Page 28 of Knotting the Firefighters

"You're going to be a pain in my ass, aren't you, Firefly?" I murmur, knowing she can't hear. It doesn't matter, knowing that whatever complications she represents are already unavoidable.

The nickname emerges unbidden—Firefly, for the woman who lights up burning buildings and my carefully ordered existence with equal enthusiasm, with her unexpected intrusion into our lives.

Firefly.

For the Omega who's systematically destroying my equilibrium without even being conscious.

Firefly.

For the future chief of Station Fahrenheit, if Rodriguez has his way.

Unless I get mine by not being overshadowed by an Omega with a powerful reputation in my field that I’ve committed for too damn long to be beat…

The territorial surge that follows the thought should probably concern me, but right now I'm too busy memorizing the way afternoon light catches her hair, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the peaceful expression that suggests unconsciousness provides temporary respite from whatever burdens she carries.

You're definitely going to be a pain in my ass, Firefly.

And I'm absolutely, completely, irrevocably in trouble.

WAKING TO WARMTH AND WARNINGS

~WENDOLYN~

The first sensation that penetrates the fog of unconsciousness is warmth—wet, insistent, accompanied by enthusiastic snuffling that tickles against my cheek in a rhythm that suggests determination bordering on obsession.

A tongue.

Definitely a tongue, dragging across my face with the kind of devoted persistence that only canines manage, as if licking can somehow resurrect the unconscious through sheer force of affection.

"Mmph," I manage, the sound emerging somewhere between protest and acknowledgment, my hand lifting automatically to encounter soft fur and a cold nose that immediately presses into my palm seeking pets.

The retriever.

Memory surfaces in fragments—smoke, flames, tiny mewling bodies bundled against my chest, strong arms lifting me from destruction. The golden retriever I'd seen tied near the burning structure, barking frantically while its world literally went up in flames.

My fingers move through silky fur, finding that spot behind his ears that makes his back leg start thumping against whatever surface we're currently occupying.

"Good boy," I murmur, voice rough from smoke damage, each word scraping past vocal cords that feel like they've been sandpapered. "Such a good boy."

The praise earns me another enthusiastic face-licking, and I can't help the soft laugh that bubbles up despite the ache in my ribs, the burn across my back that's making itself known with increasing insistence, the general feeling that I've been used as a punching bag by someone with personal vendetta against my skeletal structure.

My eyes open slowly, reluctantly, the bright fluorescent lighting overhead making me squint against sudden glare. The ceiling tiles are institutional white, the kind of aggressively sterile aesthetic that screams medical facility or government building.

Fire station.

The realization crystallizes as I force myself to sit up—carefully, because my back protests the movement with language that would make sailors blush. The room around me is unmistakably fire department issue: industrial bed with vinyl mattress, rolling stool in the corner, medical supplies organized with military precision on shelves that line one wall.

Everything is new though.

Pristine.

The kind of untouched cleanliness that speaks of recent construction, of spaces not yet broken in by years of emergency calls and the accumulated debris of saving lives.

Station Fahrenheit.

The name surfaces from conversation with Hazel Martinez, from possibilities I'd been too afraid to consider seriously. Tom Rodriguez's new station, state-of-the-art facility, openingnext month with a chief position that apparently has my name buzzing through professional grapevines.

The IV line in my left arm catches attention next—clear tubing connected to a bag of what's probably saline, because of course I'm dehydrated. Running into burning buildings without proper hydration tends to have that effect, especially when combined with smoke inhalation and the general stress of nearly dying.