Chapter 10
No one talks much after a twenty-hour shift at the fire house. But you never forget the sound of the alarm. It cuts through everything—dreams and headaches all the same. It pierces out now, shattering the low tide hum of a squad closing in on the twenty-four-hour mark.
Dispatch barks out the address. I freeze with dishes half-washed still in my hands. Old Harbor Plaza, apartment complex, floor three. It’s the cast apartments for Reverie’s entire summer cast, where Connor and Grace are living.
Panic coils tight in my chest. Shit.
I drop the dishes into the sink and head for the trucks.
Captain Vega meets us there, already halfway into his coat. “Let’s put a move on, people!”
We’re in the cab before a minute more has passed, and at the scene in less than ten. People are still spilling out onto the sidewalk in pajamas. I force myself into protocol mode as we hop out of the truck and make our way toward the building.
Vega gives his quick preamble. “Third floor. Most likely a kitchen. Don’t get cocky. Eyes open, heads down. Murphy, you’re on entry with me.”
I spot Connor in the crowd, standing shirtless in sweatpants with his arms folded. His posture is casual but a muscle in his jaw ticks with tension. “Fowler.”
“Are you okay?”
He nods. “It’s nothing, man. Pretty sure it’s a false alarm. Some assholes were cooking something that reeked up the whole floor. Unit 306.”
“Still have to check it. Is everyone accounted for?”
Connor shrugs. “As far as I can tell. For the cast at least. Not sure about anyone else who lives here.” He looks up at the building, where people press up against windows for a look at the world below rather than evacuating. “I think she’s still inside.”
He doesn’t need to say who.
Better hope it’s a false alarm, then.
“I’ll handle it,” I say.
I follow Vega and the rest of my squad. Our boots pound the concrete while my mind ping-pongs between the mental blueprint of the building and the memory of Grace’s voice telling me not to worry about her.
Inside, the lobby’s been scrubbed raw by the night exodus.
A layer of wet footprints and panicked scent lingers in the air.
We hit the stairs two at a time and get to the third floor in under a minute. Vega splits us up.
The alarm’s still keening, but the halls are empty. I count off the doors until 306. No smoke or heat signature worth mentioning, just the faint burnt-sugar stench of overdone caramel or maybe marshmallow vodka. I bang the door twice, hard.
It opens to reveal a kid who looks about eighteen wearing a gold bathrobe and nothing else. Behind him, a trio others peek over the couch.
“False alarm?” I ask, even though I already know.
The gold-robe kid shrugs. “We made bananas foster and it sort of, uh, became a spectacle.”
I scan the apartment. Sure enough, there’s a burnt frying pan cooling on the glass-top stove alongside a half-melted plastic spatula fossilized into the burner. I wave my heat sensor around just to do the thing, but there’s nothing above lukewarm.
“Don’t do that again,” I say.
The kid salutes me in reply. I leave before I say something I’ll regret. There are worst calls to get at the end of your day-long shift, but this shit is annoying as hell.
I close up and start back toward the stairs. On the way, I pass by a lounge alcove that overlooks the parking lot. There’s a figure standing by the window, hoodie up and bare legs sticking out below the hem. Legs I’d recognize anywhere long before her roses scent hits my nose.
Grace. She’s talking low to another girl—Charlotte, I think—who’s wrapped in a blanket and looking worried.
Grace doesn’t see me right away. She’s focused on the lights outside, her posture loose but her hands balled in the pocket of her Old Harbor University hoodie.
My feet almost move of their own accord. I want to go to her and say something—anything—but I’m on the clock, and there’s protocol, and more than that, I don’t know what I’d even say. Sorry for being a fuckup? Sorry for blowing you off when you needed us to be better than we were?
Instead, I catch her gaze just as I pass by. All she does is give me a nod.
That’s it.
I nod back, then hit the stairs two at a time, and radio in the all-clear.
It’s nothing, just a false alarm. That’s what I keep telling myself as we pack up the rig, peel off gear, and start to breathe again. But the scent of burnt sugar and nerves lingers on my skin, and I know that nothing is exactly that simple.
There’s not a single false alarm where Grace is concerned. The reality of that hits me like a fire truck at full speed.
Grace is our pack’s omega. Except she’s not, because we told her to get lost.
What an idiot.
When Captain Vega claps me on the shoulder and tells me to take a minute before we head back to the station, I know he’s not talking about shift change. He means her.
I turn back toward the building and promise myself I’ll say something this time.
Grace is still there in the alcove with Charlotte when I return.
But so are a bunch of reporters who have swooped in to cover the emergency call at the Reverie cast apartments even though it’s a false alarm. Anything for catchy media, right?
I head back to Grace. My tongue goes dry as soon as I start. “Grace. About everything, prep camp and what me and the guys did to you—”
She cuts me off, not loud but sharp as a blade. “Don’t. You’re on shift, and I don’t need a public apology.”
I flinch. I didn’t think about how humiliating that might be for her, standing here with me in turnout gear, helmet tucked under my arm like some cartoon hero.
“I’m not trying to make a scene,” I say. “I just—shit, Grace, none of us ever got to say sorry.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Why would you think simply saying ‘sorry’ fixes it?”
My mouth hangs open as I process her question. “I—I didn’t?” Fuck me. “I’m not good at this, okay? But the guilt is real. Even if my words come out fucked.”
“No, it’s not okay.” Grace crosses her arms and gives a nod to Charlotte over her shoulder. Charlotte backs away down the hall to give Grace and I privacy, although I doubt it’ll be for long. “You three seriously hurt me, and you don’t seem to understand that.”
“I do.”
“Do you?”
I swallow hard. “We rejected you.”
She inclines her head. “Yes, and not just as a potential pack omega, as a person. You all rather publicly stated that I wouldn’t be fit as an omega and then tried to get me removed from Reverie in order for you three to be able to stay.
” She swipes a hand through the air. “And then you and Zev left anyway. Thank god I didn’t quit. ”
My stomach sinks. I knew all of this, but processing it with empathy is something I apparently lacked until this very moment. Fucking hell. “Grace—”
She lifts a hand. “I’m not interested in anything other than awkward glances, Fowler. You three made it clear that despite being scent-matches an omega, or very specifically me as your omega, wasn’t something you wanted. Not even as a friend. So that’s where things will stay.”
I see an opening, risky though it is. “Well, awkward glances is better than we had before, so I’ll take it.”
A few moments pass where I’m convinced I’ve just made the chasm between us larger with a dumb as fuck comment. But then a small smile graces the corner of Grace’s lips.
“Fine, I’ll give you that much.”
Yes. Success. “Thank you.”
Grace shakes her head. “No, thank you for making sure we’re safe.” She indicates the fire trucks outside.
“Of course. It’s my job.” And I’ll do anything to keep you safe.
The thought comes naturally to my mind, but there’s not a single weight to back it up with. There’s no reason to fight like hell to keep her safe. We’re barely friends. Barely acquaintances at this point if I’m being honest.
But I can’t take the feeling I’ve had from the start.
Grace is my omega—our omega. Even though we pushed her away. Even if that means she ends up in some other alphas’ arms because of it.
I will never meet or scent-match another omega.
It’s Grace. Only Grace.
Which officially makes rejecting her the worst decision of my fucking life.
“I should get going.” I need to get out of here before I completely blow up any chance of reconciliation despite how precarious that already is. “Stay safe, Grace.”
“Thank you, Fowler.”
I don’t turn back to look at her again, just head on back to the truck where the squad’s waiting for me.
Vega’s in the cab behind the wheel. His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “Are you good, Murphy?”
“Fine,” I say. “Just tired.”
He grunts and leaves it at that. If I was going to open up about it, we both know it wouldn’t be here in front of the guys.
The ride back to the station is quiet. The city’s asleep and the world keeps moving. At the station, I hang my gear and fill out the call log, hands moving on autopilot while my brain is miles away.
It’s not closure. It’s not even a beginning. But I said what I needed to say, and this time it didn’t kill me.
Small victories. I’ll take what I can get.