and sharp.
And every damn Alpha in the room knows it, whether they admit it or not.
They're not looking at me, but every pair of eyes flickers my way. Even Dax, who normally can't pay attention for more than twenty seconds, keeps sneaking glances at my mouth.
Aidric notices first. Of course he does. Aidric always notices first—the way he watches, storm-gray gaze unyielding, cataloging every microsecond of discomfort.
He's not saying a word, but I see the muscle ticking in his jaw, the way his hands clench and unclench on the folder in front of him. The way his lungs flare, nostrils flaring like he's got a wildfire to assess.
This is bad. This is so, so bad.
