Page 1

Chapter One

Ash

I count exits on instinct. Two doors, one window—boarded over, but the nails are rusted. Three potential weapons are within reach if this goes sideways. The bartender's got a Louisville Slugger behind the register and hands that shake when he pours.

This dive sits twenty miles outside Shadow Ridge, where nobody knows my cut or my record. Out here, there's no Crow watching for cracks, no Diesel making jokes. Just stale air and humans drowning whatever failures brought them here.

The beer tastes like piss, but it's cold and the bartender doesn't ask questions when a three-hundred-fifty-pound orc claims the corner table.

I take it out of habit—back to the wall, clear sight lines.

Conversations pause, then resume quieter.

Eyes flick my way—some curious, some hostile, most just wary.

The table's built for smaller bodies, all sharp edges digging into my thighs. I don't adjust. Let it creak.

Everyone here's running from something. That makes us even.

It's been six months since we buried Victor Hargrove's legacy in Shadow Ridge. It has been half a year since Crow found redemption in Maya's healing hands and Vargan won his freedom. The town's rebuilding, Hammer says. They’re learning to trust us instead of fear us.

But that respect feels hollow when Victor's nephew, Royce Carvello, is still breathing and plotting his comeback from whatever hole he's crawled into.

Every legal brief that enters our war room reeks of his influence, every zoning variance and property dispute bears his fingerprints.

He's playing chess with our entire territory.

No, I needed to get the fuck out tonight.

The clubhouse walls were closing in. Vargan stalking the common room, distracted with thoughts of Savvy.

Even Crow, once as cold as I am, now goes soft-eyed whenever Maya calls.

These women have got my brothers pussy-whipped when what we need is focus.

The old Crow would've cracked skulls, not compromise.

And now there's another woman, this one with a badge. Sheriff Nova Reyes has been in town for barely three weeks. Her file has been eating at me since she arrived, her name typed across official letterhead that won't leave me alone.

Never met her. Don't need to. I've memorized every line of her record.

Top of her class at the Georgia Police Academy.

Criminal justice degree with honors. She climbed through Atlanta PD ranks clean— patrol to sergeant then detective in record time.

The kind of trajectory that ends with a federal badge or a mayor's office.

Instead, she's here. In my town. Cleaning up Sheriff Dawson's mess after we ran his corrupt ass out along with his puppet master, Victor.

And I don't buy her story. Not for a goddamn second.

People with records like Nova's don't throw away golden careers for backwater sheriff jobs unless they're running from something or someone's forcing their hand.

The timing is too convenient. Royce loses his bought-and-paid-for sheriff, and suddenly, the state sends us a squeaky-clean replacement with an impeccable record and no obvious ties to our enemies.

Nobody's that clean—especially not cops.

Why is she here? What's she hiding? And why does her name keep returning to my thoughts when I should focus on the real threats circling our territory?

It's not curiosity driving this fixation.

It's caution. The same instinct that's kept me breathing through camp riots and club wars and every betrayal in between.

Nova Reyes feels wrong. Polished on the outside, coiled like barbed wire underneath. Too perfect. Too convenient. Too fucking dangerous.

I drain my beer, the bitter aftertaste coating my tongue. Three empties sit before me, but I'm stone sober. Orc metabolism burns through alcohol like it's water. Takes a lot more than cheap beer to quiet the noise in my head.

Last week's conversation with Hammer replays in my head. He'd pulled me aside, voice dropping to that tone he uses when he knows I will fight his orders.

"You need to play nice with the new sheriff. We're rebuilding trust here, not ruling through fear."

Trust. Fucking joke.

"We're not the monsters they think we are," he'd added, amber eyes steady on mine.

Maybe we're not. Maybe Crow and Maya proved redemption can grow from blood-soaked ground. Maybe Vargan and Savvy are writing some fairy tale about love conquering all.

But I know what I am. The camps forged me. Survival demanded I become the kind of predator they'd never forget.

The club calls me their lawyer, their strategist. They see the loopholes I find, the legal traps I set. They don't know how many nights I spent teaching myself human law just to fuck them with their own rules.

They don't see the scars. Don't know about the ten-year-old orc who learned that being smart just makes you a target unless you're willing to spill blood to stay on top.

They ignore the mark bisecting my face, courtesy of an orc twice my size who wanted my food ration and figured the smart kid wouldn't fight back.

He learned the hard way.

I made sure he choked on his own fucking teeth.

Intelligence guides me now. The law protects me. But underneath the legal briefs, I'm still the predator who clawed his way out of hell with teeth and fury.

And if Sheriff Reyes thinks she can waltz into my territory and threaten what we've built...

She's about to find out what I do to threats.

I shake off thoughts of Sheriff Reyes. Came here to escape, not obsess. Time to finish my drink and head back to deal with real problems.

I'm pulling a twenty from my wallet when movement outside catches my attention. Through the grime-streaked window, I see them in the parking lot, two men flanking a girl who can't be more than twenty. She's fighting them, but quietly. Smart enough to know screaming will only egg them on.

Not my problem. This town's full of human drama I don't need to inherit.

But then the girl turns, and her eyes lock on mine. No panic. No pleading. Just cold, hard recognition.

Like she sees exactly what I am. Like she knows only a monster can save her from human men.

That's when I clock the setup. The way the men position themselves between her and any escape route. The glances they keep shooting toward the bar. Toward me.

Bait.

Organized. Clean. Like they've done this before. Like they're hoping the big, mean orc takes the bait so they can cry foul and call it justice.

They want to give the state an excuse to clean house in Shadow Ridge.

It’s almost clever enough to work.

The smart play is to finish my beer and ghost out the back. Let whatever happens happen. Keep my hands clean and my reputation intact.

But the girl's still looking at me. Still waiting.

And I'm tired of using my brain when my fists are much more fun.

I drop the twenty on the table and rise slowly, my leather cut creaking as I roll my shoulders. The knife on my thigh pulls on my belt. One truth remains: the best legal strategy is making sure there's no one left to testify.

The bartender looks away when I pass. The few remaining patrons suddenly find their drinks fascinating. Smart humans. Their survival skills are still intact. Unlike the assholes outside.

I push through the door into the humid Georgia night. The scent hits me immediately, fear-sweat, adrenaline, and an undercurrent of something else that makes my jaw clench.

The men turn as though they've been waiting. Big. Confident. Soon to be dead.

"Look what crawled out," one says. "The big green monster wants to play hero."

I answer with silence. There is no point wasting breath on corpses. The girl backs away, her part in this show nearly done. But her gaze stays on mine, and in it I see recognition. Pain that makes my teeth grind.

She's been hurt before. Broken. Used.

Just like us. Just like the ones who made it out of the camps.

Rage settles in my bones, cold and patient. These bastards think they can use her pain as a weapon against me. Think they can turn trauma into ammunition.

They picked the wrong fucking orc.

"You boys lost?" I ask, voice calm.

The bigger one grins. "Nah. Found exactly what we were looking for."

Then they move.

Fast. Coordinated. Not drunk civilians looking for trouble. Actual fighters with a death wish.

Too bad for them, I understand violence.

The smallest one speaks, voice tight with liquid courage and stupidity. "Shadow Ridge trash thinks he can drink where decent people live."

He thinks I give a damn what he calls me.

He takes a step closer, emboldened by my silence. "We heard about you freaks taking over that shithole town. Thinking you can spread your disease wherever you want." His lips curl. "Not here. Not in our county."

I move.

Fast. The first one comes in high with a haymaker that would've caved a human skull. I catch his wrist, twist until I hear the pop, and drive my knee into his stomach. His bib breaks with a wet crack. He goes down hard.

The second one's smarter. He produces a knife from nowhere, blade glinting under the neon. He knows how to hold it, point up, edge out, ready to gut me.

I respect that. That doesn't mean I won't break him.

I shatter his arm in three places.

The knife clatters to the asphalt as he screams. I silence him with an elbow to the head, hard enough to drop him, careful enough to avoid murder charges.

I pick up the fallen blade, testing its weight. Cheap steel, but sharp enough.

I'm about to turn on the third one when:

CRACK.

The shot echoes across the lot, fired skyward, sharp and clean. Not close enough to hit, just close enough to warn.

I freeze. So do they.

Every head turns toward the edge of the shadows, just past the busted fence line.