Page 24 of Knotting the Firefighters
Silas: Not surprised at all that she was
I'm about to type something reassuring—or at least less alarming—when another message pops up from the stations group chat, this one from outside our usual pack dynamic.
Bonds: Did y’all hear Chief wants to hire Hayes girl?
The surname ignites tingles of dread like ice water down my spine, dousing some of the hormonal chaos in favor of the familiar burn of competition and resentment.
Hayes girl…
Calder Hayes, who acts like a fucking puppy who’s love sick for Chief Murphy, knowing her well enough to have aproprietary nickname deemed upon himself by my fellow peers. The rumor mill has them connected somehow, whether through previous department overlap or something more personal.
Of course.
My thumb hovers over the screen, crafting and deleting responses that range from professionally neutral to aggressively territorial, none of which are appropriate for group chat.
The silence stretches uncomfortably until Bear—bless his tactless heart—interjects with his usual lack of filter.
Bear: Rookie's an idiot. Stop listening to gossip.
The chat goes quiet after that, everyone apparently deciding that discretion is the better part of valor. I should probably send something diplomatic, smooth over whatever tension just rippled through our usually cohesive pack dynamic.
Instead, I type:Hurry the fuck up before there's no evidence left.
Then I stare at Chief Murphy's unconscious form, at the way the retriever has curled protectively against her side while the kittens explore the unfamiliar terrain of open ground, and realize this situation is going to get exponentially more complicated.
Because Rodriguez wants her for the chief position.
Half the department is already half in love with her professional reputation and probably wants to meet the star of our new growing fire station world...
And because Calder Hayes apparently has some claim I don't want to fully understand, but definitely resent.
Or because my body is currently staging a full-scale rebellion against a decade of carefully maintained disinterest in Omega dynamics, flooding my system with instincts I'd convinced myself I'd evolved beyond.
Fuck.
My fingers move across the screen again.
Me:Scratch the medical team. I'm bringing her to the station. Get prepped.
The responses are immediate and varied—Silas is already listing medical supplies, versus Bear questioning my judgment. I end up messaging the station chat with similar details to a lesser degree, and someone else asks about protocol for treating civilians on-site. I silence the phone without reading further, tucking it back into my pocket because right now I need to focus on logistics rather than pack politics.
Getting an unconscious Omega onto a horse presents challenges I haven't encountered since training exercises with mannequins that weighed significantly less and smelled considerably less distracting. Adding the pup and kittens is just another troublesome equation. Juniper stands patient as ever, but I'll need both hands for the lift, which means temporarily abandoning my precious cargo to the protection of one golden retriever of uncertain loyalty.
"Guard," I tell the dog, pointing at Chief Murphy with what I hope conveys authoritative command despite never having owned a pet more demanding than the departmental goldfish. "Stay."
The retriever wags its tail—which I'm choosing to interpret as compliance—and settles more firmly against the Omega's side, head resting on her hip like this is a perfectly normal afternoon activity.
I gather the kittens first, tucking them carefully into my jacket where body heat and enclosed space might provide temporary comfort. They protest with tiny mews that sound disturbingly like accusations, but settle eventually, probably exhausted from their near-death experience.
Then I turn my attention to the real challenge.
Chief Murphy is not a large woman—maybe 5'5" in boots, curves that speak of good genetics and better nutrition, butnothing approaching difficult-to-carry proportions. I've hauled unconscious victims twice her size through worse terrain in worse conditions.
But I've never had to touch any of them while actively fighting the urge to bury my face in their hair and justbreathe.
"Get it together, Hawthorne," I mutter again, because apparently talking to myself is today's coping mechanism. "She's a colleague. A potential subordinate. Not a?—"
Not a what?
