Chapter 23
Beau
The call came through at oh-six-hundred, pulling me from the first decent sleep I’d had in days. Not nightmares this time, just the comfortable weight of knowing the pack was nearby, safe, accounted for.
I was moving before my brain fully engaged, years of training taking over. Structure fire. Elderly woman. Second floor. Variable included potential collapse, smoke inhalation, mobility issues in the victim.
“Copy that, Dispatch. En route.” I grabbed my gear and headed for the door, already calculating response time and resource requirements.
Sable appeared in the hallway, instantly awake despite it being barely dawn. Through the bond, she’d felt my spike of adrenaline, the shift from sleep to emergency response mode.
“Structure fire,” I said before she could ask. “Elderly woman trapped. I need to go.”
“I’m coming too.” She was already reaching for her coordinator gear. “Margaret’s off today, which means I’m senior coordinator on duty.”
“Sable, you don’t have to respond to every call.”
“I do when it’s a structure fire with a trapped civilian.” Her voice carried absolute certainty. “That requires senior coordination. Besides, this is Mrs. Jenkins. She makes those cookies we all love.”
Dane and Silas appeared from their respective bedrooms, both already gearing up. Small house meant everyone woke when emergency calls came through.
“We’re all going,” Dane said, the tactical part of his brain already working through logistics. “Fire, medical, and security response. That’s our entire pack skill set.”
We piled into my truck because it was closest, arriving on scene within four minutes of dispatch. The house was already showing flames on the second floor, smoke billowing from multiple windows. Captain Rhodes was establishing command, other units arriving and deploying.
And through it all, I could smell Mrs. Jenkins’s scent. Elderly omega in distress, her biology screaming for help even through the smoke and chemical burn of the fire.
“Calder,” Rhodes called when she spotted me. “Second floor rescue. Mrs. Jenkins’s bedroom is the northeast corner. She’s mobility-limited, uses a walker. You’re primary rescue.”
“Copy that.” I was already pulling on my SCBA, my brain cataloging the approach, the variables, the risks.
Through the bond, I felt Sable’s spike of concern. Felt her omega instincts screaming to keep her alphas safe. Felt her professional coordinator mind overriding biology to do what needed to be done.
“Fire One, this is Coordinator Wynn,” her voice came through the radio, steady and professional. “Confirming primary rescue assignment to Calder. Medical staging for immediate transport, security establishing perimeter for incoming family. All units maintain safe distance from structure.”
She was sending me in. Knew it was dangerous. Knew I could get hurt or worse. And she made the call anyway because I was the right person for the job.
“Backup team?” Rhodes asked.
“Caldwell and McKenzie,” I said, naming two of our most experienced firefighters. “We go in as a three-person unit, maintain constant communication, extract and evacuate within six minutes.”
“Go.”
I moved toward the structure with Caldwell and McKenzie flanking me, the weight of gear familiar and grounding. This was what I trained for. What I was good at. The guilt from three years ago tried to surface, tried to tell me I’d fail again, tried to paralyze me with the memory of being too slow.
Through the bond, I felt Sable. Felt her absolute certainty that I would succeed. Felt her trust in my competence, her refusal to let me fail myself.
The stairs were clear but already starting to weaken from the heat. We moved fast, staying low, maintaining contact. The northeast bedroom door was closed, which had probably saved Mrs. Jenkins from smoke inhalation but also meant she was trapped.
“Mrs. Jenkins!” I called through the door. “Fire department! We’re coming in!”
I breached the door and found her huddled in the corner, her walker beside her, clearly terrified but conscious and alert. Her scent spiked with relief when she saw us.
“I couldn’t get to the stairs,” she gasped. “I tried, but the smoke, and my legs don’t work like they used to.”
“We’ve got you.” I moved to her quickly, assessing. Conscious, breathing okay despite the smoke, mobile with assistance. “I’m going to carry you down. Caldwell will bring your walker. Just hold onto me and trust me.”
“I trust you,” she said, and through the bond I felt Sable’s echo of those words.
Getting her down the stairs was careful work. The structure was compromised, smoke reducing visibility, heat making everything harder. But we moved as a unit, Caldwell and McKenzie clearing the path while I carried Mrs. Jenkins, protecting her from falling debris with my own body.
We made it outside in five minutes, well within the safety window. Silas was waiting at the perimeter with his medical bag, immediately starting his assessment while I helped ease Mrs. Jenkins onto the gurney.
“You’re safe,” I told her. “You’re okay. Silas is going to check you over, make sure there’s no smoke inhalation or injuries.”
“Thank you,” she said, tears forming. “Thank you for coming. For not giving up on an old woman.”
“We never give up,” I said. “That’s what we do.”
Through the bond, I felt Sable. Felt her overwhelming relief. Felt how hard it had been to send me into danger, how much it had cost her to make the professional choice over the personal one.
The fire was controlled within twenty minutes, the structure saved though significantly damaged. Mrs. Jenkins was transported to the hospital for observation but was stable and expected to make a full recovery. By any measure, it was a successful response.
When I finally made it back to the command post where Sable was coordinating mop-up operations, she looked at me with eyes that were bright with unshed tears.
“You did good,” she said, her voice steady despite what I felt through the bond.
“So did you. Sending me in despite knowing the risks, that took courage.”
“I had to send you.” The words came out rough. “You’re the best rescue specialist we have. You were the right choice. But I hated every second of it.”
“Come here.” I pulled her into a hug despite being covered in soot and smelling like smoke. Felt her tremble against me, the professional mask finally cracking now that the emergency was over.
“I could feel your fear through the bond,” she whispered against my chest. “Could feel when you were scared. But you went anyway, and you brought her home.”
“That’s the job.”
“I know. But knowing you’re competent doesn’t make it easier to send you into burning buildings.” She pulled back enough to look at me. “How do you handle this? Watching me coordinate dangerous situations, knowing I could make a call that gets someone hurt?”
“I trust your judgment. Trust that you make good decisions based on the best information available. And I remind myself that you’re an incredible coordinator specifically because you don’t let personal feelings compromise operational safety.”
“That’s what makes you an incredible coordinator,” I said, brushing soot from her cheek. “You don’t let personal feelings compromise good decisions. But you’re allowed to be terrified after. You’re allowed to need us to come home.”
She nodded, tears finally spilling over. “I needed you to come home.”
“I did. I will. Every time, as long as it’s within my power.
” I held her while she processed, while the adrenaline crash hit and the fear she’d been holding back flooded through.
“This is part of what we do. The jobs we chose mean sometimes we’re in danger, sometimes we have to send each other into danger.
But we trust each other’s competence, and we fall apart together afterward. ”
“I can be both,” she said slowly, like she was testing the words. “Professional and vulnerable. Strong and needing pack.”
“You can be everything you are. That’s what pack means.”
Dane appeared beside us, his tactical assessment complete. “Structure is safe for investigation. Cause looks like faulty electrical, not arson. Mrs. Jenkins’s daughter is en route from Boulder, should arrive within two hours.”
“Good.” Sable straightened, wiping her eyes and shifting back into coordinator mode. “I’ll brief Margaret for continuity, then we can head home.”
“Home,” Silas echoed, joining us with a satisfied smile. “I like how that sounds. All four of us, going home together after a good response.”
We finished the paperwork and debriefing, then headed back to Dane’s house that was starting to feel more like our pack house.
The ride was quiet, everyone processing in their own way, but through the bonds I could feel the contentment.
The satisfaction of a job well done, a life saved, a pack functioning exactly as it should.
When we got home, Sable immediately headed for the shower, needing to wash off the stress and fear as much as I needed to wash off the soot. I joined her, not for anything sexual, just for the comfort of being close. Of proving we were both safe and whole and home.
“I’m proud of you,” I said as water cascaded over both of us. “For making the hard call. For trusting me to do my job despite how much it scared you.”
“I’m proud of you too. For going in without hesitation. For saving Mrs. Jenkins. For being exactly the alpha you’ve always been, just without the guilt weighing you down.”
“The guilt’s still there,” I admitted. “Probably always will be, at least a little. But it’s not crushing anymore. Not defining me. You helped with that.”
“We helped each other.” She leaned against me, exhausted and clean and exactly where she needed to be. “That’s what pack does.”
Later, after we’d both dressed and collapsed on the couch with the others, Silas made dinner while Dane documented the call for his records. Normal pack things. Comfortable routines that were starting to feel essential instead of new.
“Mrs. Jenkins’s daughter called,” Dane said, setting down his phone. “Wanted to thank all of us. Said her mother won’t stop talking about how Beau carried her down the stairs like she weighed nothing.”
“She’s a sweet lady,” Sable said. “And those cookies she makes are honestly amazing.”
“We should take her some when she’s recovered,” Silas suggested. “Our cookies. Show her we appreciate her being part of the community.”
“Our cookies?” I repeated. “We don’t make cookies.”
“We’re learning,” Silas said cheerfully. “Pack skills include baking, apparently.”
Through the bonds, I felt everyone’s amusement. This was us. A disaster pack learning to function through trial and error, mistakes and successes, dangerous calls and comfortable domesticity.
“I wouldn’t trade this for anything,” Sable said quietly. “The messy parts, the scary parts, the learning as we go. All of it.”
“Same,” I agreed. “Even when it’s terrifying sending you into dangerous coordination situations or knowing you’re scared while I’m in burning buildings. I wouldn’t trade it.”
“To disaster packs,” Silas said, raising his water glass. “May we continue to figure it out as we go.”
“To us,” Dane added.
We clinked glasses, and through the bonds I felt the truth of it. We were building something real. Not perfect, not easy, but genuine and worth every risk we took.
And that was more than enough.