Page 66 of Knotting the Firefighters

The tension between them could power small cities, their interactions crackling with unresolved something—anger, attraction, probably both, knowing my luck.

Sexual tension so thick you could cut it with a tactical knife.

And now I'm apparently a catalyst, forcing them into proximity, into cooperation, into pack arrangement none of us chose but all of us need for various complicated reasons.

Fantastic life choices, Murphy.

Then there's the other complication Dr. Winters mentioned with careful medical diplomacy.

Heat.

My first actual heat with a compatible pack, potentially triggered within weeks rather than months, likely more intense than anything I might have experienced with Gregory's pack if we'd been biologically compatible.

Which we clearly weren't.

Six years together, suppressants ensuring I never cycled, convincing myself that was normal, that pack bonds didn't require biological heat responses, that compatibility was choice rather than chemistry.

Turns out my body knew better than my conscious mind.

Refused to enter a vulnerable state around Alphas who'd eventually try to kill me.

The question now is what kind of Omega I'll be during Heat.

Submissive? Dominant? Some confusing mixture of both depending on circumstances and partner dynamics?

I have suspicions based on my general personality—aggressive leadership in professional contexts probably translates to submission in intimate ones. Because balance requires counterpoint, because dominance in one arena oftencraves surrender in others, because my control-freak tendencies probably need an outlet through temporary relinquishment.

Not that I have any actual control over heat presentation.

Biology doesn't consult personality preferences before determining instinctive responses.

The thought makes me vaguely uncomfortable, a vulnerability I'm not accustomed to acknowledging. Being at the mercy of hormones and pheromones and biological imperatives that bypass rational thought feels antithetical to everything I've built my identity around.

Fire Chief Murphy doesn't lose control.

Doesn't submit.

Doesn't allow biology to supersede competence.

Except apparently she does, and there's nothing I can do about it.

Dr. Winters' other pronouncement echoes with equally uncomfortable implications.

House arrest.

Or more accurately,firehouse arrest, because apparently my burns need proper healing time and jumping into exploding buildings doesn't facilitate recovery.

Shocking revelation, truly.

One month minimum of restricted duty—no emergency responses, no running into flames, no high-stress situations that could trigger additional fainting episodes or compromise healing progress.

I'd barely suppressed the eye-roll, knowing she was medically correct while simultaneously hating every word emerging from her professionally compassionate mouth.

One month.

Thirty days of enforced idleness in a fire station full of Alphas I barely know, plus two I know too well.

Living in close quarters while my body adjusts to pack proximity and probably prepares for Heat that will make everything exponentially more complicated.