Chapter 7 Teddy Bear Negotiations
TEDDY BEAR NEGOTIATIONS
~BECKETT~
Watching Chief Wendolyn Murphy explain her circumstances is like witnessing a controlled demolition—methodical destruction of the facade she maintains, revealing structural damage beneath the vintage dresses and careful smiles.
She's beautiful.
Not in the delicate, porcelain-doll way that society typically associates with Omegas, but in the way wildfires are beautiful—dangerous, consuming, impossible to ignore.
Her red hair catches the fluorescent lighting like living flame, freckles scattered across pale skin creating constellations I could spend hours mapping.
Those green eyes hold intelligence sharp enough to cut, humor dark enough to match my own, pain deep enough that I recognize it from staring at my own reflection.
Survivor.
The designation transcends biology, speaks to something forged rather than born.
She gestures while talking, animated despite obvious exhaustion, the IV line swaying with each movement. The golden retriever remains draped across her lap like he's claimed permanent residence, occasionally contributing soft whines that she addresses with absent-minded pets.
"So I've been here approximately six months," she explains, voice still carrying that rasp from smoke damage that somehow makes her more attractive. "Ran from Los Angeles thinking distance would provide safety, that small-town anonymity would protect me from a pack that wanted me erased."
Her laugh is bitter, stripped of genuine humor.
"Turns out geography is irrelevant when your ex-Alpha has connections, resources, and absolutely zero conscience about attempted murder."
The casual way she references her near-death experience—both two weeks ago and today—makes my jaw clench hard enough that my molars grind together.
Injustice has always been my trigger, the match that ignites rage I've spent years learning to control through physical outlets and careful distance from situations that test my restraint.
Small towns breed complacency.
The thought surfaces with familiar bitterness, echoing sentiments that drove me from Sweetwater Falls years ago.
Not this town specifically, but ones identical in their commitment to maintaining status quo, to preserving hierarchies that benefit certain designations while systematically oppressing others.
Growing up, I'd watched Omegas treated as property, as decorative accessories for Alpha egos, as beings whose value derived entirely from their biological utility.
Watched the legal system bend itself into pretzels, justifying discrimination, explaining why separate wasn't unequal, why protection was really just another word for control.
My father—good man, terrible lawyer—had tried explaining the nuances.
How change required working within systems, how radical approaches only alienated potential allies, how patience and incremental progress would eventually create the world we wanted.
Bullshit.
I'd watched him lose case after case, watched Omegas return to abusive situations because the law prioritized pack cohesion over individual safety, watched his idealism slowly corrode into cynicism that killed him before his heart actually stopped.
Becoming a firefighter instead of following his legal footsteps wasn't rebellion—it was survival.
Because running into burning buildings to save lives I could actually rescue was infinitely preferable to arguing in courtrooms where verdicts were predetermined by designation politics.
"The government is trying to dismiss the case," Wendolyn continues, pulling my attention back to her narrative. "Reduce attempted murder to property damage, maybe fine Gregory's pack for arson if they're feeling particularly motivated toward justice."
The disgust in her voice mirrors my own internal reaction, that familiar fury building in my chest like pressure behind a dam.
Control it.
Channel it.
Don't let her see the violence simmering beneath the surface.
Because Wendolyn Murphy doesn't need to know that the teddy bear everyone sees is carefully constructed camouflage. That beneath the jovial exterior and ready smile lives someone who's broken bones, split skin, hospitalized Alphas who thought size was the only factor in determining combat outcomes.
Small-town revenge requires subtlety.
Requires patience.
Especially when knowing everyone's secrets while revealing none of your own, building a reputation as harmless while maintaining the capability for devastation.
Not that I'd ever admit to any of that.
Especially not to an Omega whose respect I'm rapidly discovering I desperately want, whose good opinion suddenly matters in ways I'm not remotely prepared to examine.
I let my gaze track over her features while she talks—cataloging details, memorizing expressions, indulging in appreciation that's probably inappropriate given our current circumstances.
She's hot as fuck.
The observation is objective, undeniable, and completely useless given my decade-long track record of zero attraction to Omegas. Not from lack of exposure—I've met plenty, worked alongside several, even attempted dating a few when social pressure suggested I should at least try.
Nothing.
No spark, no interest, no biological imperative suggesting they were anything except colleagues who happened to carry a different designation.
I'd concluded years ago that Omegas simply weren't in my cards.
That my pack would remain Alpha-exclusive, that whatever partner I eventually settled with would come from Beta or Alpha pools, that the traditional pack structures requiring Omega presence were outdated expectations I could safely ignore.
Then this woman exists.
Defiant, bold, completely uninterested in performing the soft-spoken shyness that society expects from her designation.
She commands space instead of apologizing for occupying it, meets challenges head-on rather than deferring to Alpha authority, and radiates competence that makes every instinct I possess sit up and pay attention.
She's exactly my type.
The realization should probably concern me more than it does, but right now I'm too busy trying to understand why she's apparently still available.
LA Fire Chief with a decorated service record, gorgeous enough that her personnel photos circulate like currency, personality that could charm demons into redemption—how is she not already claimed by a pack smart enough to recognize treasure?
Hayes.
The name surfaces with familiar complications, bringing tension I've been carefully avoiding examining too closely. The grapevine says she's "Hayes girl," which creates problems for our pack dynamic that I'm absolutely not qualified to address.
Not my jurisdiction.
Not my problem.
Definitely going to become my problem if I'm not careful.
"—which is only complicating everything," Wendolyn is saying, and I force my wandering attention back to her narrative. "Because apparently, in order for my case to move forward with any efficiency, I need to be with a pack. Three months minimum."
My eyebrow rises automatically, interest piqued by this particular legal wrinkle.
"Elaborate?"
She sighs, the sound carrying exhaustion that transcends physical fatigue.
"Officer Hazel Martinez, Police Chief for Sweetwater Falls, explained it yesterday.
The system is designed to prioritize pack-affiliated Omegas, gives their cases weight and urgency that independent Omegas apparently don't merit.
Without pack backing, my assault case could drag through courts for years, especially with Gregory's connections actively working to bury it. "
The bitterness in her voice is justified, the injustice infuriating, the entire situation exactly the kind of systemic discrimination that made me abandon legal aspirations.
"But with temporary pack affiliation," she continues, "Hazel thinks she can fast-track proceedings, get me in front of a judge within three months instead of waiting indefinitely for a system that doesn't want to prosecute Alpha-on-Omega violence."
"Intriguing timing," I observe carefully. "Finding out yesterday that you need pack protection, then today encountering another suspicious fire situation."
Her laugh is sharp, humorless.
"Right? Almost like someone's been monitoring my movements, waiting for isolated opportunities to finish what Gregory started."
The casual way she references ongoing threats to her life makes my hands clench against my thighs, nails digging into denim hard enough to leave impressions.
Breathe.
Control.
Professional demeanor.
"Do you have options?" The question emerges calmer than I feel. "For temporary pack arrangements?"
Her laugh transforms—genuine this time, carrying dark amusement at some private joke.
"Well, unless I crawl back to my ex-pack and beg forgiveness for the crime of not dying when they wanted me to, fuck no."
The vulgarity sounds natural coming from her, completely at odds with the vintage aesthetic but perfectly aligned with the fierce competence she radiates.
"What about Hayes?"
The question emerges before I fully consider its implications, curiosity overriding caution because I genuinely want to understand their dynamic, want to map the territory before accidentally stepping on landmines.
Wendolyn smirks—expression shifting into something complicated, affectionate, tinged with resignation.
She reaches for her phone, scrolling briefly before turning the screen toward me. The notification panel is absolutely buried under messages, missed calls, voicemails—all from the same contact.
"My lovely sole Alpha," she says, voice carrying wry affection, "is more of a situationship. Neither of us intended for it to evolve into this possessive friends-with-benefits arrangement, but Hayes doesn't have a pack, and I don't have Alphas yet."
She sets the phone down, fingers absently moving through golden fur while she continues.