Page 3 of Knotting the Firefighters
The smoke thickens, each breath burning like swallowing glass.
I should have fought back. Should have stayed who I was instead of running. Now look at my end? Becoming a shameful pile of ash with nothing but regrets.
Fire Chief Wendolyn Murphy wouldn't have hidden in a small town. She wouldn't have taken a volunteer position making casseroles, wouldn't have worn vintage dresses like camouflage. She would have stood her ground, badge gleaming, crew at her back.
But that woman had believed Gregory loved her.
That woman had been stupid enough to think an Alpha's pretty words meant more than biology.
That woman had to die for this one to survive.
The door explodes inward, fire and smoke billowing in like hell itself decided to visit. But through it—shapes. Moving with purpose, with training, with the kind of controlled urgency I recognize in my bones.
Firefighters.
Real ones, not the ghosts of those I used to command.
"We got her!"
A deep voice, all honey and eucalyptus cutting through the smoke. Gentle hands checking my pulse, my airways, moving with practiced efficiency.
"Ma'am, can you hear me?"
I try to answer but my lungs are full of smoke and memories and the bitter taste of irony—saved by firefighters, when I couldn't save myself.
The towel falls from my face, and that's when I smell him through everything else.
Pine and bourbon and smoke—but good smoke, campfire smoke, the kind that means safety and home and hands that have never hurt me.
Only one Alpha in the world smells like that.
"Calder?"
The name comes out as a wheeze, barely audible.
"Jesus Christ, Wendy."
My best friend's face appears through the haze—not in turnout gear because he wasn't on duty, but here anyway because of course he is. Because Calder Hayes has been saving me from myself since the day I showed up in Sweetwater Falls with a broken heart and a U-Haul full of vintage clothes.
"We need to move. Now."
Other scents swirl around me as strong arms lift me from the floor.
Cedar and black amber—authority and control.
Roasted chestnut and maple syrup—warmth and strength.
That honey-eucalyptus again—healing and hope.
"Kitchen's fully involved," someone says with the kind of calm that only comes from training. The captain, by his tone. "Bear, take point on the carry. Silas, maintain airway watch."
My body goes limp as they carry me, passed between careful hands like something worth saving. The vintage dress I'd worn under my apron—soft blue with tiny daisies—is definitely ruined.
Strange thing to think about while possibly dying.
But maybe that's what we do—focus on the small losses so the big ones don't swallow us whole.
"Stay with us, darlin'."
