Chapter 10 Desperation And Declarations #2
The word makes me actually look around, register that we're indeed at active fire scene, that she's dressed in turnout gear, that the transformation of Sweetwater Falls' usually disastrous crew into functional unit probably bears her fingerprints.
I arch an eyebrow, unable to keep the grumble from my voice.
"Yeah, working my ex's station like you're the new chief?"
The moment the words leave my mouth, I watch realization dawn across her features. Her head turns slowly, deliberately, those green eyes tracking across the scene until they lock onto someone behind me.
Aidric.
I don't have to look to know he's there—can feel his presence like physical weight, can sense his attention fixed on us with intensity that makes the hair on my neck stand at attention.
Wendy's expression shifts through several emotions too quickly to track, but understanding settles with visible clarity.
She knows.
I'd told her about my past with an Alpha—vague details shared during late-night conversations when darkness made honesty easier.
Mentioned the relationship that had ended badly, that had contributed to my decision to leave California, that had convinced me Omegas were simply easier to navigate romantically than power dynamics between two dominant Alphas.
But I'd never mentioned his name.
Never thought it would matter.
Never imagined she'd somehow end up connected to the one Alpha I'd tried desperately to forget.
"Well," she says slowly, that brilliant mind clearly processing implications at light speed, "this is going to be complicated."
Understatement of the fucking century.
I try not to think about the possibilities her words suggest—that Aidric's pack might be involved somehow, that Bear's possessive touching earlier indicates pack bonds, that Wendolyn might be considering arrangements that would put her in daily contact with my ex.
Can't think about that now.
She's swaying.
Focus on immediate crisis.
"Are you okay?" I keep my hands on her waist, supporting her weight as she sways slightly to the left.
"Been better." Her admission carries the kind of casual honesty that suggests she's running on fumes. "But adrenaline is one hell of a drug to rely on. That and coffee."
Coffee and adrenaline.
The Wendolyn Murphy survival strategy.
I give her a look—the one I've perfected over six months that communicates exactly how unimpressed I am with her self-care choices.
She smirks, completely unrepentant.
"I'm in trouble, aren't I?"
The question is rhetorical, delivered with that particular brand of defiance that makes me want to simultaneously kiss her and throttle her.
"In so much fucking trouble," I confirm, letting each word carry weight.
She shrugs—so casually like she didn’t drive me to the brink of insanity—like the threat of consequences is irrelevant compared to her satisfaction at heroics performed.
"Whatever. I saved lives. You can't do shit."
True.
Infuriating, but true.
Because what am I going to do? Punish her for being exactly who she is, for responding to emergencies with the competence and courage that made her legendary fire chief? Demand she stop saving people just because it makes my heart attempt escape through my throat?
Laughter erupts nearby—Bear, the massive Alpha who'd been touching her earlier, his maple-chestnut scent amplified by genuine amusement.
"Her sass is going to get her killed," he observes, though his tone carries admiration rather than criticism.
Wendy's grin widens, eyes sparkling with that reckless confidence I simultaneously love and fear.
"Nah, I'm too damn cocky to die from something as minuscule as fire. You'd probably have to make it a different element because dying in fire would simply be tragic with my new track record in the survival department."
Is she joking about her own death?
Is she actually making light of nearly burning alive multiple times?
I groan, the sound emerging somewhere between exasperation and genuine distress.
"Can we not try to manifest my Omega's death apparently?"
My Omega.
The possessive phrasing slips out unbidden, claiming her publicly in ways our carefully undefined relationship typically avoids.
But right now, with adrenaline still flooding my system, with the image of her emerging from flames burned into my retinas, I can't muster the energy to pretend we're anything except what we are.
Mine.
However temporary, however complicated, however undefined—she's mine.
Wendy giggles—actual giggling, high and bright and so unlike her usual controlled demeanor that alarm bells start ringing.
"I may need to sit down," she admits, and the fact that she's admitting weakness makes my chest constrict with renewed panic.
I move to scoop her up, Alpha instincts demanding I be the one to carry her, to support her, to demonstrate my capability as protector.
But Bear moves faster.
Significantly faster for someone his size.
He has her cradled against his chest before I finish reaching, lifting her like she weighs nothing, one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back with careful attention to her injuries.
"Hey!" Wendy protests, though she's already relaxing into his hold with comfort that makes jealousy flare hot. "I don't need you to carry me."
"This is the royal way of carrying our first female chief," Bear declares, grin absolutely shameless. "So you'll have to suck it up."
Our first female chief.
The phrasing confirms my worst suspicions—she's not just helping out, not just providing emergency assistance. She's being integrated, claimed, positioned as authority figure within their structure.
Within Aidric's pack structure.
Bear calls out to one of the firefighters, his voice carrying authority.
"Martinez, take lead! First team is heading out. Regroup back at the station."
The response is immediate compliance, crews moving with coordination that speaks to established hierarchy and training.
Officer Hazel Martinez jogs over, her expression professionally concerned.
"I'll need to come by the station for full report," she announces, though her tone suggests she's already read most of the situation.
"Tomorrow if possible," Bear responds, already moving toward the fire van with Wendy secured against his chest. "Right now medical attention takes priority."
I fall into step beside them, unwilling to let her out of my sight, territorial instinct overriding any concern about appearing possessive or irrational.
Footsteps behind announce other arrivals—multiple people moving with purpose.
I glance back to see Silas, Aidric, and older man I recognize as Chief Tom Rodriguez converging on our position, their expressions ranging from concern to professional assessment to something complicated that I don't have bandwidth to interpret.
By the time we reach the van, Wendy's completely unconscious—head lolling against Bear's shoulder, body limp in ways that make my heart attempt escape through my ribcage.
Third time.
Third time in two weeks she's passed out from overexertion.
This isn't normal.
Isn't sustainable.
Silas immediately takes command, medical training overriding pack hierarchy.
"Get her in the back. We need to transport to nearest medical center immediately."
I want to protest—know Wendy hates hospitals, hates being patient rather than provider, would fight medical intervention with every fiber of her stubborn being if she were conscious.
But Chief Rodriguez speaks before I can formulate objection.
"She needs proper attention. Those burns don't look good, especially after she went back into that scorching environment." His weathered face creases with concern that seems genuine rather than performative. "Murphy isn't a fainter."
Silas nods, already moving toward the van's medical supplies.
"She's not according to her files. Maintains monthly performance reviews even here in Sweetwater Falls, always passes with exemplary marks. This suggests underlying issue we need to identify."
Underlying issue.
The phrase makes my stomach drop because it implies something beyond simple exhaustion, beyond accumulated injuries, beyond the trauma of repeated near-death experiences.
"Fine," I hear myself saying, voice rough. "But I get final say if it becomes urgent medical matter."
Because she'd want that.
Would want someone who knows her, who understands her boundaries, making decisions if she can't advocate for herself.
Aidric's voice cuts across my reasoning, sharp with challenge:
"Why? Because she's your girl?"
The question hangs there, loaded with implications about territory and claims and the complicated history we share.
I turn slowly, deliberately, meeting those storm-gray eyes I used to lose myself in, letting him see exactly how serious I am.
"Yes." The word emerges flat, uncompromising. "She's fucking mine and always will be, so respect it, Hawthorne, or I'll gladly force you to."
His jaw clenches, that familiar muscle tick indicating I've hit exactly the territorial nerve I intended. We stare at each other across charged space, three years of unresolved tension crystallizing into this moment, both of us clearly seconds from physical confrontation.
Tom Rodriguez's voice cuts through with authority that brooks no argument.
"Stand down. Both of you. Now."
The command works—barely—both of us stepping back though neither breaks eye contact.
Silas's urgent voice provides necessary distraction.
"Murphy really doesn't look good. Driver, step on it!"
The words make me turn back to where they've laid Wendy on the medical bench, and my breath catches at how pale she's become, how shallow her breathing sounds, how wrong everything about her stillness feels.
This isn't exhaustion.
This is something worse.
"Can I hold her?" The question emerges before I can filter it, need to touch her overriding any concern about appearing weak or possessive.
Silas barely glances up from securing equipment.
"Sure. Just stay still while I set up another IV."
He fires off orders with practiced efficiency.
"Aidric, hold the bag. Bear, get me the equipment kit from the cabinet. I need to find a vein that's not collapsed from dehydration."
I settle onto the bench, carefully gathering Wendy into my arms while Silas works. Her head finds my shoulder automatically, body curving into mine with trust that makes my chest feel too small for my heart.
She fits here.
Always has.
Like we were designed as matching puzzle pieces.
I lean down, pressing my lips near her ear, whispering words I'm not sure she can hear but need to say anyway.
"Hang in there, darlin'. We're getting you help. You're going to be fine. You have to be fine because I can't—"
My voice breaks, unable to complete the thought, unable to articulate exactly how catastrophic losing her would be.
She's my everything.
My reason for staying in this backwards town.
My anchor in chaos.
My home.
The van lurches into motion, siren wailing, and I tighten my hold carefully, protecting her from jostling while Silas works to establish IV access.
Around me, the pack moves with coordinated efficiency—Aidric holding supplies, Bear organizing equipment, Silas's hands steady as he inserts the needle with practiced precision.
They're good at this.
Competent, coordinated, clearly experienced in emergency medical response.
They could take care of her.
They could provide the pack structure she needs for legal protection.
They could offer everything I can't give her as lone Alpha without support network.
The thoughts circle my skull while my arms maintain gentle hold, while my nose buries in her hair seeking comfort from her scent, while my heart hammers against ribs with fear I can't quite suppress.
Please don't take her from me.
The prayer goes nowhere specific, addressed to whatever universe or deity might be listening to desperate Alphas.
Please let this be exhaustion, dehydration, something fixable rather than serious.
Please let her wake up and sass me about being overprotective.
Please let this not continue because she means the world to me.
The world, my world, the entire fucking universe condensed into one stubborn, magnificent, infuriating Omega who keeps running into burning buildings and stealing my ability to breathe properly.
I press another kiss to her temple, feeling her shallow breaths against my throat, and make silent vows that she'll never hear but I'll keep executing.
I'll protect her.
I'll support her.
I'll let her go if that's what she needs, even if it destroys me.
But please, please let her be okay first.
The siren wails our progress toward the medical center, and I hold the woman I love while hoping desperately that this time—unlike the past two weeks of close calls and near misses—she'll wake up without complications, without permanent damage, without any more reasons to nearly stop my heart with terror.
Please.
I can't lose her.
The world might survive without Chief Murphy, but mine absolutely won't.