Page 15

Ash

Humans have complicated ways of saying fuck you.

I should know. I've spent twenty years drowning in their language, their laws, their bullshit ways of telling us we're not good enough to breathe the same air. Today's version bleeds from a letter, expensive cream stationery with embossed black lettering that reeks of money and prejudice.

"Regretfully, the position has been filled by a more suitable candidate."

I don't need to read the rest. The Shadow Ridge town council made their decision the moment my application hit their desk. Twenty years since we crossed the Rift, and humans still think our only value is as labor or threats. Green skin doesn't belong behind desks or in courtrooms—just behind bars or under their boots.

The paper crumples in my fist, the sound like bone breaking. I force back the rage burning under my skin, the beast they expect me to be. Control is survival. I learned that watching others die in the camps.

The Ironborn clubhouse stinks of fuel, leather, and too much testosterone. Diesel's already hammering away in the garage, cursing at some engine part that's pissed him off. Through the window, Crow prowls the perimeter, all muscle and menace, tusks catching the morning light. The perfect enforcer. The monster humans expect to see.

I flatten the letter and jam it inside my cut, next to the breast pocket where I keep the only photo I have from before the Rift—a worn image of my mother, her tusks more prominent than mine, her eyes the same amber gold. She'd barely recognize me now. The scar that splits my right eye and carves down my cheek made damn sure of that.

"More bullshit?" Vargan asks, filling the doorframe of my office with his bulk. He's got good instincts for trouble, even when it's not his own.

"Town council hired someone else." My voice stays level, but my jaw locks tight enough that my tusks cut into my upper lip. "Someone with less melanin and no tusks."

Vargan's eyes narrow, the forest green of his skin darkening with anger. "Shit."

"Same old story."

He leans his shoulder against the doorframe, leather creaking as his muscles shift. "Their fucking loss. You've forgotten more law than most of these backwater attorneys ever knew."

"Not according to Shadow Ridge." I stand, bones popping as I stretch to my full height. "Doesn't change our plans. I'm still running point on the property acquisitions."

After Victor Hargrove's arrest for kidnapping Savvy and blackmailing her into selling her land, the former mayor's properties are being sold off to cover his legal expenses. The Ironborn MC has been buying key locations throughout Shadow Ridge, reclaiming what Victor spent years systematically destroying.

"Silas called," Vargan says, scratching at his jaw with blunt fingers. "Says the old mill's showing signs of trespassers. Might be kids, might be trouble. Either way, he's worried somebody's gonna end up hurt."

"I'll handle it."

The mill sits on prime real estate at the edge of town, exactly the kind of property the club needs for expansion. On paper, it still belongs to Victor, but with his assets frozen while he awaits trial, it's effectively abandoned. Hammer's sources say it'll hit the auction block within the month.

"Take Crow with you," Vargan says. "New sheriff's making waves. Best not to give her an excuse to put another orc in cuffs."

I snort. "I've faced worse than some small-town badge."

"Just saying, might be smarter to have a witness. Word is she came from some big city force. Probably never seen an orc up close except in those human propaganda films."

The new sheriff. Shadow Ridge's first female to wear the star. Rumors have been floating around town since her appointment last week. Some say she's a ball-buster from Atlanta PD. Others whisper she's a political pawn sent to clean up Victor's mess without asking too many questions. Either way, she's an obstacle we need to assess.

"I'll take my bike," I say, ignoring the keys Vargan offers. "Don't need to announce my arrival."

Fifteen minutes later, I'm tearing through back roads toward the abandoned mill. The Harley beneath me—custom-built for my size—roars between my thighs as I push it harder, the cold morning air carrying the stench of pine rot and Georgia clay. The engine's vibration grounds me, pulls me back from the edge of rage that's never far away.

The mill looms ahead, a decaying corpse of brick and shattered glass. It's been dying for a decade, ever since the textile industry fled overseas. Victor bought it for pocket change, promised jobs that never materialized. Now it stands rotting, another broken promise in a town full of them.

I kill the engine and hide the bike behind a wall of kudzu, approaching on foot. My weight makes stealth impossible, but I move as quietly as three hundred pounds of orc can manage. Silas was right—the place reeks of recent activity. Broken bottles, food wrappers, and the acrid scent of fresh piss mark the entrance. The chain that once secured the doors lies twisted on the ground, lock busted.

Inside is worse. Sunlight cuts through collapsed sections of roof, illuminating decades of dry rot. The place stinks of mold, rat shit, and stagnant water. Underneath that, something chemical—spray paint, recent enough that my nostrils burn. Fresh tags cover the east wall, crude symbols and cruder words. Just vandals, not the organized presence I feared.

I document everything with my phone, taking shots of the damage for Hammer. As I move deeper inside, the floorboards shriek under my boots. The sound carries in the emptiness, announcing my presence to anyone with ears. My hand drops to the knife at my hip—a reflex from the camps that's saved my life more than once.

Movement upstairs—metal against concrete. It could be kids. Could be squatters. Either way, I need to know what we're dealing with.

The staircase protests under my weight, each step threatening to give way. I'm halfway up when a voice cuts through the silence, sharp as a blade.

"Shadow Ridge Sheriff's Department! Hands where I can see them!"

Fuck me running.

I raise my hands slowly, turning toward the voice. At the top of the stairs stands a woman in uniform, gun aimed at my skull with rock-steady hands. Dark hair pulled back tight, features carved from something harder than stone. She's small—most humans are compared to me—but the badge on her chest and the gun in her hands make up the difference.

Then I see her eyes widen, just barely. The slight hitch in her breath. The microscopic tightening of her trigger finger. This human has never seen an orc up close before. The realization sinks in my gut like lead. To her, I'm not a person—I'm a nightmare come to life.

Sheriff Nova Martinez, I'm guessing. And she looks ready to put a bullet between my eyes at the first wrong move.

"What are you doing here?" Her voice stays steady, but I can smell the spike of adrenaline on her, along with raw cinnamon and fear sweat.

"Checking the property," I keep my tone neutral, non-threatening. "Reports of trespassers."

"You're the trespasser." She doesn't blink, doesn't lower her weapon. "This is private property."

"I represent the Ironborn Motorcycle Club. We're negotiating to purchase this site."

Her eyes narrow to slits. "Show me ID. Slowly."

I reach for my wallet with exaggerated care, pulling out my license and bar card. Twenty years of surviving in human spaces has taught me documentation trumps dignity every fucking time.

"Targash Thornshade," she mutters, mangling every syllable. "Attorney at law." The disbelief in her voice could cut glass. "You expect me to believe you're a lawyer?"

The familiar burn of prejudice crawls up my spine, but I've swallowed worse. " New York Bar Association. I can provide references if that would make you more comfortable."

She holsters her weapon, but her posture remains rigid with suspicion. "Hands down. Turn around slowly."

I comply, letting her see I'm not armed beyond the knife at my belt, which I mention before she spots it. "Six-inch fixed blade on my right hip. Legal carry in this county."

"I know the laws in my county." She descends the stairs until we're eye to eye—or would be, if she weren't nearly a foot shorter than me. Up close, I catch her scent—gun oil, coffee, and something uniquely female that triggers an unexpected response in my body.

"If you're here on legitimate business," she continues, "why didn't you use the front entrance? Why all the sneaking around?"

"The front entrance is missing its lock," I point out. "And I wasn't sneaking. Three hundred pounds of orc on old floorboards isn't exactly stealthy."

Something that might be amusement flickers across her face before she suppresses it. "You're trespassing, Mr. Thornshade. Legitimate business or not, you need permission to be here."

"I have permission from Silas Jenkins, who's been appointed by the town to watch over the property until it changes hands."

"Silas Jenkins isn't the legal owner."

"Neither is Victor Hargrove, at this point." I meet her gaze directly, measuring each word. "His assets are frozen pending trial. The property is in legal limbo until the auction next month."

She studies me with renewed interest, clearly reassessing her initial judgment. "You seem well-informed about the situation."

"It's my job to be informed. The Ironborn MC has invested significantly in Shadow Ridge's revitalization." I pause, then add, "You'd know that if you'd accepted my meeting request last week."

Recognition dawns in her eyes. "You're the one who applied for the town attorney position."

"And was deemed 'unsuitable,'" I confirm. "Despite having more qualifications than whoever they hired instead."

Her jaw tightens. "They hired me."

That wasn't in any of the reports Hammer sent. "You're the new town attorney and the sheriff?"

"No." She crosses her arms, a defensive posture that suggests I've hit a nerve. "I'm the sheriff. The town attorney position went to the second-choice candidate after I took this job."

Understanding clicks into place. We both applied for the same position, and when she got it, I lost out twice—once to her, and then again to whoever was third in line. The bitter irony isn't lost on me.

"Congratulations on your appointment," I say, keeping my tone neutral despite the sharp twist of disappointment in my gut. Twenty years of fighting to be seen as more than muscle, and I'm still passed over for humans with half my qualifications.

"I didn't ask for congratulations," she replies. "And this doesn't change the fact that you're trespassing."

"Are you planning to arrest me, Sheriff?"

"I should." She steps closer, close enough that I can see the flecks of amber in her dark irises—almost the same shade as mine, an odd coincidence that makes my chest tighten. "But I'm more interested in why the vice president of the Ironborn MC is personally checking abandoned properties instead of sending one of his underlings."

So she's done her homework. Interesting.

"The same reason you're personally responding to reports of trespassers instead of sending deputies," I counter. "Some things require a leader's direct attention."

Her eyes narrow, but before she can respond, her radio crackles to life. A male voice reports a disturbance at Greene's Diner—something about one of Victor’s known crew making threats.

The sheriff's expression hardens. "I'll be right there." She returns her attention to me, all business now. "You're coming with me to the station. We need to finish this conversation, and I need to confirm your story about Silas Jenkins."

"Victor’s henchman is a greater threat to public safety than I am," I point out. "And if he's threatening Savvy Greene, my presence would be more useful there than in your holding cell."

“I can handle an unruly civilian.”

I grin. “But can you handle a pissed off orc when Vargan shows up to protect what’s his?”

She hesitates, clearly weighing her options. I can almost see the calculations behind her eyes—the risk assessment, the strategic considerations. It's a familiar process; I go through it daily.

"Fine," she bites out. "But this isn't over. I expect to see you at the station by five for a statement. And if I catch you here again without documentation, I'm putting your ass in a cell."

"Understood." I hold her gaze, refusing to be the first to look away. "And Sheriff? You might want to invest in some steel-toed boots if you plan to keep kicking down doors. Those department-issue ones won't save your toes if a real criminal decides to resist."

Something shifts in her expression—surprise mixed with irritation that I noticed her tactical vulnerability.

"Five o'clock," she repeats, already turning to leave. "Don't make me hunt you down."

I watch her move away, taking in the fluid economy of her steps, the hypervigilant scan of her surroundings. She's military-trained, or close to it. Sheriff Nova Martinez isn't just some backwater cop with a chip on her shoulder. There's something harder driving her, something personal beneath the badge and bravado.

My phone vibrates with a text from Deisel: Trouble at the diner. Vargan’s on a rampage.

I fire up the bike, the engine's growl vibrating through my bones as I pull onto the main road. The rejection letter crackles against my chest, reminding me of what I'll never have in their world. But as I tear toward Greene's Diner, my mind fixates on something unexpected.

Those amber-flecked eyes that wouldn't back down. That scent of raw cinnamon that cut through the mill's decay. The woman who took the job I wanted and somehow left me more intrigued than bitter.

Sheriff Nova Martinez just became the most interesting problem in Shadow Ridge—and solving problems is what I do best.

****

Justice has never burned so hot.

Ash

They call me the Ironborn's shadow enforcer for a reason.

Twenty years since crossing the Rift, I've survived the camps and learned human laws to protect my brothers from a system that rejects us.

In Shadow Ridge, I expected the usual battles, not Sheriff Nova Martinez, whose perceptive gaze sees past my scars to the orc beneath.

As threats against the MC and town escalate, our reluctant alliance ignites something forbidden. But when her quest to find her sister's killer clashes with my loyalty to the club, I must choose between my oath and the woman who's become my redemption.

Nova

I became Shadow Ridge's first female sheriff to find my sister's killer, not to fall for the enemy.

The investigation led me here, but I never counted on Ash, scarred, golden-eyed, with an intellect that matches mine and a surprising sense of justice.

Our forced partnership against a common enemy evolves into something dangerous and unexpected. When I discover he's made a deal that compromises my principles but delivers my sister's murderer, everything I believe is called into question.

Will the scars we both carry heal or destroy us when justice and vengeance finally collide?

This steamy, enemies-to-lovers romance features a scarred orc antihero, a determined sheriff heroine, moral gray areas, and a guaranteed HEA.