Page 19 of Knotting the Firefighters

The word registers before the sight does, some primal part of my brain that will forever be attuned to danger.

There—a column of black rising against the crystal blue sky, too dark for a burn pile, too concentrated for a wildfire. Structure fire, my training supplies automatically, already calculating distance and wind direction before I remember that's not my job anymore.

Mind your own business, Murphy.

The rational thought lasts approximately three seconds before I'm yanking the wheel hard left, tires protesting as I veer off the main road onto a dirt track that leads toward the smoke. Duty doesn't care about resignation letters or vintage dresses or the fact that I'm currently armed with nothing but a half-empty water bottle and stubborn determination.

The track winds through land, past rusted fence posts and tumbleweeds that scatter at my approach. Each bump sends the truck airborne slightly, suspension groaning in protest, but I maintain speed because that smoke is getting thicker, darker, angrier.

Someone could be in there.

The possibility drives me forward even as my hands start trembling on the wheel, muscle memory conflicting with recent trauma. Two weeks since I was the one trapped, since smoke filled my lungs while Gregory's laughter echoed through flames with his pack of men in tow. Mockery at the idea of my life ending…all because I wouldn’t bow down to their desperate neds of financial glory versus stripping me of any form of power I worked tedious to maintain.

The flashbacks hover at the edges of my consciousness, waiting for weakness to strike.

Not now. Someone needs help.

The structure comes into view—a massive shed or possibly an abandoned mechanic shop, judging by the collection of broken-down cars scattered across the property like mechanical tombstones. Flames lick through the roof in several places, the fire well-established but not yet fully involved. Salvageable, if the response time is quick enough.

Who would suddenly set something like this on fire though…

What stops me cold, makes my blood freeze despite the heat radiating from the building, is the golden retriever tied to a post twenty feet from the structure. The dog is howling, barking with the kind of desperate distress that speaks of separation from someone beloved. The rope is short enough to keep the animal safe from the flames but too short for escape.

Someone's inside.

No question now. No dog gets left tied up while their owner casually walks away from a burning building. Either someone's trapped, or something terrible has happened, and either way, I can't drive away.

Won't drive away, despite every self-preservation instinct screaming at me to flee.

I park at a safe distance, leaving the engine running because I'm not completely stupid, just selectively reckless. The heat hits immediately as I exit the truck, that familiar wall of temperature that makes the air shimmer like water. My body responds with trained precision even as my mind rebels—assess the structure, identify entry points, calculate the risk.

You're not equipped for this. No gear, no backup, no?—

"Is anyone in there?" My voice carries over the crackling flames, hoarse already from memory more than smoke. "Call out if you can hear me!"

Nothing but the dog's continued distress and the sound of consumption—wood surrendering to chemistry, structure becoming ash. The main entrance gapes open, door long since burned away, revealing an orange-lit interior that looks exactly like every nightmare I've had for the past two weeks.

Turn around. Drive away. This isn't your responsibility.

But my feet carry me forward anyway, vintage dress completely inappropriate for the situation but determination overriding fashion concerns. The heat intensifies with each step, sweat already beading on my skin, lungs automatically shifting to shallow breathing to minimize smoke intake.

The interior is chaos—visibility limited to maybe ten feet, smoke banking down from the ceiling in rolling waves. Industrial shelving has collapsed in places, creating obstacles that force me to duck and weave through the maze of destruction.

My eyes water immediately, tears streaming as I navigate by instinct more than sight.

"Hello? Anyone here?" The words come out rough, competing with the roar of flames overhead. "Fire department! Call out!"

Former fire department,my mind supplies unhelpfully.Currently just an Omega in a dress playing hero.

A beam crashes somewhere to my left, sending sparks cascading like deadly snow. The similarities to two weeks ago are overwhelming—the taste of smoke, the pressing heat, the knowledge that structures don't burn forever before they collapse. Gregory's voice echoes in memory, mixing with the crackling flames until I can't distinguish between past and present.

"The Ironwood Pack doesn't leave loose ends, sweetheart."

My knees buckle slightly, hand shooting out to steady myself against what turns out to be a scorching metal shelf. Pain lances through my palm, shocking me back to the present.

Not Gregory's fire.

Not that kitchen.