Page 25 of Knotting the Firefighters

Potential pack member? Romantic interest? The Omega, my body seems convinced, belongs in our circle despite a decade of maintaining happily Omega-free pack dynamics?

I lift her carefully, one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her upper back while meticulously avoiding the burned areas. She's warm against my chest, solid and real and still unconsciously gripping the scorched coat that saved four tiny lives. Her head lolls against my shoulder, red hair spilling across my arm in waves that catch the afternoon light.

The scent is stronger this close.

So much stronger.

Vanilla and wildflowers and that underlying smoke that speaks of her past, of who she was before small-town anonymity, of the firefighter who ran into flames without hesitation because that's what heroes do.

My cock stirs with interest I absolutely don't have time for, and I bite back a growl that wants to rumble through my chest like thunder before a storm. The Alpha instincts I've spent years managing through careful pack structure and regimented schedules are suddenly screaming at volumes I haven't experienced since?—

Since never.

Because I've never wanted an Omega.

Not like this.

Not with this intensity that makes my fingers dig slightly into her thigh despite my conscious effort to maintain a professional touch. Not with this overwhelming urge to find whoever started that fire and make them understand exactly what happens when you target someone under my protection.

She's not under your protection,logic attempts.She's not your anything.

My body disagrees with vehement enthusiasm, muscles tensing as I shift her weight more securely against me.

The movement presses her curves into my chest, and I have to close my eyes, have to force breath through lungs that suddenly seem too small, have to actively fight the urge to hold her tighter, closer, mine.

"This is madness," I inform the universe, Juniper, the unconscious woman, and anyone listening. "Completely psychotic in Alpha nature at best."

Juniper snorts—probably at the wind, but I'm choosing to interpret it as equine judgment.

The process of mounting while holding an unconscious woman is neither graceful nor dignified, but I manage through sheer stubborn determination and probably some divine intervention. Chief Murphy ends up cradled across my lap, her head tucked beneath my chin, her scent completely surrounding me in ways that make higher brain function increasingly difficult.

The retriever whines, looking between me and the Omega with obvious distress.

"Come on then," I tell it, because apparently I'm collecting strays today. "But you're walking."

The dog's tail wags with enough enthusiasm to suggest language barriers are no obstacle to communication, and we start the journey back, leaving the truck, which sits abandoned,toward civilization and medical care and all the complications waiting in my immediate future.

Juniper moves carefully, sensing the precious cargo, her gait smooth enough that Chief Murphy barely stirs against me. The kittens have gone quiet in my jacket—sleeping probably, or just conserved energy after their ordeal.

The building collapses behind us with spectacular timing, the roof caving inward in a shower of sparks and smoke that sends ash drifting across the landscape like toxic snow. Evidence burning, witnesses silenced, whoever started this fire is probably congratulating themselves on a job well done.

Not if I have anything to say about it.

Because this wasn't an accident.

The dog tied just far enough from flames, the kittens abandoned in a corner, the whole setup designed to draw attention—either as a distraction or as bait. Someone wanted that building destroyed, and they'd been willing to sacrifice innocent lives to ensure no interference.

The fact that Chief Murphy had been driving by, had seen the smoke and responded despite presumably being off-duty and unequipped, had nearly gotten herself killed trying to save creatures most people would consider acceptable losses?—

That level of selflessness is going to give me gray hair.

The thought surprises me with its familiarity, its casual presumption of ongoing concern, of future complications involving this woman and her apparent hero complex.

My phone buzzes again, insistent against my thigh where Chief Murphy's hip presses through denim. I shift slightly, trying to access the pocket without disturbing her, succeeding mostly in making myself more uncomfortably aware of every point of contact between us.

ETA 15 minutes,the text from Silas reads.Medical bay prepped. Bear's bringing the truck.

I thumb out a response one-handed—Coordinates attached—and resist the urge to add something about securing the scene, collecting evidence, and beginning the investigation that this situation obviously requires.