Page 110 of Knotting the Firefighters

Victory.

Small victory, but I'll take it.

Silas smiles—a genuine expression that makes him look younger, less burdened by constant mediating responsibilities.

"That's all we can ask for. Willingness to try, to adapt, to build something new rather than clinging to what was comfortable."

I return his smile, satisfaction warming my chest.

Because I not only respect an Alpha who knows what he wants, but one who takes the lead if it means protecting the woman he secretly adores.

WAKING IN WARMTH

~WENDOLYN~

Consciousness returns gradually—not the sharp awakening of alarm clocks or emergency calls, but slow surfacing through layers of comfort so profound my body resists leaving it behind.

Warm.

So impossibly warm.

The sensation wraps around me likeanembrace, temperature perfect in ways that hotel beds with their fancy climate control never achieve. This is body heat, living warmth, the particular comfort that comes from another person rather than synthetic materials attempting to replicate it.

My eyes open reluctantly, adjusting to low lighting that suggests either early morning or late evening. The space around me is unfamiliar—not my bedroom at the rental cottage, not medical bay at Station Fahrenheit, somewhere else entirely that my foggy brain can't immediately place.

Where—?

The question dies incomplete as I realize I'm sitting in what might be the most comfortable chair ever constructed by human hands. Deep cushions cradle my body, support distributed perfectly to eliminate pressure points, the particularcombination of firmness and softness that usually requires custom furniture.

Could sit here forever.

Seriously contemplating never moving again.

I relax further into the warmth, seeking more of whatever magical comfort this chair provides. The scent intensifies with movement—maple syrup and roasted chestnuts, sweet warmth that makes my exhausted brain produce a single word.

Nest.

The thought surfaces unbidden, unexpected.

I've never had nest—Gregory's pack hadn't provided space for one, hadn't supported the Omega instinct to create sanctuary through scent and softness. The concept remained abstract, something I'd read about but never experienced, like trying to understand color through description alone.

What would it even feel like?

To have a designated space that's mine, that's safe, that's filled with scents of pack and comfort?

To build something that represents security rather than just occupy temporary spaces between crises?

The longing surprises me with its intensity—deep ache for something I've never possessed, mourning loss of experience I've been systematically denied.

When did I even fall asleep?

The question requires effort to formulate, as memory fragments exist between consciousness and unconsciousness. There was—something. Voices arguing, being lifted, instructions to rest delivered in a warm baritone that made compliance feel natural rather than restrictive.

A vibration thrums against my ear—a low, rhythmic sound that takes several seconds to identify.

Snoring.

Someone's snoring directly beneath me.