Chapter 5 Firefly Of Scorching Trouble #3
I'm a future fire captain, not law enforcement, and despite the fury building in my chest at whoever did this, the protective instinct making my jaw ache from clenching, I have to let proper channels handle the criminal aspects.
Even if proper channels have thus far failed spectacularly at protecting this particular Omega.
The thought brings memories of two weeks ago rushing back—the community center kitchen, the deliberate arson, the men laughing as they walked away from attempted murder.
Gregory Mason and his pack, still walking free despite witness testimony and physical evidence, and every indication of premeditated violence.
Because Omegas don't matter to the system unless they're properly claimed.
The injustice of it sits bitter on my tongue, mixing with smoke residue and the overwhelming sweetness of Chief Murphy's scent.
She shifts slightly against me, a soft sound escaping that might be distress or simply an unconscious adjustment, and my arm tightens reflexively, holding her closer, safer, mine.
That word again.
Mine.
Completely inappropriate, totally unfounded, entirely true in ways my logical brain refuses to accept while my instincts shout victorious affirmation.
"This is going to be complicated," I inform Juniper, the retriever, the kittens, and the universe. "So incredibly complicated."
Because Rodriguez wants her for the chief position…despite me obviously being a more loyal, better candidate.
The pack has been happily Omega-free for years, our dynamics balanced and functional without the complications inherent in adding that particular designation to the mix.
And then there’s Hayes…the fucker…
The station comes into view as we crest a hill, the new building gleaming in afternoon light like a promise of fresh starts and second chances.
Bear's truck is already pulling into the lot, Silas visible through the windshield, probably composing mental lists of medical interventions and recovery protocols.
Home base.
Safe territory.
Pack.
I urge Juniper into a faster walk, Chief Murphy's weight negligible compared to the burden of questions I'm carrying.
Questions about the fire, about whoever started it, about why this particular Omega has systematically dismantled my equilibrium in approximately forty-five minutes of unconscious proximity.
Questions I absolutely don't have time to answer while she needs medical attention and the scene behind us requires investigation and my pack is probably already forming opinions I'm not remotely prepared to address.
The retriever lopes alongside, tongue lolling but pace steady, occasionally glancing up at Chief Murphy like checking for signs of consciousness.
The kittens shift in my jacket, tiny claws pricking through fabric to skin, reminding me that I'm currently smuggling livestock into what's supposed to be a sterile medical environment.
Rodriguez is going to love this.
The thought brings an almost hysterical laugh bubbling up, quickly suppressed because professionalism is already hanging by a thread without adding inappropriate humor to the mix.
We reach the station as the sun begins its descent toward the horizon, October light painting everything gold and amber and other warm tones that make Chief Murphy's hair look like literal fire against my chest. The pack emerges as I dismount—Silas moving with medical purpose, Bear hovering with poorly concealed worry, others I didn't text somehow having appeared anyway because I guess the prompting message of a fire brewing means there’s potentially injured civilians or the rare onset of one of our own being injured.
"How is she?" Silas asks, already assessing vitals with practiced efficiency, fingers gentle against her wrist.
"Breathing steadily. Pulse strong. Burns on her back, smoke inhalation, possible mild shock." The words emerge clinical, professional, completely at odds with the way my arms don't want to release their burden. "She's been out approximately twenty minutes."
"Let's get her inside." Silas gestures toward the medical bay, already moving. "Bear, grab the—what is that?"
"Golden retriever," I supply. "Found tied near the fire. I think—"
The kittens choose that moment to make their presence known, mewing loudly enough that several heads turn in surprise.
"And kittens," I add unnecessarily. "Four of them. She went in to save them."
The silence is profound, broken finally by Bear's incredulity.
"She ran into a burning building to rescue…kittens?"
"Apparently that's the kind of day we're having." I move past him toward medical, Chief Murphy still cradled against my chest, the retriever following with devoted persistence. "Someone wants to deal with the livestock while I handle the unconscious hero?"
Hands reach for kittens, for a dog leash that doesn't exist, for equipment and supplies, and all the practical concerns that make up pack life.
I tune it out, focused entirely on the woman in my arms, on the steady rise and fall of her breathing, on the way her scent has permeated my clothing, my skin, probably my DNA at this point.
The medical bay is cool, sterile, and completely inadequate for the turmoil currently occupying my chest.
I lay her carefully on the examination table, finally releasing physical contact while maintaining proximity that borders on hovering.
"Out," Silas orders, not looking up from his assessment. "I need room to work."
"I'm not—"
"Out, Captain." His tone brooks no argument, professional authority overriding pack hierarchy. "Unless you want to explain to Rodriguez why his potential new chief has subpar medical care because you were too busy having an Alpha crisis to let me do my job."
The words are effective, precisely because they're accurate.
I step back, hands clenching at my sides, every instinct screaming protest at increasing the distance between myself and—
And her.
Chief Murphy.
Wendolyn.
Mine.
I make it to the doorway before stopping, unable to force myself further. The retriever sits beside me, both of us keeping vigil, both refusing to leave despite orders and logic and every practical reason to give medical professionals space to work.
"She's going to be okay," Silas says quietly, glancing up from his examination, but I see the look in his eyes, the one he gives me when we, as a pack, suddenly need some sort of intervention. "But Aidric?”
I see the way his nostrils flare, and I can only assume this means one thing.
Her scent. He catches onto it now…but the real question is if it’s driving him mad like it’s attempting to do to me?
Whatever just happened out there? Your feelings? We need to talk about it before it becomes a problem."
"It's already a problem," I admit with a grumble, fingers digging into the doorframe hard enough to leave impressions. "It became a problem the moment I caught her scent."
Understanding flashes across his face—sympathy, concern, professional interest in the medical mystery of unexpected Alpha reactions.
"She's not Hayes' girl," he offers carefully. "If that helps."
It doesn't.
Because whether or not she belongs to Calder Hayes or not, she's available for claiming, whether or not pack dynamics can accommodate an Omega with hero complexes, vintage dresses, and a scent that makes me want to commit acts of violence against anyone who's ever threatened her—
None of it matters.
She's Chief Murphy.
Rodriguez wants her for the position I've spent years working toward.
My pack has maintained perfect balance without Omega complications, and introducing her into our dynamics would require adjustments I'm not sure any of us are ready to make.
And Calder Hayes is apparently going to be a factor, whether I want him to be or not.
I watch her through the doorway, red hair spilling across white sheets, and the retriever pressed against my leg like we're sharing vigil duty.
"You're going to be a pain in my ass, aren't you, Firefly?" I murmur, knowing she can't hear. It doesn't matter, knowing that whatever complications she represents are already unavoidable.
The nickname emerges unbidden—Firefly, for the woman who lights up burning buildings and my carefully ordered existence with equal enthusiasm, with her unexpected intrusion into our lives.
Firefly.
For the Omega who's systematically destroying my equilibrium without even being conscious.
Firefly.
For the future chief of Station Fahrenheit, if Rodriguez has his way.
Unless I get mine by not being overshadowed by an Omega with a powerful reputation in my field that I’ve committed for too damn long to be beat…
The territorial surge that follows the thought should probably concern me, but right now I'm too busy memorizing the way afternoon light catches her hair, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the peaceful expression that suggests unconsciousness provides temporary respite from whatever burdens she carries.
You're definitely going to be a pain in my ass, Firefly.
And I'm absolutely, completely, irrevocably in trouble.