Page 33 of Knotting the Firefighters

"Okay," I agree, adjusting my position despite my back's protests, the retriever settling more firmly across my lap like he's claiming permanent residence. "Saddle up, teddy bear. You're getting the five-minute speed summary of my wild life in Sweetwater Falls."

TEDDY BEAR NEGOTIATIONS

~BECKETT~

Watching Chief Wendolyn Murphy explain her circumstances is like witnessing a controlled demolition—methodical destruction of the facade she maintains, revealing structural damage beneath the vintage dresses and careful smiles.

She's beautiful.

Not in the delicate, porcelain-doll way that society typically associates with Omegas, but in the way wildfires are beautiful—dangerous, consuming, impossible to ignore. Her red hair catches the fluorescent lighting like living flame, freckles scattered across pale skin creating constellations I could spend hours mapping. Those green eyes hold intelligence sharp enough to cut, humor dark enough to match my own, pain deep enough that I recognize it from staring at my own reflection.

Survivor.

The designation transcends biology, speaks to something forged rather than born.

She gestures while talking, animated despite obvious exhaustion, the IV line swaying with each movement. The golden retriever remains draped across her lap like he's claimedpermanent residence, occasionally contributing soft whines that she addresses with absent-minded pets.

"So I've been here approximately six months," she explains, voice still carrying that rasp from smoke damage that somehow makes her more attractive. "Ran from Los Angeles thinking distance would provide safety, that small-town anonymity would protect me from a pack that wanted me erased."

Her laugh is bitter, stripped of genuine humor.

"Turns out geography is irrelevant when your ex-Alpha has connections, resources, and absolutely zero conscience about attempted murder."

The casual way she references her near-death experience—both two weeks ago and today—makes my jaw clench hard enough that my molars grind together. Injustice has always been my trigger, the match that ignites rage I've spent years learning to control through physical outlets and careful distance from situations that test my restraint.

Small towns breed complacency.

The thought surfaces with familiar bitterness, echoing sentiments that drove me from Sweetwater Falls years ago. Not this town specifically, but ones identical in their commitment to maintaining status quo, to preserving hierarchies that benefit certain designations while systematically oppressing others.

Growing up, I'd watched Omegas treated as property, as decorative accessories for Alpha egos, as beings whose value derived entirely from their biological utility. Watched the legal system bend itself into pretzels, justifying discrimination, explaining why separate wasn't unequal, why protection was really just another word for control.

My father—good man, terrible lawyer—had tried explaining the nuances.

How change required working within systems, how radical approaches only alienated potential allies, how patience andincremental progress would eventually create the world we wanted.

Bullshit.

I'd watched him lose case after case, watched Omegas return to abusive situations because the law prioritized pack cohesion over individual safety, watched his idealism slowly corrode into cynicism that killed him before his heart actually stopped.

Becoming a firefighter instead of following his legal footsteps wasn't rebellion—it was survival.

Because running into burning buildings to save lives I could actually rescue was infinitely preferable to arguing in courtrooms where verdicts were predetermined by designation politics.

"The government is trying to dismiss the case," Wendolyn continues, pulling my attention back to her narrative. "Reduce attempted murder to property damage, maybe fine Gregory's pack for arson if they're feeling particularly motivated toward justice."

The disgust in her voice mirrors my own internal reaction, that familiar fury building in my chest like pressure behind a dam.

Control it.

Channel it.

Don't let her see the violence simmering beneath the surface.

Because Wendolyn Murphy doesn't need to know that the teddy bear everyone sees is carefully constructed camouflage. That beneath the jovial exterior and ready smile lives someone who's broken bones, split skin, hospitalized Alphas who thought size was the only factor in determining combat outcomes.

Small-town revenge requires subtlety.

Requires patience.