Page 4 of Fated to the Lone Shifter (Curse of the Lunaris Alpha #1)

Chapter three

Undercover, Under Fire

SERA

B y the time I limp back to the dorms from the woods, every muscle in my body is filing a complaint.

My shoulders throb from hauling gear, my legs ache from the obstacle course, and even my fingers feel bruised from wrestling with the hose clamps.

Turns out pretending to be a rookie firefighter is just as exhausting as actually being one.

I lock the door behind me, kick off my boots, and drop onto the bed.

The mattress groans beneath me, thin as a cracker, but it’s heaven compared to standing—and twice as wide as the cots in the bunkhouse.

Finally, room to stretch out and breathe.

Still, I can’t afford to pass out yet. Not until I log the day’s findings.

I pull the burner phone from my duffel. The cursor blinks at the prompt screen. What do I even type?

First day. Still getting settled.

I stare at the words. Too vague. Too safe. But what else is safe to share?

The magic in the ashes is real. Agent Leighton didn’t have a chance. That ripple of energy, the way the air shimmered when I touched the earth—it wasn’t imagination. I felt it.

And Noah Benson was there.

Watching me.

Not just casually. He was stalking me. I didn’t see him until the branch cracked, but I felt him. Like being watched across a room and knowing exactly who it is without turning your head.

I don’t know what that means yet. Suspicious, sure. But actionable?

Worse, the energy between us isn’t fading. If anything, it’s growing. That spark when he cuffed me wasn’t just adrenaline. It was something else. Something that crackles in the space between us every time we get too close.

And that’s dangerous.

If he’s involved in the fires, I need to keep my head clear. If he’s not, I need to figure out what the hell he is—and why he feels like a live wire under my skin.

I close the phone and shove it back into the duffel.

First day. Still getting settled. That’s all I’m willing to report.

The rest? The rest stays in my gut, simmering like kindling that hasn’t caught yet.

I curl onto my side, groaning as my body protests. The sheets are scratchy, the room smells like dust and bleach, and someone’s snoring down the hall. But the moment I close my eyes, all I feel is Noah Benson standing in that clearing.

And the stone I found, pulsing with memory.

Sleep hits me like a rubber mallet. Blessed silence.

I wake to boots hitting the floor and the hiss of a shower turning off down the hall. Sunlight slices across the room like a scalpel. My limbs scream in protest as I sit up.

Day two.

The soreness is a dull throb, manageable but insistent. I pull on my uniform, the stiff cotton rubbing against my raw shoulder blades, and head out to the drill yard. The others are already gathering.

Noah stands front and center, coffee and clipboard in hand, morning sun carving angles across his jawline. He’s wearing mirrored sunglasses, which only makes it harder to tell who he’s really looking at.

And God help me, he's looking finer than ever.

“Flashovers and backdrafts,” he announces. “What happens when too much heat builds in a sealed room?”

No one speaks. He waits, then points to Taylor.

Taylor stammers a half-right answer. Noah nods.

I scan the group. Five probies including me. Two guys, three women. Mental profile kicks in.

Taylor—big build, slow thinker, overcompensates.

Rivas—sharp but cocky. Useful or dangerous.

Jamie—nervous, observant.

Nicole—quiet, efficient, a pleaser.

None of them have the presence I sensed at the burn site.

Then there’s Noah.

I watch as he demonstrates backdraft with a sealed glass box and smoke. When flames explode upward, I flinch.

He notices.

“Know what to look for before the blast happens,” he says, aimed at the group, but I feel the words cut toward me. “Read the signs. Anticipate the danger.”

I nod, but something tightens.

Because I do know. I’ve felt danger like a storm front before. That’s how I’ve stayed alive.

And Noah is a storm that’s still gathering.

Today, I play the rookie. Quiet. Observant.

Sometimes survival means pretending you don’t see the fire coming even when it's licking at your heels.

In the afternoon, we move to the rigs. Noah stands by the engine like it’s his throne, explaining layout and tools. His voice is steady, but there’s weight to it. Like he’s daring us to miss something.

He calls on us one by one. Taylor fumbles a hydrant. Rivas trips on the hose. Nicole aces her drill.

Then it’s my turn.

“Show me you can handle it, Knowles,” Noah says, tone unreadable.

The jaws of life are heavier than expected. Metal gleaming. Coiled with power. I grip the handles—and a jolt runs through me.

Not static. Not nerves.

Magic.

A spark flares at the contact, crackling into the pavement.

Gasps.

“What the hell was that?” Jamie mutters.

I glance around. No Marcus. If it’s a prank, he’s outdone himself. Still, I play it off.

“Marcus, you little gremlin,” I say, scrunching my eyes. “Hiding under the truck with a cattle prod again?”

Laughter.

But not from Noah.

He’s staring at me. Intently.

There’s something in his eyes. Knowing. Ancient.

I flash a grin and return the jaws to their cradle.

Note to self: Stay away from Noah Benson.

Not just for the mission.

To protect my magical secrets.

Captain Greene arrives after lunch, silhouette sharp against sunlit bay doors. He approaches, clipboard in hand.

“Afternoon, team,” he says. “How are the rookies holding up?”

“They’re surviving,” Noah replies. “Some even thriving.”

I feel the compliment brush across my skin like heat. I know it was meant for me.

Greene’s eyes sweep over us, lingering. “Knowles. Walk with me.”

We walk toward the engine bay. His voice drops.

“We don’t usually take probies with...nontraditional resumes,” he says. “But your references were stellar. One of my old friends from L.A. Fire vouched for you.”

I nod. “Grateful for the opportunity, sir.”

“You’ve got instincts. But instincts aren’t enough when you're crawling through smoke with zero visibility.”

“I understand.” I’m surprised to sense his over-protectiveness of me. Not sure where it is coming from. Should I be worried? What does he know?

“Good.” He stops, facing me fully. “This isn’t just textbook drills. Six major fires in six months. All suspicious. All close.”

“Any casualties, Sir?” I ask, playing dumb.

“You ask a lot of questions.” He stares me down like I’m an unruly two-year-old.

“I’ve been told.”

“I like that. Shows you care.” His jaw tightens. “Three. Burned too badly for ID.”

Three. No names. That’s telling.

“What’s the theory?”

“Thrill-seeker. Cover-up. Nothing ruled out.” He narrows his eyes. “Rumors say the Feds might get involved. But right now, it’s ours. And I need everyone—probie or not—sharp.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Stay alert. Don’t take anything for granted.”

He walks off.

Don’t take anything for granted.

He has no idea how little I am taking for granted and how involved the Feds already are.

Three deaths. No IDs. That changes the firehouse equation, although it’s not the first I've heard this evidence. The locals are beginning to understand that this isn’t just about destruction. Someone is being hunted—or silenced. Like Agent Leighton.

And if my instincts are right, the firehouse isn’t just a place to hide.

It could be the next hunting ground.

I glance across the bay where the other probies are finishing up drills and taking short walks with the Captain. I catch Noah watching me from the edge of the rig. Arms crossed. Head tilted. That unreadable expression on his face.

I look away first.

Too much heat in one stare.

It’s nearly midnight when the firehouse finally quiets down.

My first night sleeping in the firehouse.

Most of the crew are in their bunks, snores rolling down the hallway like lazy thunder.

I pull a mop through the main bay, pretending to focus on the grime while keeping an ear trained for movement.

Once I’m sure I’m alone, I ditch the mop and head for my gear bag tucked behind a row of lockers. From the side pocket, I pull out a small velvet pouch.

Inside: a series of tiny listening devices, no larger than shirt buttons. Standard-issue FBI tech.

With swift, practiced movements, I tuck them beneath the rim of the duty desk, behind the refrigerator in the kitchen, in the overhead light fixture in the rec room.

One even slips under the base of the printer in Captain Greene’s office.

I move like a shadow, years of training smoothing my breath and softening each step.

But the hardest one is Noah’s office.

I pause at his closed door, fingers hovering just above the handle.

Don't hesitate.

I slip inside. The office is neater than I expected—clean lines, uncluttered desk, the faint scent of cedar and motor oil still hanging in the air. It’s quiet, save for the ticking of the wall clock.

I keep the lights off and move with care, placing my last device under his desk lamp.

But I’m not done yet. This office requires more exploration.

I search the desk drawers one by one. Top drawer: neatly arranged pens, notepads, and a bottle of ibuprofen.

Second drawer: training manuals, building schematics, a collection of firehouse rosters. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Then I find the bottom drawer.

Beneath a tangle of charging cords and an unused radio earpiece, there’s a stone. Rough and misshapen, it looks like nothing—until I touch it.

Magic pulses through me, the same low hum I felt in the woods. My fingers curl around the stone before I even realize what I’m doing.

It’s identical to the one I found in the ashes. On the other side, the same rune.

A chill creeps up my spine.

Why does he have it?

He didn’t just stumble on it. No one without magic would think to pick up a rock.

He kept it. Hid it. Or was it his to start with?

I stare at the drawer, disappointment settling into my bones like cold.

Because if he’s connected to those fires…

If he’s the one I’ve been sent to find…

Then I’ll have no choice but to burn whatever’s simmering between us to the ground.