Page 34 of Knotting the Firefighters

Especially when knowing everyone's secrets while revealing none of your own, building a reputation as harmless while maintaining the capability for devastation.

Not that I'd ever admit to any of that.

Especially not to an Omega whose respect I'm rapidly discovering I desperately want, whose good opinion suddenly matters in ways I'm not remotely prepared to examine.

I let my gaze track over her features while she talks—cataloging details, memorizing expressions, indulging in appreciation that's probably inappropriate given our current circumstances.

She's hot as fuck.

The observation is objective, undeniable, and completely useless given my decade-long track record of zero attraction to Omegas. Not from lack of exposure—I've met plenty, worked alongside several, even attempted dating a few when social pressure suggested I should at least try.

Nothing.

No spark, no interest, no biological imperative suggesting they were anything except colleagues who happened to carry a different designation.

I'd concluded years ago that Omegas simply weren't in my cards. That my pack would remain Alpha-exclusive, that whatever partner I eventually settled with would come from Beta or Alpha pools, that the traditional pack structures requiring Omega presence were outdated expectations I could safely ignore.

Then this woman exists.

Defiant, bold, completely uninterested in performing the soft-spoken shyness that society expects from her designation. She commands space instead of apologizing for occupying it, meets challenges head-on rather than deferring to Alphaauthority, and radiates competence that makes every instinct I possess sit up and pay attention.

She's exactly my type.

The realization should probably concern me more than it does, but right now I'm too busy trying to understand why she's apparently still available. LA Fire Chief with a decorated service record, gorgeous enough that her personnel photos circulate like currency, personality that could charm demons into redemption—how is she not already claimed by a pack smart enough to recognize treasure?

Hayes.

The name surfaces with familiar complications, bringing tension I've been carefully avoiding examining too closely. The grapevine says she's "Hayes girl," which creates problems for our pack dynamic that I'm absolutely not qualified to address.

Not my jurisdiction.

Not my problem.

Definitely going to become my problem if I'm not careful.

"—which is only complicating everything," Wendolyn is saying, and I force my wandering attention back to her narrative. "Because apparently, in order for my case to move forward with any efficiency, I need to be with a pack. Three months minimum."

My eyebrow rises automatically, interest piqued by this particular legal wrinkle.

"Elaborate?"

She sighs, the sound carrying exhaustion that transcends physical fatigue.

"Officer Hazel Martinez, Police Chief for Sweetwater Falls, explained it yesterday. The system is designed to prioritize pack-affiliated Omegas, gives their cases weight and urgency that independent Omegas apparently don't merit. Without pack backing, my assault case could drag through courts for years,especially with Gregory's connections actively working to bury it."

The bitterness in her voice is justified, the injustice infuriating, the entire situation exactly the kind of systemic discrimination that made me abandon legal aspirations.

"But with temporary pack affiliation," she continues, "Hazel thinks she can fast-track proceedings, get me in front of a judge within three months instead of waiting indefinitely for a system that doesn't want to prosecute Alpha-on-Omega violence."

"Intriguing timing," I observe carefully. "Finding out yesterday that you need pack protection, then today encountering another suspicious fire situation."

Her laugh is sharp, humorless.

"Right? Almost like someone's been monitoring my movements, waiting for isolated opportunities to finish what Gregory started."

The casual way she references ongoing threats to her life makes my hands clench against my thighs, nails digging into denim hard enough to leave impressions.

Breathe.