Page 2 of Fated to the Lone Shifter
I flick the match to the floor, crushing it under my boot. But it’s too late. A mountain of eyes are on me. Some amused. Some suspicious. One pair, burning gold from across the room, watches me like I’m prey.
The man belonging to the gold eyes steps forward.
He’s massive. Broad shoulders. Smoke-smudged shirt. Scarred forearms. Wolf eyes. He moves like something caged and coiled, and when he speaks, his voice is low and commanding.
"That’s enough. This is serious business."
The laughter stops. The air shifts. The tension thickens.
He moves straight toward me, slow and deliberate, then—click—he cuffs one of my wrists in a cold, steel loop.
You’ve got to be kidding me. My pulse spikes. Magic hums beneath my skin.
And then—click—he cuffs the other.
Our eyes meet, challenging one another. What the hell!? He has no right to do this! I try to keep my anger in check. Don’t want to create any more mini fires in the firehouse.
He raises an eyebrow. "You're under arrest… for violating Firehouse Code 666. Too hot to handle."
The room erupts again. My exhale is louder than intended. A joke. A prank. My brain finally catches up. I scan the matchbox on the ground—there, behind it under the table, a glint of a remote with tangled wires. A tiny igniter of sorts.
A setup.
He uncuffs me, slowly. Too slowly. The brush of his fingers sends a flicker through my chest I don’t want to analyze.
"Welcome to the team," he says gruffly.
I manage a nod, but my throat is dry.
That was too close. Way too close.
And that gorgeous hunk—Noah Benson—I know him. He’s one of the names in my classified folder.
Suspect Number One.
And he’s looking at me too intensely right now.
Finally, Noah breaks from the pack, raking a hand through his short, dark hair like he’s trying to reset the mood.
"Alright, fun’s over," he calls out. "Let’s get to work."
The firehouse crew snaps into motion. A few still chuckle under their breath, but most clear the room or fall in line behind the commanding presence of their trainer. Noah turns back toward us probies, his gaze scanning the five of us with military precision.
"I’m Noah Benson. I’ll be your training officer. You’ll follow my lead unless you want to get scorched—figuratively or otherwise. That’s Marcus Sloane," he jerks his thumb at the smirking prankster. "Resident smartass and senior firefighter."
Marcus offers a salute with two fingers and a wink.
"Captain Greene runs this house. You’ll meet him later. For now, just know he doesn’t tolerate screw-ups. If you respect the chain of command, you’ll be fine."
He moves on like he’s reading a grocery list. "Tori’s our medic—don’t let the zen vibes fool you, she’s the one you want in case of an emergency, and we count on her connections with...to keep us safe." He points toward the ceiling. Tori gives a little mischievous smile and a curtsy. Noah continues. “The rest of the crew’s out finishing rotation. You’ll meet them soon enough."
I nod along, keeping my expression neutral, but my brain is cataloging every face. Every name. Every twitch of suspicion or pride or buried secrets. It’s second nature now.
Noah’s eyes land back on me for a second too long.
"Get dressed. Turnouts are labeled. Ten minutes. Truck bay in fifteen. Move."
The other rookies scatter like they’ve just been doused. I fall into step behind the two other women, who whisper about how hot our trainer is. My stomach churns, but not with nerves.
