Page 65 of Knotting the Firefighters

Aidric's tone carries command authority.

Silas delivers medical finality.

Bear adds protective concern.

Calder contributes possessive refusal.

Fantastic.

I pout—full lower-lip protrusion that probably looks ridiculous on a grown woman but expresses my frustration more effectively than words—and add a petulant "Boo" for good measure.

My phone becomes suddenly fascinating, fingers swiping through screens without actually processing the information displayed. Social media feeds scroll past in blur of colors and text I'm not reading, just seeking distraction from the tension currently suffocating this recovery room's modest square footage.

I need better friends.

The thought arrives with uncomfortable clarity. Female friends specifically, the kind who'd show up at hospitals to extract me from situations exactly like this, who'd understand the complexities of dealing with multiple possessive Alphas simultaneously, who'd provide escape routes and alibi support without requiring extensive explanation.

Willa doesn't qualify—she's seven months pregnant and currently on the coast with her pack, enjoying their last moments of peace before parenthood chaos. The absolute last thing she needs is me calling with a crisis that would make her feel obligated to return, to abandon her vacation, to deal with the havoc my ex-pack continues wreaking on my existence.

Who else?

The mental inventory is depressingly brief. Six months in Sweetwater Falls, and I've somehow failed to cultivate female friendships beyond casual acquaintances and professional courtesy.

Note to self: make more Omega friends.

Specifically, ones who can help me rant about the possessive dynamics of Alpha males who think they get voting rights on my medical discharge.

I'd woken approximately thirty minutes ago—groggy, disoriented, immediately assaulted by four concerned faces hovering over my hospital bed like I'd personally offended them by being unconscious. Dr. Sylvie Winters had been summoned, had conducted her examination with brisk efficiency, had provided medication and standard hospital food that tasted like cardboard mixed with regret.

Then she'd dropped the bombshell about new government policies I'd somehow remained blissfully ignorant of despite their implementation months ago.

Omegas require pack affiliation for medical treatment beyond emergency services.

The policy makes my blood boil with righteous fury, makes my hands clench around my phone hard enough that the case creaks in protest. Because this is exactly how systematic oppression functions—gradual implementation targeting vulnerable populations, restrictions framed as protection, control disguised as healthcare access.

They're trying to force dependency.

Eliminate Omega autonomy through biological manipulation.

Create a system where we can't survive independently, regardless of professional competence or financial stability.

The irony is almost beautiful in its cruelty—Alphas need Omegas for biological completion, for pack stability, for reproduction that ensures future generations. Without us, their designation goes extinct within a single generation. Yet instead of acknowledging mutual dependency, instead of creating equitable systems, they implement policies designed to maintain power imbalance.

Brilliant strategy if you're a sociopath.

Infuriating if you're Omega trying to maintain basic autonomy.

I force my attention back to immediate circumstances rather than spiraling into political rage that won't change anything.

Dr. Winters had explained my new predicament with clinical efficiency—I'm now officially affiliated with Aidric, Silas, and Bear's pack for a minimum of three months.

Plus Calder.

Because apparently my situationship Alpha comes included in this arrangement, though the logistics of integrating him into their established pack dynamic remain conspicuously unaddressed.

This is going to be messy.

Calder and Aidric clearly harbor history that transcends professional acquaintance.