Page 5 of Fated to the Lone Shifter
Chapter two
Lone Wolf Instincts
NOAH
The rookie line forms up like uneven stakes hammered into rocky soil, five pairs of anxious eyes squinting under the shadow of the training tower. Their gear bags sag beside them, half-zipped, helmets still too shiny. First-day stiffness clings to their posture, nervous energy thick in the air.
I pace in front of them, coffee in one hand, clipboard in the other, jaw set. My usual drill instructor routine. Most fall into line when I bark, a few stammer through their "yes, sir" responses. Then there's her.
Serafina Knowles.
Just Sera, she said this morning.
She stands at the end of the row, arms crossed, boots planted firm, her hair jammed up in a bun that’s already slipping from under her helmet. She watches me like she’s waiting for me to make a mistake.
Or maybe she’s sizing me up.
I don’t like it.
She’s the smallest of the probies—not much taller than my shoulder, wiry in frame, probably weighs as much as a nozzle when it’s full. But something about her throws off my instincts, challenges me. Makes me itch beneath the skin.
“Today’s your baptism,” I say. “You’re gonna learn how to sweat, how to lift, and how to suffer. But if you make it through, you’ll know how to survive. Questions?”
No one raises a hand. Good.
We start with drills—hose lifts, ladder raises, SCBA gear races. I keep my eye on Sera the entire time, expecting her to fall behind. She doesn’t. She beats the tall guy—Taylor, I think—by three seconds in the mask-and-pack drill. I time her. Twice. No errors.
She doesn’t grunt. She doesn’t flinch. But she doesn’t show off, either—her movements are tight, efficient, the kind that speak of experience and discipline, not bravado.. Sharp. Clean. Controlled. Like someone who’s trained for more than fire.
By the second hour, sweat’s pouring off the crew. Sera’s shirt clings to her spine, her breathing fast but steady as she shoulders a hose with one of the other women. When they complete the obstacle course, she slaps the red button and drops into a crouch to catch her breath, but there’s a ghost of a grin on her face. She enjoys the burn.
I hate how intrigued I am.
I jot a note on my clipboard and move on, pretending I didn’t just watch her more than the rest of them combined.
She’s good. Too good.
And that raises my suspicions.
Because I felt something when I touched her yesterday—something not normal. A spark, sure, but not the flirty kind. Not the kind you laugh off with a joke about chemistry. This one went bone-deep.
And it’s still there. Even now, watching her from across the blacktop, I feel it.
Like heat rolling off a fire you haven’t lit yet.
I’ve avoided this kind of thing for years.
But if she’s what I think she is…
Then I’m not the only one at this firehouse with something to hide.
I call for a water break, mostly so I can observe how the rookies decompress. That’s where the cracks usually start to show.
Taylor’s slumped against a rig tire, chugging water like it might save him from cardio. Big guy—barrel-chested, neck thick as a tree stump—but slow to process. He overcompensates with bravado, cracking jokes that land two beats too late. Still, he listens when it matters. Mostly. And his strength will serve him well.
Rivas lounges on the tailgate like he’s waiting for someone to bring him a smoothie. Sharp eyes, fast hands, cocky as hell. He aced the rope climb but spent the whole time smirking like he’d already made lieutenant. Useful, if he doesn’t get someone killed trying to show off.
Jamie’s perched on a bench, bouncing one knee and watching the others. Doesn’t talk much, but her eyes catch everything. Sheclocked a kink in Nicole’s hose rig and fixed it before anyone else noticed. Nervous, but meticulous. She’s got that sponge-brain energy—soaking in every move like she’s memorizing a map. A great team player.
