Page 39 of Knotting the Firefighters

A gift from Calder.

The whistle emerges into light, catching the overhead fluorescents in ways that make the embedded crystals sparkle like captured starlight. Swarovski crystals in silver, baby pink, and turquoise create patterns that would be absurd on any other piece of emergency equipment.

But Calder had seen it in some boutique during one of our city excursions, had immediately declared it "so Wendy it hurts," had presented it with the kind of grin that suggested he knew exactly how ridiculous and perfect it was simultaneously.

Vintage aesthetic meets professional authority.

I raise the whistle to my lips, draw breath deep into lungs still recovering from smoke inhalation, andblow.

The sound that emerges is shrill, piercing, impossible to ignore—cutting through argument and chaos like a blade through smoke. It reverberates off the concrete walls, amplified by the station's acoustics into something approaching divine intervention.

Everything freezes.

Everything.

Alphas stop mid-motion, arms caught reaching for gear, mouths open on unfinished arguments, bodies locked in whatever position they occupied when sound struck. It's likesomeone hit pause on a particularly disorganized film, freezing all human motion in its tracks.

The only things still moving are the kittens, who interpret the whistle as some form of rallying cry. They abandon their chaotic exploration, tiny paws thundering across concrete as they race toward me with single-minded determination.

Four balls of fluff—calico, tabby, gray, and black-with-white-paws—converge on my feet with enthusiastic mewling, rubbing against my ankles, climbing over each other in their desperation for attention.

Traitors to the dramatic moment.

But I can't maintain stern authority while baby animals demand affection.

My professional facade cracks as I crouch down, offering scratches and pets to each tiny tyrant.

"Hello, troublemakers," I murmur, voice softening despite my best efforts. "Causing havoc already? You've only been here a few hours."

They respond with purrs and continued rubbing, completely unimpressed by my attempts at discipline.

The golden retriever appears next, trotting over with tail wagging, tongue lolling in that universal expression of canine happiness. He settles beside the kittens like a guardian, body curved protectively around the tiny creatures.

"Good boy," I praise, scratching behind his ears with genuine affection. "Such a good boy, keeping watch over the chaos."

His tail wags harder, the entire back half of his body vibrating with pleasure.

I take a moment—just one—to appreciate this small tableau. The animals safe, healthy, alive because I'd made a choice to run into flames rather than drive past. The retriever who'd been tied as bait, the kittens who'd been abandoned to burn, all here, all protected, allminein ways that transcend ownership.

Worth it.

Every burn, every moment of terror, every second spent choking on smoke—worth it for these lives saved.

But I can't linger in sentiment when twelve Alphas are currently frozen in various states of incompetence, waiting for whatever comes next.

I straighten slowly, deliberately, letting the movement convey transformation from soft Omega petting kittens to Chief Murphy about to deliver consequences.

"Stay right here," I command the animals, pointing firmly at the ground. "Don't move."

The kittens, displaying either remarkable intelligence or cosmic irony, actually obey. They settle into a furry pile right where I indicated, the retriever maintaining his protective curve around them.

Good enough.

I turn my attention back to the frozen Alphas, letting my gaze sweep across them with the kind of slow, deliberate assessment that makes people squirm. Taking in every detail—poorly secured gear, incomplete uniforms, the general air of panic barely suppressed beneath testosterone and adrenaline.

Then I draw breath androar.

"WHAT IN HEAVEN'S NAME IS THIS BULLSHIT?!"