Page 10

"Get me everything," I tell Diesel, grabbing the folder containing copies of the reconnaissance photos. Evidence she'll need to see. "Building layouts, security weaknesses, escape routes. If Royce wants to play games, we'll show him what experts look like."

Diesel studies my face, reading the shift in my demeanor. "This isn't just about club business anymore, is it?"

I don't answer. Can't afford to examine what's driving this need to insert myself between Nova and danger. But studying her fight alone while Royce's people catalog her movements sends something savage through my chest.

It makes me want to claim her, whether she agrees or not.

Twenty minutes later, I'm checking the Bowie knife holstered under my cut while Diesel rattles off building schematics.

"You sure about this?" he asks.

"She'll bolt if she sees a pack approaching." I grab my helmet, my mind already mapping the fastest route to Nova's building. "One orc she might talk to. Five orcs looks like an invasion."

"And if it goes sideways?"

"Then you clean up the mess." I head for the door, pulse steady now that I'm moving toward action. "Keep monitoring those feeds. Any sign of that vehicle, you call me immediately."

The ride through Shadow Ridge takes eight minutes. Each second drags while I imagine Nova alone, unaware someone's been tracking her movements. Learning when she's home, how she lives, when she's defenseless.

That they're probably planning to use all that intelligence against her.

I park two blocks away, approaching her building on foot. The camera that gave us our view into her life sits mounted on a utility pole across the street. Innocent as a bird until you know what it's recording.

Her cruiser sits in its designated spot, engine ticking as it cools. She's been home less than thirty minutes. Barely enough time to decompress from whatever legal battles she fought at the courthouse today.

The front entrance to her building requires a key card, but the security system is a joke. Basic residential setup that wouldn't slow down trained operatives. I could bypass it with a paperclip and thirty seconds.

So could Royce's people.

I pause outside her door, listening. Muffled voices from the television, the clink of glass against wood—probably a wine glass hitting her coffee table. Normal domestic sounds that shouldn't make my chest tight.

But they do. Because behind that door is the woman who stepped between me and danger at Murphy's without flinching. Who used me as her anchor when she was drowning in that crowd, like she saw strength instead of a monster.

Who's about to discover exactly how dangerous caring about her has made me.

I knock.

The sounds inside stop immediately. Footsteps approach—careful, measured, the walk of someone who's learned to assess threats before opening doors.

"Who is it?" Her voice carries through the wood, controlled but edged with wariness.

"Ash."

A pause. Then the deadbolt turns, followed by what sounds like a chain lock. The door opens just enough for her to see me, brown eyes sharp with suspicion.

"Little late for a social call," she says.

"We need to talk."

"Do we?" She doesn't open the door wider, doesn't invite me in. She's a smart woman. "What happened to keeping social distance for the optics?"

She's right. Shit, she's right. We'd been playing it careful. But that was before I started imagining all the ways Royce’s people could hurt her.

"That was before your office became a target."

Her expression shifts—suspicion sharpening to attention. After a moment, she steps back, opening the door fully.

"You've got five minutes."

I enter her space, immediately cataloging details my training demands I notice.

It is a small but clean apartment, furnished with practical pieces that say temporary housing rather than home.

Case files cover the coffee table in organized stacks.

A half-empty wine glass sits beside it, dark red against pale wood.

As I scan the room, I catch a framed photograph on the side table—a young woman with Nova's eyes, laughing at something off-camera. But Nova moves faster than I expect, snatching the frame and shoving it into the table drawer.

"Personal," she says with a tight voice when she catches me watching.

Another piece of the puzzle. Another wall she's built that I'm not supposed to see behind.

She's changed out of her uniform into fitted jeans and a tank top that hugs curves I've been trying not to notice. Hair falls loose around her shoulders, softer than the severe ponytail she wears on duty. Without the badge and gun, she looks more vulnerable and more tempting.

She looks like someone I could break just by wanting her too much.

But what stops me cold is the view from her living room window. At night, with the lights on, anyone outside can see everything—her couch, her workspace, and her exact position when she's reviewing case files or making phone calls.

"Jesus, Nova." I move to the window, and she follows. Close enough that her scent hits me—sharp citrus and warm skin that makes my hands shake. "You might as well hang a sign outside advertising your schedule."

"What are you talking about?" She steps beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her skin.

Standing this close to her heats my blood. Tempts me to cage her against the wall, press my body against hers, and show her exactly how much danger she's in.

From everyone, including me.

Instead, I pull out my phone, and show her the footage Diesel captured. "This is from our street camera just before midnight last night."

When she reaches for the phone, her fingers brush mine, and I feel the slight tremor that runs through her. Not from fear of being watched - from touching me.

Physical response she can't hide. Can't control.

Join the club.

"You've been spying on me?"

"Royce's people have been spying on you." I don't move away, don't give her space to retreat. Because standing this close to her, seeing the way her pupils dilate when I dominate her space, I'm done pretending this is purely business. "We just happened to catch them doing it."

She grabs the phone and studies the screen, trying to process the violation without showing how much it rattles her.

"Santos told me about a man asking questions at the station today."

"Reconnaissance. They're building a profile—your routines, your vulnerabilities, when you're alone and unprotected."

"Unprotected?" Anger flashes in her eyes, but there's something else there. Something that responds to my proximity despite her anger. Heats my blood further. "I'm a trained law enforcement officer with eight years' experience in one of the most dangerous cities in the country."

"They know exactly when you get home, how long you work, when you go to bed.

What side of the bed you sleep on, when you're in the shower, Christ, Nova, they probably know what color underwear you put on this morning.

They could have a team positioned outside right now, and you'd never know until it's too late. "

Her back hits the wall. But she doesn't try to escape. Instead, she lifts her chin and meets my challenge head-on. Fighting me even as her body betrays her response to my dominance.

Hell. The way she looks at me. Like she can't decide if I'm a friend or an enemy.

"You think I can't handle myself?"

"I think you're stubborn enough to get yourself killed proving a point." I brace one hand against the wall beside her head. Close enough to feel her breath against my throat. Close enough to smell that clean scent that drives my temper higher. "And I'm not going to let that happen."

That truth slips out before I can stop it. The admission is too honest, too raw, too revealing about what she's starting to mean to me.

"You're not going to let me?" Her voice drops to something dangerous. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

"The orc who will keep you out of danger, whether you like it or not."

Her pupils dilate. I catch the quick flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. She's fighting her body's response to my dominance, an attraction that could complicate everything.

That's already complicated everything. Turned me stupid. Forced me to forget that wanting someone this much is exactly the kind of weakness that gets people killed.

"Get away from me," she says, but there's no real heat in it.

"No."

She stares up at me, trapped between my body and the wall, breathing fast enough to make her chest rise and brush against mine.

And I want to kiss her. Want to crowd her closer, pin her wrists above her head, show her exactly how much danger she's in from me. Want to make her understand that caring about her has turned me into something possessive and hungry and completely inappropriate for what she represents.

For what she deserves.

Instead, I force myself to focus on why I'm here. Try to remember that this is about keeping her alive, not claiming her.

"Your office isn't secure," I continue, voice dropping to something rougher. "Your apartment isn't secure. You need somewhere you can work without being monitored, with proper security and backup."

"And you've decided where that is?"

"The clubhouse has a war room. Secure communications, encrypted files, countermeasures."

"You want me to work out of an MC clubhouse?"

"I want you to stay safe long enough to finish what you started with Royce." I lean closer, until my mouth is almost against her ear. Let myself have this much. This one moment of proximity before she inevitably pushes me away. "And I want you where I can protect you."

She turns her head sharply, bringing our faces inches apart. "I don't need your protection."

"You're getting it anyway."

"Really?" Her voice sharpens, some of that fire returning. "Because I seem to remember a certain orc at Murphy's who didn't need my help either. Had everything under control. But I stepped in anyway."