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Chapter Eight

Nova

I 'm losing my mind, and it has nothing to do with the work, that's progressing faster than I dared hope.

The interviews with displaced families have revealed a pattern more systematic than I initially suspected.

Under-the-table cash bonuses for "early departures.

" Above-market offers with twenty-four-hour deadlines.

And when residents hesitated or refused, follow-up visits from men who weren't there to negotiate.

Mrs. Henderson described them perfectly: "Big fellas who didn't say much, just stood on my porch looking at my grandkids playing in the yard.

" The Garcia family got a similar visit after turning down Royce's first offer.

Suddenly their cattle started getting sick, their well water tested contaminated.

Coincidences that weren't coincidences at all.

Working from the MC's war room should make this easier. Instead, what's driving me insane is the suffocating presence of Ash Thornshade.

He's everywhere. Reviewing legal briefs over my shoulder. Questioning my investigative methods. Hovering like a six-foot-four shadow every time I take a phone call or step outside for air. Security, he calls it. Joint task force cooperation.

This is control wrapped in his legal terminology, and we both know it.

"The Garcia deposition needs to be moved up," I tell him without looking away from my laptop screen. "Royce's people contacted them yesterday. Offered to settle for triple their original mortgage value if they withdraw their complaint."

Ash leans over my chair to scan the notes, his chest brushing my back. The contact makes my pulse spike despite my irritation. He smells like leather and warm spice that I can't identify, but makes me want to lean closer.

"Smart move on his part," he says, his words rumbling near my ear, reminding me we're working on cases and not whatever my brain was just doing. "Buy them off before they can testify about the forged documents."

I lean forward, creating an inch of space between us. It's not much, but it gives me enough room to think. "Which is why we need their sworn statement today. Before he sweetens the offer enough to make them reconsider." I shift to glance at him. "Can you arrange it?"

"Already done. Henry Garcia will be here at three."

Of course, he's already handled it. Ash anticipates my needs before I voice them, coordinates witnesses before I ask, reviews evidence with the kind of thoroughness that should reassure me, but instead feels like another form of surveillance.

"You could have mentioned that earlier," I mutter, irritated when I should be thankful.

"I'm mentioning it now."

I turn to glare at him, but he's already moved away, settling into the chair across from me with that casual sprawl that somehow looks both relaxed and predatory.

Days of close quarters, and I still can't read him—every gesture calculated, every expression controlled.

Layers of carefully guarded information locked away behind those amber depths.

Except for his gaze. The way it tracks my movements when he thinks I'm not watching.

The subtle flare of his nostrils when I lean close to point out details on his screen.

The careful distance he maintains, like he's fighting the same unwanted awareness that's been eating at me since I walked into this room.

His breathing changes. His jaw tightens.

His hands clench briefly before he forces them to relax.

My phone buzzes. Santos's name flashes on the screen.

"Sheriff, we've got a situation at the Caldwell farm. Vandalism, but it looks deliberate. Property destruction, threatening messages spray-painted on the barn."

I grab my jacket, already standing. "I'll be right there."

"Whoa." Ash rises too, blocking my path to the door. His massive frame fills the doorway, and for a second, I'm struck by just how much space he takes up. How solid he is. "Where do you think you're going?"

"To do my job. You know, that thing I was hired for?"

"Your job is building a case against Royce. Santos and Walker can handle vandalism."

"My job," I say, stepping closer, close enough to catch that leather and spice scent again, "is protecting the people of this county. All of them. Not just the ones convenient to our investigation."

His pupils dilate slightly. His nostrils flare.

We're standing close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his stare, and the angle makes my breath catch.

"The people trying to hurt you are still out there, Nova.

The sedan that ran you off the road? The surveillance equipment in your office?

None of that disappears because we're making progress on Royce. "

"So I'm supposed to hide in here indefinitely? Let Santos handle everything while I play desk jockey in your bunker?"

"You're supposed to stay safe long enough to see justice done."

My ribs tighten around my lungs. Not because he's wrong, but because he's right—and because the concern in his tone sounds genuine instead of possessive.

"The Caldwell farm is fifteen minutes away," I say, moderating my tone. "Santos rides with me, we check it out, file a report. Standard police work."

"Not alone."

"Santos will be—"

"Not just Santos." Ash's jaw tightens. "If you're going out there, I'm going with you."

"Like hell you are." The automatic refusal surprises even me with its force. "I don't need a babysitter."

"You need backup that knows how to handle threats more sophisticated than drunk vandals."

"You think I can't handle myself?"

His laugh is tight. "I think you're stubborn enough to walk into danger just to prove you don't need help. And I think whoever's watching you is counting on exactly that kind of predictable behavior."

My jaw clenches. The words hit their mark because they're accurate. I have been making choices based on pride as much as practicality, refusing assistance that might actually keep me safer just to maintain my independence.

But admitting that feels too much like surrendering ground I can't afford to lose. Not to him. Not now. But if he's not going to let me out of the room until I agree, I don't have much of a choice.

"Fine," I say finally. "You can follow at a distance. As a civilian. But you don't interfere unless shots are fired."

"Agreed."

We'll see about that.

Twenty minutes later, Santos and I pull into the farm's gravel drive, Ash's bike a discreet distance behind us.

The Caldwell farm stretches across a few hundred acres of pasture, but most of the fields stand empty.

A few head of cattle cluster near the farmhouse—maybe a dozen where there should be hundreds.

The barn needs paint, the fence posts sag, and the whole place looks like a victim of time and economics.

The vandalism is clear before we exit the cruiser.

"SELL OR DIE" screams across the barn's weathered siding in blood-red letters three feet tall.

Beyond that, the real damage becomes clear—fence posts snapped clean through, gates hanging off their hinges, tire tracks cutting deep ruts through what used to be carefully maintained pasture.

"When did you discover this?" I ask Tom Caldwell, noting the exhaustion in his weathered face.

"This morning," he says. "Heard the cattle bellowing around five, came out to check, found this mess." He gestures toward the barn, anger and resignation warring in his expression. "Took me three hours to round up the stock, and I'm still missing two head."

Santos documents the scene while I walk the perimeter, cataloging details. The fence cuts are clean, marking this as Royce's work, not teenage vandals. This was meant as a clear message to get the hell out of town before worse happens.

"Has anyone approached you recently about selling?" I ask Tom. "Real estate agents, developers, investors?"

His mouth tightens. "Matter of fact, yes. A man came by last week. Didn't give a name, just said there were parties interested in acquiring agricultural properties for development. Offered twice what the land's worth."

"You turn him down?"

"Course I did. This land's been in my family for four generations. If I didn't sell out to Victor Hargrove, I'm not selling to some developer who wants to pave it over for condos."

The pattern fits perfectly with everything we've documented about Royce's operation. Identify undervalued properties. Make generous offers. When those are refused, apply pressure through legal harassment, economic sabotage, or, in this case, direct intimidation.

"I'll need a full description of this man," I tell Tom. "Vehicle, approximate age, anything distinctive you remember?"

Tom's stare drifts past me toward the tree line, and his expression hardens. "That one of them biker things watching us?"

I follow his gaze to where Ash waits in the shadows. "He's providing security backup."

"Security." Tom spits into the dirt. "Didn't think you'd be fool enough to get mixed up with those... creatures. Bad enough they're squatting in our town without the sheriff cozying up to them."

The casual dismissal makes my spine stiffen. My hands clench at my sides. "That 'creature' has more honor and integrity than half the humans in this county. He's risking everything to help people like you keep your land, while you stand here throwing slurs around."

Tom's stare narrows. "If you say so, Sheriff. Just hope you know what you're doing."

His tone suggests he thinks I don't. I bite back my immediate response.

"Santos will take your full statement," I tell him, gesturing my deputy over. "Vehicle description, timeline, anything else you remember about this man."