Chapter 5 Firefly Of Scorching Trouble #2
The chat erupts with expletives, questions, and what I'm choosing to interpret as professional concern rather than the personal interest I can practically hear vibrating through the digital connection.
Bear: WHAT
Silas: Is she okay???
Bear: How bad
Silas: What was she doing in there
Me: Saving kittens. She's breathing but unconscious. Burns on her back, smoke inhalation.
Bear: Are we surprised she was saving kittens?
Silas: Not surprised at all that she was
I'm about to type something reassuring—or at least less alarming—when another message pops up from the stations group chat, this one from outside our usual pack dynamic.
Bonds: Did y’all hear Chief wants to hire Hayes girl?
The surname ignites tingles of dread like ice water down my spine, dousing some of the hormonal chaos in favor of the familiar burn of competition and resentment.
Hayes girl…
Calder Hayes, who acts like a fucking puppy who’s love sick for Chief Murphy, knowing her well enough to have a proprietary nickname deemed upon himself by my fellow peers. The rumor mill has them connected somehow, whether through previous department overlap or something more personal.
Of course.
My thumb hovers over the screen, crafting and deleting responses that range from professionally neutral to aggressively territorial, none of which are appropriate for group chat.
The silence stretches uncomfortably until Bear—bless his tactless heart—interjects with his usual lack of filter.
Bear: Rookie's an idiot. Stop listening to gossip.
The chat goes quiet after that, everyone apparently deciding that discretion is the better part of valor. I should probably send something diplomatic, smooth over whatever tension just rippled through our usually cohesive pack dynamic.
Instead, I type: Hurry the fuck up before there's no evidence left.
Then I stare at Chief Murphy's unconscious form, at the way the retriever has curled protectively against her side while the kittens explore the unfamiliar terrain of open ground, and realize this situation is going to get exponentially more complicated.
Because Rodriguez wants her for the chief position.
Half the department is already half in love with her professional reputation and probably wants to meet the star of our new growing fire station world...
And because Calder Hayes apparently has some claim I don't want to fully understand, but definitely resent.
Or because my body is currently staging a full-scale rebellion against a decade of carefully maintained disinterest in Omega dynamics, flooding my system with instincts I'd convinced myself I'd evolved beyond.
Fuck.
My fingers move across the screen again.
Me: Scratch the medical team. I'm bringing her to the station. Get prepped.
The responses are immediate and varied—Silas is already listing medical supplies, versus Bear questioning my judgment.
I end up messaging the station chat with similar details to a lesser degree, and someone else asks about protocol for treating civilians on-site.
I silence the phone without reading further, tucking it back into my pocket because right now I need to focus on logistics rather than pack politics.
Getting an unconscious Omega onto a horse presents challenges I haven't encountered since training exercises with mannequins that weighed significantly less and smelled considerably less distracting.
Adding the pup and kittens is just another troublesome equation.
Juniper stands patient as ever, but I'll need both hands for the lift, which means temporarily abandoning my precious cargo to the protection of one golden retriever of uncertain loyalty.
"Guard," I tell the dog, pointing at Chief Murphy with what I hope conveys authoritative command despite never having owned a pet more demanding than the departmental goldfish. "Stay."
The retriever wags its tail—which I'm choosing to interpret as compliance—and settles more firmly against the Omega's side, head resting on her hip like this is a perfectly normal afternoon activity.
I gather the kittens first, tucking them carefully into my jacket where body heat and enclosed space might provide temporary comfort. They protest with tiny mews that sound disturbingly like accusations, but settle eventually, probably exhausted from their near-death experience.
Then I turn my attention to the real challenge.
Chief Murphy is not a large woman—maybe 5'5" in boots, curves that speak of good genetics and better nutrition, but nothing approaching difficult-to-carry proportions. I've hauled unconscious victims twice her size through worse terrain in worse conditions.
But I've never had to touch any of them while actively fighting the urge to bury my face in their hair and just breathe.
"Get it together, Hawthorne," I mutter again, because apparently talking to myself is today's coping mechanism. "She's a colleague. A potential subordinate. Not a—"
Not a what?
Potential pack member? Romantic interest? The Omega, my body seems convinced, belongs in our circle despite a decade of maintaining happily Omega-free pack dynamics?
I lift her carefully, one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her upper back while meticulously avoiding the burned areas.
She's warm against my chest, solid and real and still unconsciously gripping the scorched coat that saved four tiny lives.
Her head lolls against my shoulder, red hair spilling across my arm in waves that catch the afternoon light.
The scent is stronger this close.
So much stronger.
Vanilla and wildflowers and that underlying smoke that speaks of her past, of who she was before small-town anonymity, of the firefighter who ran into flames without hesitation because that's what heroes do.
My cock stirs with interest I absolutely don't have time for, and I bite back a growl that wants to rumble through my chest like thunder before a storm.
The Alpha instincts I've spent years managing through careful pack structure and regimented schedules are suddenly screaming at volumes I haven't experienced since—
Since never.
Because I've never wanted an Omega.
Not like this.
Not with this intensity that makes my fingers dig slightly into her thigh despite my conscious effort to maintain a professional touch. Not with this overwhelming urge to find whoever started that fire and make them understand exactly what happens when you target someone under my protection.
She's not under your protection, logic attempts. She's not your anything.
My body disagrees with vehement enthusiasm, muscles tensing as I shift her weight more securely against me.
The movement presses her curves into my chest, and I have to close my eyes, have to force breath through lungs that suddenly seem too small, have to actively fight the urge to hold her tighter, closer, mine.
"This is madness," I inform the universe, Juniper, the unconscious woman, and anyone listening. "Completely psychotic in Alpha nature at best."
Juniper snorts—probably at the wind, but I'm choosing to interpret it as equine judgment.
The process of mounting while holding an unconscious woman is neither graceful nor dignified, but I manage through sheer stubborn determination and probably some divine intervention.
Chief Murphy ends up cradled across my lap, her head tucked beneath my chin, her scent completely surrounding me in ways that make higher brain function increasingly difficult.
The retriever whines, looking between me and the Omega with obvious distress.
"Come on then," I tell it, because apparently I'm collecting strays today. "But you're walking."
The dog's tail wags with enough enthusiasm to suggest language barriers are no obstacle to communication, and we start the journey back, leaving the truck, which sits abandoned, toward civilization and medical care and all the complications waiting in my immediate future.
Juniper moves carefully, sensing the precious cargo, her gait smooth enough that Chief Murphy barely stirs against me. The kittens have gone quiet in my jacket—sleeping probably, or just conserved energy after their ordeal.
The building collapses behind us with spectacular timing, the roof caving inward in a shower of sparks and smoke that sends ash drifting across the landscape like toxic snow. Evidence burning, witnesses silenced, whoever started this fire is probably congratulating themselves on a job well done.
Not if I have anything to say about it.
Because this wasn't an accident.
The dog tied just far enough from flames, the kittens abandoned in a corner, the whole setup designed to draw attention—either as a distraction or as bait. Someone wanted that building destroyed, and they'd been willing to sacrifice innocent lives to ensure no interference.
The fact that Chief Murphy had been driving by, had seen the smoke and responded despite presumably being off-duty and unequipped, had nearly gotten herself killed trying to save creatures most people would consider acceptable losses—
That level of selflessness is going to give me gray hair.
The thought surprises me with its familiarity, its casual presumption of ongoing concern, of future complications involving this woman and her apparent hero complex.
My phone buzzes again, insistent against my thigh where Chief Murphy's hip presses through denim. I shift slightly, trying to access the pocket without disturbing her, succeeding mostly in making myself more uncomfortably aware of every point of contact between us.
ETA 15 minutes, the text from Silas reads. Medical bay prepped. Bear's bringing the truck.
I thumb out a response one-handed—Coordinates attached—and resist the urge to add something about securing the scene, collecting evidence, and beginning the investigation that this situation obviously requires.
Because that's not my call to make.