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.
