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 competenceand 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?
