Page 15

Chapter Seven

Ash

T he punching bag splits on the fifteenth hit, sand spilling across the clubhouse garage floor like blood from a gutted animal. My knuckles ache, split skin weeping red across my fingers, but the pain does nothing to quiet the rage consuming my chest.

Thirty seconds.

That's how long I was distracted after leaving the courthouse.

Thirty fucking seconds of letting Nova's words about my compassion being "human" dig under my skin, of questioning what she saw when she looked at me.

Thirty seconds where my attention wasn't on my mirrors, wasn't tracking the woman I was supposed to be protecting.

Thirty seconds that nearly got her killed.

"Jesus Christ, Ash." Diesel's voice cuts through the sound of sand hitting concrete. "You trying to train or brake your damn hands?"

I don't answer, just grab a shop rag and wrap it around my bleeding knuckles. The garage reeks of motor oil and exhaust, familiar scents that usually ground me. Today they feel suffocating.

"Santos called again," Diesel continues, leaning against his workbench. "Said the sheriff seemed shaken, but wouldn't accept medical attention. Insisted she was fine."

Of course she did. Nova Reyes would rather bleed out than admit weakness, would rather face down a firing squad than accept help she didn't ask for. That same stubborn pride probably kept her alive when the sedan tried to run her off the back roads.

"Tire tracks?" I ask, unwrapping the rag to assess the damage. The cuts aren't deep, but they'll sting for days. Good.

"Santos documented everything. Expert job, knew exactly when and where to intercept her, knew her route home." Diesel's voice carries the weight of implications neither of us wants to voice. "Whoever did this has been watching her for a while."

I curse under my breath, anger spiking fresh and hot.

We've been so focused on protecting Nova from theoretical threats that we missed the very real surveillance happening right under our noses.

While I was playing games with distance and she was insisting she could handle herself, someone was cataloging her every movement.

"Could be anyone," Diesel adds carefully. "We don't know it was Royce's people."

"Don't we?" I meet his eyes, letting him see the fury there. "New sheriff starts investigating illegal foreclosures, and suddenly she's getting run off the road by experts? That's not a coincidence."

"Could be." Diesel doesn't back down from my stare. "We don’t know what kind of ghosts she could have trailing her from Atlanta. She could have vendettas against her that have nothing to do with Shadow Ridge. We need facts."

He's right, and I hate him for it. Facts require patience, investigation, the kind of methodical work I've built my reputation on.

But every instinct I have screams for immediate action, for finding whoever threatened Nova and making them understand what happens when you target someone under Ironborn protection.

Even if she doesn't want it.

"Where is she now?" I ask, rewrapping my knuckles with more force than necessary.

"Station. Santos said she's been there since the incident, working late." Diesel pauses. "Alone."

The word slams into me. Alone. Exactly what I've been trying to prevent, exactly what she keeps insisting she prefers. But after today, after seeing how easily they can get to her, the thought of Nova sitting in that glorified fishbowl of an office makes my teeth clench.

"If she won't accept our offer," I say, the decision crystallizing with absolute certainty, "we'll make sure she's protected anyway."

Diesel straightens, recognizing the change in my tone. "What's the play?"

"We sweep her office tonight. Check for surveillance, bugs, anything that might explain how they knew exactly when and where to intercept her." I move toward the equipment locker, already cataloging what we'll need: "High-grade detection equipment, camera scramblers, the works."

"That's breaking and entering."

Fuck, now you're sounding like her, brother. "That's intelligence gathering." I pull out the electronic surveillance detector, testing its battery level. "If Nova's office is compromised, she needs to know. And if someone's been watching her every movement, we need to find out who and how."

Two hours later, we're inside the sheriff's station, moving through the darkened building like shadows. The security system is a joke, a basic residential setup that took Diesel all of thirty seconds to bypass. We sweep methodically, starting with the common areas and working toward Nova's office.

The first bug is hidden in the ceiling tile above the dispatch desk. It’s military-grade, the kind of equipment that costs serious money and requires serious connections to acquire.

"Royce has been busy," Diesel mutters, carefully extracting the device.

The second one is tucked behind the water cooler, positioned to capture conversations in the break room where deputies might think they could speak freely.

But it's the third bug that makes my beast grow restless.

Not because of its placement or sophistication, but because of what it represents.

This one is attached to the underside of Nova's desk drawer, positioned to record every private phone call, every quiet moment when she thinks she's alone.

When she rubs her temples after a long day.

When she eats lunch at her desk because she's too stubborn to take a real break.

When she works past midnight because she can't let go of cases that matter to her.

They've been watching her most vulnerable moments, cataloging her weaknesses, and violating the one space that should be hers alone.

"Ash." Diesel's voice carries warning as I stare at the small device. "Easy, brother."

My hands shake as I remove it, carefully preserving it as evidence while fighting the urge to crush it between my fingers. My beast beneath my skin grows restless, demanding blood for this invasion, this violation of what's mine—

The possessive thought cuts through me. When the fuck did I start thinking of Nova as mine? When did her safety become more important than club business, more urgent than my own survival?

"Check the drawers," I tell Diesel, voice rougher than intended. "If they put surveillance here, they might have planted other things."

Diesel moves to the filing cabinets while I open Nova's desk drawers with careful precision.

Methodical search technique, though my beast growls at every violation of her privacy.

Pens arranged by color. Case files organized by priority.

A small bottle of ibuprofen that suggests she gets headaches more often than she admits.

Normal things. Personal things. The small details that make up a life lived in careful solitude.

The bottom drawer sticks slightly, warped wood protesting as I pull it open. More files, a backup weapon holster, emergency cash clipped together with a paper clip—

And a printed article, folded once, sitting beneath everything else like a secret she's been hiding.

I lift it carefully. Fresh paper, recently printed. The headline faces down, but when I turn it over, a photograph stops me cold.

The same face that's been haunting me since her apartment. The woman from the photo Nova hid in her drawer, now staring at me from grainy ink. Same stubborn chin, same intelligent eyes, same mouth that looks like it was made for either kissing or telling uncomfortable truths.

Then I read the headline: "Local Woman Found Dead in Apparent Drug Deal Gone Wrong."

Carman Reyes, age twenty-four.

Christ. So that's who she was. The name lands heavy in my chest. Reyes. Sister, by the look of it.

But why the fuck would she bury it this deep? Why hide it like classified intel?

Because I've watched her refuse every offer of help. Seen her work eighteen-hour days rather than delegate. Carry every case like she's proving something to herself. The woman won't even admit when she's hurt.

Same way I shut her down at the courthouse when she got too close to the truth. When she pushed too fucking hard—because if that control breaks, everything useful about us breaks with it.

She's weaponizing her damage, same as me. Using dead family to stay sharp.

Fuck. No wonder I can't stay away from her. She's just as broken as I am, just as willing to let that damage drive her. Takes one monster to recognize another.

I scan the article. College graduate. Steady employment. No criminal history. Doesn't fit the drug deal narrative, but sometimes the easiest story is the one that gets filed and forgotten.

The date says six years ago. Fuck. That's when Nova would have been starting out, probably still believing the system worked.

No wonder she fights like she's got something to prove.

The same way I've carried the weight of family I'll never see again. The same way I've convinced myself that needing anyone makes me weak, that depending on others dishonors the family who died protecting me.

"Found something," Diesel calls, his voice cutting through my focus.

I look up, carefully refolding the article, to find Diesel standing beside the evidence locker with a small recording device in his palm.

"Ash." Diesel's voice sharpens. "Brother, you need to see this."

"This was attached to the lock mechanism," he says. "Every time she opens this locker, it records the sound. Someone's been tracking which evidence she accesses, when she accesses it, probably building a profile of her investigation priorities."

Fuck. They have a complete operational picture.

"They know her cases, her methods, her timing," I say. "Royce has been three steps ahead this whole time."

"We need to get her out of here," I tell Diesel, slipping the paper back where I found it. "Tonight. This office is completely compromised, and whoever's watching her isn't going to stop at surveillance."

"She won't come willingly," Diesel says.