Page 46 of Knotting the Firefighters

My jaw clenches hard enough that teeth grind together, professional pride warring with territorial instinct and something dangerously close to admiration.

She walked into my station.

Took command of my crew.

Deployed my entire roster without authorization.

The logical part of my brain recognizes this as reasonable response to emergency situation with absent leadership. The Alpha part—particularly the part still reeling from her scent, still processing unprecedented attraction, still trying to reconcile unconscious victim with decorated fire chief—wants to track her down and establish exactly whose authority supersedes whose.

"We're on kitten and pup duty," Flynn adds, gesturing at the animals with obvious pride. "Chief Murphy gave them all names—Ember, Ash, Cinder, Spark for the kittens, and Blaze for the retriever."

"Fire-themed names for creatures rescued from flames," Tom observes, and the amusement in his voice makes my spine stiffen. "How very Chief Murphy."

Rook stands from the couch, the retriever—Blaze, apparently—immediately abandoning his toy to investigate new standing humans.

"Chief Murphy went with Bear," he reports, expression suggesting this information carries particular significance. "Second in command positioning, seemed like. They took the van so she could gear up en route."

The words hit like successive punches, each revelation adding weight to growing realization that Chief Murphy hasn't just taken temporary command—she's systematically reorganized our entire emergency response protocol in the time it took me to have a single conversation with Rodriguez about promotion prospects.

I turn toward Silas, finding my own frustrated confusion reflected in his expression. Our eyes meet in silent communication perfected through years of pack bonding—this is a problemmixing withthis is impressiveand underlying current ofwe need to handle this carefully.

"Suit up," I tell him, already moving toward equipment lockers. "We're heading to the scene."

"Aidric—" Tom begins, but whatever wisdom he's about to impart dies when he catches my expression.

Because I'm angry.

Legitimately, professionally, territorially angry in ways I haven't experienced since?—

Since Calder.

The name surfaces unwelcome, bringing memories I've spent years burying beneath professional achievement and pack solidarity. Calder Hayes, with his easy charm and devastating competence, who'd made me believe partnership could transcend pack dynamics before demonstrating exactly how wrong I'd been.

Not relevant.

Focus on immediate crisis.

Tom's lips curve into smirk that absolutely doesn't bode well for my promotion prospects. Because he knows— the chief always knows every damn thing—exactly what Chief Murphy's spontaneous command performance means. She's not just qualified for the position; she's already executing it with efficiency that makes my carefully planned protocols look like amateur hour.

"I'll wait here," Tom says mildly, settling onto the vacated couch with Blaze immediately claiming lap space. "Coordinate with dispatch, ensure proper documentation. You two handle field assessment."

Field assessment.

The diplomatic phrasing doesn't hide what he's really suggesting—go witness Chief Murphy in action, acknowledge her capabilities, accept that the promotion I've been working toward might require sharing authority or stepping aside entirely.

We take my truck—the second transport van still grounded by mechanical issues that our limited budget hasn't addressed. Getting coordinates from dispatch is straightforward enough, the automated system efficiently providing location data that makes my chest tighten with recognition.

Heritage building.

East side of town.

Historic structure with outdated electrical, multiple code violations, exactly the kind of location that should have been condemned years ago but maintains operation through grandfathered exemptions and community nostalgia.

The drive feels simultaneously endless and instantaneous, my mind racing through scenarios while Silas maintains unusual silence beside me. He's processing too—calculating,analyzing, probably already formulating medical response protocols for whatever we're about to encounter.

Smoke rises in the distance, darker than earlier but visibly dissipating in ways that suggest active suppression. As we approach, the scene crystallizes into organized chaos that makes professional assessment war with personal reaction.

Two trucks positioned with tactical precision, hoses deployed with textbook accuracy, water streams targeting optimal points for maximum suppression with minimal collateral damage. The crew moves with coordination I haven't witnessed since our arrival in Sweetwater Falls—synchronized, efficient, executing commands with military precision.