Page 41 of Knotting the Firefighters

"There's no way you're coming with us." The words emerge firm, protective, carrying authority he probably doesn't realize he's attempting to exert.

My laugh is sharp enough to cut.

"Someone better come with you lot of confused assholes," I counter, letting each word drip with derision, "or we're going to have more casualties than saved victims because you're all slow as fuck getting out of this station!"

The effect on the scrambling Alphas is electric. Their movements accelerate from frantic to absolutely desperate, gear flying into place with renewed urgency, the threat of inadequacy apparently more motivating than any safety protocol.

Bear chuckles—low, warm, completely genuine despite the situation.

"Silas and Aidric are going to kill me," he admits, though his tone suggests he's not particularly bothered by the prospect. "But I can't say no to a commanding Omega."

Damn right you can't.

I don't fight the smirk tugging at my lips, don't bother pretending his capitulation isn't satisfying on multiple levels—professional, personal, primal.

He's already moving before I can respond, heading toward equipment lockers with purpose, presumably to retrieve his custom gear and whatever he thinks will fit me.

I turn back to assess my inadvertent crew, counting bodies with practiced efficiency. Twelve Alphas total, ranging from what looks like mid-twenties to early forties, various builds and experience levels impossible to determine from appearance alone.

Too many for a small-town call.

Sweetwater Falls shouldn't require this level of response unless we're dealing with structure fire threatening multiple buildings or wildfire with serious spread potential. Which means either this is training exercise disguised as real call, or whoever's setting fires has escalated their game.

Gregory.

The name surfaces with familiar dread, but I shove it down, compartmentalize, focus on immediate concerns rather than spiraling into paranoia about whether my ex is currently orchestrating disasters.

Three of the Alphas stand out—younger, less coordinated, wearing expressions suggesting they've just witnessed something paradigm-shifting. The ones who'd been chasing kittens, probably rookies or co-op students gaining field experience.

Perfect.

"Everyone is going out!" I announce, voice carrying across the organized chaos. "Load the trucks—four in back, two in front. I don't care if you have to squeeze yourselves into uncomfortable proximity. I want to see all of you on-site regardless of fire size. LOAD UP!"

The response is immediate, unified, absolutely surreal.

"YES, CHIEF!"

Twelve voices in perfect synchronization, accompanied by salutes that would make military recruiters weep with joy.

I blink, momentarily thrown by the automatic deference, the assumption of my authority over a station that technically doesn't employ me, over Alphas who have zero obligation to follow my commands.

They think this is a test.

The realization settles with amused certainty. Rodriguez must have mentioned my name, must have implied evaluation was forthcoming, must have created expectationthat transformed my spontaneous intervention into official assessment.

Fine.

Allow them think what they want if it gets them moving efficiently.

I point at the three younger Alphas, crooking my finger in universal "come here" gesture.

"You three. Pet duty."

They approach with mix of eagerness and apprehension, eyes wide, practically vibrating with nervous energy.

The lines of more experienced firefighters are already moving toward the trucks with impressive coordination, the previous chaos transformed into functional efficiency through simple application of clear authority.

See? Not difficult.