Wendy first. Always Wendy first.
I reach her while she's mid-conversation with the big Alpha, my hands cupping her face with tenderness that belies the chaos screaming through my nervous system. Her skin is warm beneath my palms—too warm from proximity to flames, from exertion, from being Wendolyn Murphy and running headlong into danger without backup.
Her eyes widen as she registers my presence, shock flickering across features usually so controlled.
Good.
Be shocked.
Be surprised that I found you, that I'm here, that I can't let another second pass without confirming you're alive.
I tilt her head up, angle that lets me see her properly, lets me catalogue every detail—soot smudges on her cheeks, exhaustion around her eyes, the set of her jaw that suggests she's running on adrenaline and stubbornness rather than actual energy reserves.
Then I kiss her.
Pour everything into it—terror and relief and fury and love and possessiveness and every emotion currently rioting through my system. My mouth claims hers with desperation barely disguised as passion, tongue demanding entry she grants after single heartbeat of resistance.
She tastes like smoke and determination.
Like danger and home.
Tastes like everything I need and nothing I deserve.
She's rigid initially, shock freezing her muscles, awareness of their public audience probably making her hesitate. But then she melts—that's the only word for it—her body going pliant against mine, hands coming up to clutch my shirt, returning the kiss with enthusiasm that makes my Alpha instincts purr with satisfaction.
Mine.
She responds to me.
Knows me, wants me, chooses me despite everything.
I break the kiss before I completely lose control, before I do something truly inappropriate like strip her remaining gear off right here in front of god and emergency responders and whoever else is witnessing this display.
My forehead rests against hers, both of us breathing hard, her vanilla-wildflower scent mixing with my pine-bourbon in ways that make my body scream for closer contact.
"What utter foolishness did you get yourself into?" The words emerge rough, scraped past vocal cords tight with emotion.
Her smirk is immediate, that particular expression that means she's about to say something that will simultaneously charm and infuriate me.
"Well," she drawls, looking up through lashes with practiced innocence, "I could explain, but I'm kind of working right now."
Working.
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.
