Page 135 of Knotting the Firefighters

"I heard what you said." My interruption is gentle despite rage simmering beneath the surface. "I want you to repeat it so I can properly catalog it as evidence of his absolute idiocy and your complete disconnection from objective reality."

Fat whale.

He called this woman—this gorgeous, powerful, perfectly proportioned woman—a fat whale.

I'm going to kill him.

Slowly.

With fire…

It would be rather ironic.

"Do you feel fat?" The question requires effort to vocalize calmly, to maintain a therapeutic tone rather than revealing homicidal intentions.

She pauses—genuinely considering the question rather than responding with automatic agreement or defensive denial.

"I'm probably the fittest I've been in years," she finally admits, hand coming up to trace her visible abs with something approaching appreciation. "Actually like my curves now, enjoy having strength and muscle definition. But I guess my pack had preferences, which is okay?—"

"No." The word cracks like a gunshot, cutting through her attempted rationalization.

I move before conscious thought authorizes action—stepping into her personal space, using my size advantage to crowd her against the mirror, giving her no option except to look up and meet my eyes.

My hand finds her chin, gripping with enough pressure to prevent escape while remaining careful not to actually hurt.

She needs to hear this.

Needs to understand how fundamentally wrong Gregory's assessment was.

Needs to see herself through eyes that aren't poisoned by insecurity and cruelty.

"You're fucking beautiful," I declare with absolute conviction, each word deliberate. "Your curves, your muscles, the slim definition of your waist contrasted against feminine softness. Everything about your body is exactly right."

Her eyes widen—surprise evident, like she's never heard someone speak about her appearance with genuine appreciation rather than criticism disguised as concern.

"That lovely six-pack of yours?" I continue, unable to stop now that I've started. "Sexy as hell. Proof of dedication and strength, and the particular discipline required to maintain peak physical condition despite everything else competing for your attention."

My thumb traces her jawline, feeling the way she shivers at the contact.

"You're hot, Firefly. Genuinely, objectively hot in ways that make grown Alphas lose their composure."

The station Alphas were losing their shit over your photo.

Couldn't stop staring, making comments, and discussing you like you were a celebrity rather than a potential colleague.

Imagine their reaction seeing you in person—commanding presence, sharp intelligence, body that advertises capability and femininity simultaneously.

I inch closer, eliminating the remaining space between us, my body caging hers against the mirror with deliberate intention.

The tension builds—electric charge in a confined space, pheromones mixing in ways that make rational thought increasingly difficult.

Her voice emerges barely above a whisper, vulnerability evident:

"Do you like my figure?"

Like.

Such an inadequate word.