Page 48 of Knotting the Firefighters

She's inside.

Chief Murphy is inside during structural explosion.

My hands move automatically, securing turnout gear with practiced speed, preparing to rush into flames for the second time in two weeks to extract the same impossibly stubborn Omega.

But she emerges before I can take three steps.

Through smoke and debris, wreathed in flames like she's immune to basic physics, Chief Wendolyn Murphy appears carrying precious cargo secured within her turnout coat. The little girl—Violet, presumably—clings to her with desperate trust, face buried against Murphy's shoulder.

Paramedics converge immediately, but Murphy waves them off with authority that brooks no argument.

"Take the girl," she commands, already extracting the child with gentle efficiency. "She's priority. I'm fine."

"Ma'am, we should examine?—"

"I said I'm fine." The dismissal is absolute, accompanied by her removing the helmet with sharp movement, tossing it aside like unnecessary burden. "Both hoses need repositioning to the building's rear. Two generators back there, one just exploded, the second will follow if we don't suppress immediately."

The crew responds before I fully process her words, already moving with the kind of instant compliance that speaks to established command authority rather than temporary cooperation.

She's commanding my crew.

With my pack member present.

And they're obeying without hesitation.

Murphy's hands move to her turnout coat, unbuttoning with visible irritation despite the protection it provides. The heavy material falls open, revealing white tank top beneath—sweat-soaked, clinging to curves that my body catalogs with inappropriate enthusiasm despite professional circumstances.

The burns on her back are visible even from this distance, angry red flesh peeking through destroyed fabric where earlier injuries haven't healed.

She shouldn't be here.

Shouldn't be working.

Definitely shouldn't be running into exploding buildings.

Our eyes meet across the chaos—storm gray locking with vivid green—and the connection hits like electrical current. Cedar and black amber crash against vanilla and wildflowers, pheromones communicating on frequencies that bypass conscious thought entirely.

Mine.

The word screams through my instincts with renewed intensity, Alpha biology demanding acknowledgment of what every cell in my body apparently already knows.

She breaks contact first, necessity overriding whatever passed between us, her attention returning to immediate concerns with admirable focus.

"Everyone's accounted for!" she announces, voice pitched to carry. "Move back another fifty feet—give the crews room to work without civilian interference. Officer Martinez, confirm headcount for the children. We'll debrief once the fire is fully suppressed."

Hazel Martinez snaps acknowledgment, already barking orders to subordinate officers who scramble to comply. Ambulance sirens signal departure—the injured children being transported to Sweetwater Falls' new medical clinic, the facility that opened last month with state-of-the-art equipment and physicians recruited from larger cities.

At least something in this town is properly resourced.

I force attention back to Murphy, tracking her movements as she surveys the scene with practiced assessment. Bear appears at her side—when did he get there?—his expression concerned, body language protective in ways that make something uncomfortable twist in my chest.

"You okay?" he asks, voice low but carrying across distance with acoustics physics and Alpha hearing.

She shrugs, attempting dismissal, but Bear catches her arm before she can move away. They share a look—intense, meaningful, carrying communication that doesn't require words.

Jealousy.

The emotion ignites hot and immediate in my gut, completely inappropriate given circumstances, absolutely undeniable in its intensity.