Page 172 of Knotting the Firefighters

The real cause for celebration had been the official court documents arriving—a thick manila envelope containing legal confirmation that my case against Gregory's pack is moving forward with actual prosecution rather than being dismissed as property damage.

Justice.

Potential justice after months of terror and uncertainty.

The most significant development—the one that had made me actually cry with relief despite the audience—was the judge's order restricting Gregory and his pack from leaving Los Angeles until trial completion.

Confined.

Unable to travel to Montana.

Unable to orchestrate another "accident" or "finish the job" they'd started.

Actually facing consequences for attempted murder.

The relief had been overwhelming—physical weight lifting from shoulders I hadn't realized were so tense, breathingbecoming easier, sleep suddenly seeming possible without nightmares of flames and locked doors.

Safe.

Genuinely safe for the first time in over a year.

No longer constantly scanning surroundings for threats, no longer jumping at unexpected sounds, no longer existing in perpetual fight-or-flight mode.

That relief had prompted Calder's inquiry about my self-defense training—whether I'd maintained skills during months away from regular practice, whether I could still protect myself if circumstances required physical confrontation.

Hence, our current position.

Me straddling his chest in a dominant pin.

Him completely unable to break free despite his superior size and strength.

Technique trumping power, as it always does.

I lean forward slightly, allowing my weight to settle more firmly across his torso, a grin spreading across my face with undisguised satisfaction.

"This must be what it's like to be a power top, hmm?" The observation is deliberately provocative, referencing our earlier conversation with Silas about Calder's particular preferences.

Power top who's currently pinned by Omega, half his size.

Irony is delicious.

He groans—a sound that's equal parts frustration and arousal, amber eyes darkening with a mixture of defeat and interest.

"Don't give me ideas," he warns, voice dropping to a register that broadcasts exactly what kind of ideas I'm inspiring. "And most certainly stop moving like that on my groin."

Oh.

Am I moving?

Apparently, I am.

Shifting slightly with each breath, creating friction that's definitely affecting him.

I grin with absolutely shameless intent, purposely adjusting my position to maximize contact—slow roll of my hips that makes his entire body tense beneath me, hands flexing where they're trapped at his sides.

Tactical advantage.

Using attraction as a distraction.