Page 5 of Knotting the Firefighters

The captain—Aidric, someone calls him—turns to face his superior, and I see the exact moment comprehension dawns in those gray eyes. The moment I transform from victim to colleague, from rescued to peer.

"That's right."

The older chief moves closer, and I recognize him now—Tom Rodriguez, head of Station Fahrenheit's district. We'd met once at a conference years ago, back when I still wore the uniform instead of cherry-print aprons.

"I heard you'd moved up here. Figured you'd want your privacy." He looks at the building still burning behind us, professional assessment mixing with personal concern. "You rest now, Chief Murphy. We'll handle this."

Relief floods through me so fast it makes the world spin.

Not alone. Not forgotten. Not just another Omega who made bad choices with the wrong Alpha.

Chief Murphy.

Calder's there suddenly, gathering me against his chest as the EMTs step back to give him room. His familiar bourbon and pine scent wraps around me like armor, like home, like every safe thing Gregory tried to take from me.

"I've got you, Wendy," he whispers against my hair, and I can feel him trembling with the effort of staying calm. "You're safe now."

Safe.

The word follows me down into darkness as exhaustion finally wins, as my body decides it's done fighting for today. But even as consciousness slips away, even as the voices fade and the world goes soft around the edges, those two words echo in my mind like a battle cry.

Chief Murphy.

Not victim. Not prey. Not Gregory's discarded Omega.

Chief Murphy.

And when I wake up—because I will survive this like I've survived everything else—the Ironwood Pack is going to learn what happens when you try to burn someone who's made a career out of walking through flames.

They want to play with fire?

Fine.

Let's see how they handle the inferno.

DANGEROUS DISTRACTIONS

~WENDOLYN~

The last mug slides into place on the glass shelf with a satisfying clink—a vintage piece from a diner in Tulsa, cherry-red with a chip on the handle that somehow makes it perfect.

Finally.

Two weeks of unpacking boxes, arranging furniture, pretending this little rental house ten minutes from Cactus Rose Ranch could become home.

Two weeks of keeping my hands busy so my mind wouldn't wander back to smoke and flames and Gregory's laughter echoing through my nightmares.

The morning sun streams through the kitchen window, catching the glass shelves and turning my mug collection into a rainbow of ceramic memories. Each one tells a story—the navy blue one from that truck stop in Nevada where I'd stopped during my exodus from LA, the delicate floral piece from an estate sale in town, the ridiculous hot pink monstrosity Willa had given me as a joke that somehow became my favorite.

Forty-seven mugs.

Forty-seven reasons to stay put…

Will this make me stop running from reality?

The apron I'm wearing—mint green with tiny strawberries, cinched tight at the waist—makes me feel armored regardless of its delicate appearance. Vintage clothing has become my uniform, my rebellion, my way of saying I'm still here despite everything. The matching skirt hits mid-thigh, which shouldn't be scandalous but apparently is when you've got curves that refuse to be minimized.

I step back to admire the display, hands on my hips, letting myself feel the tiniest spark of satisfaction. The house isn't much—a two-bedroom cottage that probably hasn't been updated since the seventies—but it's mine.