Chapter 4
4
EMMA
M y eyes snap open to darkness thick with gray haze.
For one disorienting moment, I think I’m still dreaming, until the acrid burn hits my lungs, and I erupt into violent coughing.
It rips through my chest, each spasm painful and tight.
I bolt upright, heart hammering against my ribs as adrenaline floods my system.
Fire. The cabin is on fire.
Fuck!
The thought crashes through me with brutal clarity.
The air tastes wrong—toxic, metallic, deadly.
My eyes water instantly, stinging tears tracking down my cheeks.
Through the blur, I make out wisps of smoke slithering under the bedroom door like searching fingers.
“Shit,” I whisper, the word catching in my throat.
I cough again, doubling over as my body tries desperately to expel the poison I’m breathing.
Survival instinct kicks in.
I fumble for my phone on the nightstand, knocking it to the floor in my panic.
When I scurry out of bed onto hands and knees to retrieve it, the screen shows 1:47 a.m. and barely any signal—one bar flickering in and out.
I try to call 911, anyway, my trembling fingers slipping on the screen, but the call fails to connect.
The sound that escapes me is half-sob, half-cough.
Lightning from outside flashes, briefly illuminating the smoke-filled room in stark white before plunging it back into shadow.
Shit… I need to get out.
Coughing, I push up from the floor and stumble toward the bedroom window.
I grab the latch and yank.
Nothing. I wrench harder, both hands now, but it won’t budge.
Jammed.
Panic claws up my throat, but I bite it down.
I drop to my knees, pressing close to the floor.
What do they say about fires?
Stay low. Get out. Don’t try to save possessions.
But my laptop is in my backpack by the dresser.
I can’t leave it.
On all fours, I crawl across the floor where the air is marginally clearer.
The summer dress I’d left draped over the chair is within reach.
I drag it on over Chad’s t-shirt, not caring that it’s inside out, needing to cover myself.
Every movement sends me into another coughing fit, each one more violent than the last.
My backpack.
I lunge for it, clutching it to my chest like a lifeline.
The hard edge of my laptop presses against me through the fabric.
I shove the charger in blindly, then grab Chad’s jacket from where I’d thrown it earlier to cover myself with.
The irony of needing something of his to survive isn’t lost on me, even as I’m choking on smoke and terror.
The temperature in the room is rising rapidly.
Sweat beads on my forehead, mixing with tears as I struggle to see through stinging eyes.
A horrific groan from above drives a spike of pure fear through my chest. I look up as a spiderweb of cracks appears in the ceiling, glowing orange at the edges.
“Oh God,” I whimper, scrabbling backward as embers begin to rain down.
My throat feels raw from coughing.
A deafening crack explodes as part of the ceiling gives way, showering the room with burning debris.
The heat is sudden and overwhelming, a sensation of standing too close to a bonfire multiplied tenfold.
I can feel my skin tightening, my exposed arms prickling with pain.
I scream.
Dread becomes a living thing inside me, clawing at my insides, stealing what little breath I have left.
My heart pounds so hard, I can feel it in my fingertips, in my temples.
My thoughts fracture, splinter.
I don’t want to die, not like this, not here, not alone.
I press Chad’s sleeve over my nose and mouth, hating that his scent might be the last thing I ever smell, and scramble toward the door on hands and knees.
My fingers close around the doorknob, and it’s hot but not unbearable yet.
I twist it, yanking the door open, and the rush of oxygen creates a whoosh behind me that sends me tumbling into the hallway.
The fire roars louder, as if angry I’ve escaped its first attempt to claim me.
From here, I find the full extent of the nightmare.
The back half of the cabin is ablaze.
Flames climb the walls in rippling waves of orange and gold, beautiful in their terrible hunger.
The wooden staircase at the end of the hall is already partially consumed.
I have to get downstairs.
I have to get out before the whole place collapses.
Every survival instinct screams at me to run, but I force myself to stay low, crawling toward the stairs as quickly as I can.
The smoke is thicker here, forming a choking blanket that hovers about three feet from the floor.
I pull the jacket tighter around my face, but it does little to filter the poisonous air.
Each breath feels like inhaling sandpaper, my lungs protesting with every shallow gasp.
Halfway to the stairs, I’m overcome by another coughing fit so violent, I collapse fully, my forehead pressed against the scorching hot hardwood.
Black spots dance in my vision.
My backpack suddenly feels impossibly heavy, but I clutch it tighter.
If I die here, at least my words will die with me.
Get up. MOVE.
The voice in my head sounds like my grandmother’s, the same steel-spined woman who taught me Omegas weren’t just soft things to be protected but survivors.
Drawing on some reserve of strength I didn’t know I possessed, I push myself forward.
The staircase looms ahead, partially obscured by billowing smoke.
Parts of it are already burning, the lowest section completely engulfed in flames.
There’s no way down, the path is blocked by a wall of fire that seems to taunt me with its bright, dancing light.
I back away from the burning staircase, mind racing.
Is there another way down?
A fire escape? I didn’t notice one when I arrived, too busy wallowing in self-pity over Chad and Megan to pay attention to emergency exits.
Through the smoke and chaos, I hear the distinct sound of the front door being kicked in.
Then voices, shouting commands I can’t quite make out.
Someone’s here. “Help m…” I cough out of control.
I turn to see a massive figure forcing a path through the flames, kicking away burning debris, creating a pathway where there was none.
The firefighter is huge, wearing bulky protective gear, face covered by a mask and helmet.
There’s something almost supernatural about the way they move through the fire with such purpose, such power.
I wave my arms frantically to draw their attention, my throat ravaged by coughing.
The firefighter’s helmet swings in my direction.
Even through the mask, I feel the intensity of his gaze locking onto me.
They gesture sharply, pointing at me, then at the floor, stay down, before resuming their determined advance .
With one powerful leap, he vaults over the most damaged section of stairs, landing with a solid thud on the upper hallway floor.
The move is so athletic, so unexpected, that for a moment, I forget the danger we’re in.
Who is this person? How can he move like that in all that heavy gear?
The firefighter reaches me in several long strides, dropping to a crouch beside me.
Up close, he’s even more imposing—broad-shouldered and solid, radiating strength and calm that makes something inside me unclench slightly.
“We need to get out now,” his voice comes through the mask, deep and commanding.
“This whole place could go any minute.”
I nod frantically, another coughing spasm preventing speech.
The firefighter’s gloved hands move quickly over me, checking for obvious injuries.
“We’re going back down,” he states.
I shake my head, pointing toward the burning staircase.
The firefighter follows my gesture, then looks back at me.
“Trust me,” he says simply.
And strangely, inexplicably, I do.
Something in that voice, in the sure way he moves, makes me believe he can get us out of this nightmare.
I nod, clutching my backpack tighter to my chest.
Without warning, the firefighter scoops me up as if I weigh nothing, one arm under my knees, the other supporting my back.
I gasp at the sudden motion, instinctively wrapping my free arm around their neck for support.
“Keep your face covered,” he instructs, already moving toward the stairs.
“And hold on tight.”
I press Chad’s jacket sleeve over my nose and mouth again, burying my face against the firefighter’s shoulder as much as possible.
Even through the protective gear, I feel the solid strength of the body holding mine.
We reach the top of the stairs, and the firefighter pauses, assessing the burning path below.
The lowest section is completely engulfed, but they seem undeterred.
“Taking the express route,” he announces, and already we’re moving, not down the stairs, but toward the banister.
With one fluid motion, the firefighter kicks over the railing and leaps off the stairs.
Both of us are hanging for a brief moment before dropping the eight feet or so to the ground floor, landing with a controlled thud that jars but doesn’t injure.
The impact forces another coughing fit from me.
The ground floor is a maze of flame and fallen debris, the heat so intense, it feels like my skin might blister despite the brief exposure.
The firefighter navigates it easily, sidestepping burning furniture and ducking under a beam that threatens to fall.
“Almost there,” he assures me even as the cabin groans and pops around us, wood splintering.
A crash from our right, part of the wall collapsing inward, sends a shower of flaming debris across our path.
I can’t help the scream that tears from my ravaged throat, pressing myself closer to my rescuer’s chest in instinctive terror.
The firefighter doesn’t hesitate, changing direction and finding another path through the burning maze.
The front, open door appears through the smoke—a rectangle of darkness promising safety beyond.
As we near it, the ceiling above us gives an ominous crack.
The firefighter reacts instantly, surging forward with a burst of speed that leaves me breathless.
We clear the doorway as a section of roof collapses behind us, sending a blast of superheated air against our backs.
Then we’re outside.
The rain is torrential, soaking me instantly as the firefighter carries me away from the burning cabin.
The contrast between the infernal heat we escaped and the cool downpour is shocking, making me gasp and triggering yet another round of painful coughing.
My rescuer doesn’t stop until we’re well clear of the house, across the street from it, finally setting me down gently on what feels like the open tailgate of a fire truck.
Emergency lights pulse in alternating strokes of red and white, cutting through the darkness.
Through watering eyes, I watch other firefighters attacking the blaze with hoses, shouting to each other over the combined roar of fire and rain.
The storm continues, wind driving the rain in sheets that should be dousing the flames, but somehow, the fire rages on, as if fueled by something impervious to water.
Lightning flashes overhead, briefly turning night to day, followed by a rumble of thunder that vibrates in my chest.
“Just breathe,” my rescuer instructs, pulling something from a nearby compartment.
It’s an oxygen mask, which he places over my face with surprising gentleness for such large hands.
“This will help.”
The rush of clean oxygen is immediate relief, easing the burning sensation in my lungs.
I close my eyes briefly, focusing on taking slow breaths despite the coughing fits that still rack my body.
“Is there anyone else who might have been in the house?” the firefighter asks, words clearer now that we’re away from the roar of the fire.
I pull the mask away momentarily.
“No,” I manage to rasp.
“Only me.”
The firefighter nods, then begins checking me over more thoroughly, strong hands surprisingly gentle as he examines my arms and neck for burns or injuries.
“You got out mostly unscathed,” he says.
“But we need to have the paramedics treat you for smoke inhalation.”
I nod, unable to stop staring at the massive figure before me.
Even knowing he saved my life, there’s something intimidating about his size.
I can’t see any features past the mask, just a powerful presence that radiates authority.
“Thank you,” I whisper, the words inadequate for what he’s done, but all I can manage through my raw throat .
The firefighter pauses, then reaches up to remove his helmet.
Dark hair is plastered to a strong forehead, damp with sweat despite the rain.
Next comes the mask, pulled away to reveal a face that makes my breath catch for reasons entirely unrelated to smoke inhalation.
Sharp jawline, straight nose, those midnight-blue eyes that had locked with mine on the plane.
Atlas. The Alpha, whose scent had wrapped around me in the cramped airplane seat, whose penetrating gaze had caught me writing about him.
“You,” I breathe, the word barely audible, even to my own ears.
My brain struggles to connect the dots, to make sense of this impossibly coincidental rescue.
“You’re... a firefighter?”
“Fire Chief,” he corrects, his deep voice no longer muffled by the mask.
Rain streams down his face, catching in his long eyelashes and dripping from his strong chin.
I stare at him, my mind spinning.
The odds against this are astronomical.
To be rescued from a burning building by the very man I’d been fantasizing about writing?
“Emma,” he says, and the sound of my name in his mouth sends a strange shiver through me despite everything.
“Seems like you can’t stay out of trouble for even a day in Whispering Grove.” He grins.
Our gazes lock, and for a breath-stopping moment, the world narrows to just us, me sitting on the tailgate, him standing close enough that the heat radiating from his body, even through his protective gear, pours over me.
My skin tingles with awareness despite the trauma of the fire.
I should look away. Should focus on the fact that I nearly died, that my temporary home is currently burning to the ground, or that I’m sitting here in a rain-soaked summer dress and Chad’s oversized jacket.
Instead, I’m transfixed by the way Atlas’s eyes seem to darken as they hold mine, by the subtle shift in his scent that reaches me even through the smoke clinging to both of us.
He reaches out, his thumb gently wiping a smudge of soot from my cheek.
The brief contact sends a jolt through me as if I’ve touched a live wire, and I can’t contain the small gasp that escapes me.
His gaze widen slightly at my reaction, his pupils dilating in a way that makes my toes curl inside my shoes.
“When I saw you through that smoke,” he says quietly.
“I thought I was seeing things. Couldn’t believe it was really you.”
I swallow hard, wincing at the pain in my throat.
“Seems the universe has a strange sense of humor,” I manage through my gas mask.
“Or fate,” he suggests, his gaze so intense I can almost feel it like a physical touch.
“Maybe there’s a reason?—”
The moment shatters as another firefighter approaches, this one tall and lean with golden-blond hair visible beneath his helmet.
He’s grinning despite the situation, dimples appearing in his cheeks as he glances between Atlas and me.
“Chief,” he says, a hint of teasing in his tone.
“The west side’s contained, and we should be able to salvage the front side.” His teal-blue eyes flick to me with undisguised curiosity.
“Good to see you found a survivor.”
Atlas straightens, instantly shifting back to professional mode, though his hand lingers near my shoulder a moment longer than necessary.
“Go help Kai with the north exposure… looks like it’s trying to jump to those pine trees.”
The blond firefighter nods, but his knowing smile doesn’t fade as he heads back toward the blaze.
I watch him go, noting the confident, almost swaggering way he moves, even in his bulky gear.
When I stare back at Atlas, he’s watching me with an unreadable expression.
“My second-in-command,” he explains briefly.
“River Graham.”
Suddenly, the wail of another siren cuts through the storm as an ambulance pulls up, followed closely by a police cruiser.
Atlas steps back, his professional mask firmly in place now.
“You need to get checked out properly,” he says, his tone all business again.
“Smoke inhalation can be serious.”
I nod, suddenly exhausted beyond words.
The adrenaline that kept me going is crashing, leaving me shaky and weak.
As a female paramedic with short- cropped hair approaches, Atlas gives my shoulder a brief, reassuring squeeze before turning away to direct his crew.
He strides toward the burning cabin, powerful and commanding, rain streaming off his gear.
He joins several other firefighters wielding hoses, pointing and shouting directions that are instantly obeyed.
Even from this distance, there’s no mistaking his authority, the natural Alpha leadership that seems to radiate from him.
“Ma’am?” The paramedic gently reclaims my attention.
“I’m Sara. Let’s get you checked out, okay?”
She guides me to the back of the vehicle, out of the worst of the rain, and replaces the firefighter’s oxygen mask with her own, then begins examining me methodically.
Blood pressure, pulse, oxygen levels, pupil response.
I submit to it all in a daze, answering her questions about my symptoms automatically while my mind circles back to Atlas’s rescue, to the way he looked at me, to the electric shock of his touch.
“Your oxygen levels are lower than I’d like,” Sara informs me.
“But not dangerously so. Any pain when you breathe deeply? Dizziness? Nausea?”
“Just my throat,” I rasp.
“And my chest hurts from coughing.”
“That’s normal. We’ll still need to take you in for observation,” she says kindly.
“Smoke inhalation effects can sometimes be delayed.”
A police officer approaches next, middle-aged with salt-and-pepper hair and deep lines around his eyes that deepen as he smiles at me.
“Officer Brennan. I know this isn’t a great time, but I need to ask you a few questions if you’re up to it.”
I nod, pulling the oxygen mask away from my face.
“Of course.”
He settles beside me on the ambulance tailgate, rain dripping from his police cap.
“Nasty business, house fires,” he says conversationally, flipping open a small notebook.
“Especially in weather like this. You’d think all this rain would keep things from burning, wouldn’t you?”
There’s something comforting about his casual approach, as though we’re two people having a chat on a porch somewhere.
“I thought the same thing,” I admit.
“I kept hoping the rain would help, but it seems like the fire... ignored it.”
Officer Brennan nods thoughtfully.
“Fires can be strange that way. Once they get hot enough, they create their own weather systems, in a manner of speaking.” He meets my gaze.
“Were you alone in the cabin tonight, Ms…”
“Emma Collins. And yes,” I confirm, another coughing fit interrupting me briefly.
“I arrived today… yesterday, I mean.”
“Any candles burning? Fireplace? Kitchen appliances left on?”
“I had some candles lit earlier, but I’m positive I blew them all out before going upstairs to bed. I remember doing it one by one.” My brow furrows as I try to think if I’d missed anything.
“The fireplace wasn’t lit, and I didn’t use the stove or oven.”
He makes notes, his expression thoughtful rather than suspicious.
“Any electrical issues you noticed? Lights flickering? Circuit breakers tripping?”
“There was no electricity when I arrived at the cabin. Everything else seemed fine.”
“We’ll have the fire investigator look into it once it’s safe to enter the structure.” He glances up at the still-burning cabin.
He asks a few more routine questions.
How long I plan to stay in Whispering Grove, where I’m from, if I’d noticed anything unusual before going to bed.
I answer as best I can through my increasingly sore throat, growing more exhausted with each passing minute.
“I’ll need your phone number and contact details,” he says finally.
“Also, I have to ask you not to leave Whispering Grove while this fire is being investigated.”
My heart sinks.
“I’m a suspect?”
Officer Brennan’s expression softens.
“Standard procedure, Ms. Collins. We can’t rule anything out at this stage, but between you and me, accidental causes are far more common than deliberate ones. Especially in rental properties where maintenance might not be up to code.”
His kindness eases my anxiety somewhat.
Still, the thought of being considered even a potential arsonist is distressing.
As if sensing my unease, he pats my arm lightly.
“Try not to worry too much,” he advises.
“Focus on getting checked out medically for now.”
Sara, the paramedic, returns.
“We need to transport you to the hospital now,” she says firmly.
“Standard protocol for smoke inhalation cases.”
Officer Brennan stands, tipping his hat slightly.
“We’ll continue this conversation later, Ms. Collins. Take care of yourself first.”
As the paramedics prepare to load me into the ambulance, I look over at the firefighting operation once more.
The cabin fire is close to being put out now, the combined efforts of the firefighters and the relentless rain finally gaining ground.
Through the chaos, I spot Atlas chatting with two other men at the edge of the property.
One is the blond firefighter from earlier, River, and the other is tall and built with dark hair, clearly explaining something technical to the others.
All three are soaking wet, their gear steaming slightly.
Despite the grim circumstances, I can’t help noticing what an imposing trio they make, three powerful Alphas working together.
All three turn to stare in my direction.
I flush instantly, embarrassed at being caught staring.
My stomach flutters.
Just then, Sara and her partner are helping me into the medic unit.
As I settle onto the stretcher, I catch one last glimpse of Atlas through the closing doors, rain streaming down his face, his midnight eyes fixed intently on mine until the doors shut completely.
The medic vehicle pulls away, sirens blaring despite the late hour.
I slump against the stretcher, physically and emotionally drained by everything that’s happened.
In less than twenty-four hours, I’ve been dumped by my boyfriend, discovered he was cheating with my friend, driven to a strange town, survived a fire, and been rescued by possibly the most attractive and unsettling Alpha I’ve ever encountered.
As Sara adjusts my oxygen mask and starts an IV line just as a precaution, I stare at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the bizarre turn my life has taken.
One troubling thought rises above the chaos of everything else:
What if the fire wasn’t an accident?
What if someone set it deliberately?
And if they did, what if they try again?