Page 18

While Tom provides details to Santos, I scan the property line where the pasture meets the county road.

The tire tracks in the pasture are clearly part of the vandalism—deliberate destruction of maintained grass.

But there are no tracks leading from the road to the damaged areas, no clear path showing where the perpetrators parked.

The ground near the road is too hard to hold impressions.

Whoever did this knew enough to park on pavement and walk in.

My gaze drifts back to the tree line where Ash waits.

Even knowing he's there, he's nearly invisible in the shadows, positioned with a clear view of both the farmhouse and the road.

Exactly like he promised—close enough to respond to threats, far enough away to avoid interfering with official police business.

Watching. Always watching.

My radio crackles. "Sheriff, this is Roberta. I got a call from the County. They're asking about your location and said they need to discuss case coordination with you ASAP."

I frown. "What kind of case coordination?"

"Didn't specify. Want me to patch you through?"

County law enforcement shouldn't need to coordinate anything with me unless they're planning to take over jurisdiction. And the timing—right when I'm investigating vandalism that clearly connects to Royce's operation—feels too convenient.

"Tell them I'll call back in thirty minutes," I reply. "I'm finishing up a crime scene."

But tension crawls up my neck. Every instinct screams that this is wrong. County doesn't just call demanding immediate case coordination. They send emails, schedule meetings, follow proper channels.

Unless they're not really county.

I catch Santos's attention, gesture to him away from Tom Caldwell. "Pack it up. We're done here."

"But Sheriff—"

"Now, Santos." The urgency in my tone has nothing to do with my own safety and everything to do with getting my deputy out of whatever crosshairs I've painted on us.

He reads the urgency in my words, immediately switching to compliance mode. "Yes, ma'am."

I walk toward the tree line where Ash waits, keeping my expression neutral despite the adrenaline building in my system. He emerges from the shadows as I approach, amber gaze scanning my face with uncomfortable perception.

"What's wrong?" he asks before I can speak.

"Maybe nothing. Maybe everything." I key my radio. "Roberta, about that county call—did they give you a callback number?"

"Negative. Said they'd call back in a few minutes."

His expression hardens. "Royce?"

"Testing response times. Checking our coordination protocols. Seeing how quickly they can get me to expose my location." The pieces fall into place with ugly clarity. "They're mapping our vulnerabilities."

"Time to go." Ash is already moving toward his bike. "Follow me back. Don't go straight to the clubhouse—we'll take a route that flushes out any surveillance."

"What about the Caldwells?" I ask, looking back toward the farmhouse. "If this was a setup to get me out here—"

"Crow will post a prospect in the tree line tonight. If anyone comes back here, we'll know about it."

For once, I don't argue. The open farmland suddenly feels exposed, the county road too convenient for an ambush. I wave Santos toward his cruiser, my stomach churning with certainty that we've stayed too long in one place.

Ash leads us on a winding route through back roads before pulling into the station parking lot. Santos parks his cruiser and gets out, looking confused by the circuitous route we just took.

"Sheriff, you want me to start processing the Caldwell report?"

"Tomorrow," I tell him. "Keep the station locked tonight. And Santos? Keep your radio and your phone close."

As soon as I finish giving the instructions, Diesel's bike rumbles into the lot.

He parks where he's clearly visible from the street, then settles against it like he's got all night.

The timing is too perfect to be a coincidence—Ash has been coordinating this since I alerted him of the possible threat.

Santos glances between the bikes, finally reading the tension. "Yes, ma'am." He heads inside, and I know he'll lock up tight.

From there, Ash leads me on another route to the clubhouse, more expert countersurveillance that reveals just how much thought he's put into keeping everyone safe.

By the time we reach the clubhouse, my hands are steady but my mind is racing. Every "random" call from county. Every "routine" question about my location and activities. Every piece of information I've shared with dispatch, thinking I was coordinating with fellow law enforcement.

How much have they learned? How much of our investigation has been compromised?

Back in the war room, I slam the door harder than necessary, frustration boiling over into panic that makes my hands shake. Days of careful progress, witnesses scheduled, evidence compiled—all potentially worthless if Royce knows exactly what we're planning.

"They've been fishing," Ash says, settling into his usual chair. "Testing our response protocols, mapping our movements. Professional intelligence gathering."

"How long?" I demand, pacing the small space. "How long have they been listening to dispatch calls, monitoring my location, tracking every move I make?"

"Does it matter?"

The casual question stops me cold. "Does it matter? Of course it fucking matters! If they know everything we've planned—"

"Then we change the plan." His tone stays level despite my rising panic. "Adapt. Improvise. Use their intelligence against them."

"Easy for you to say. You're not the one who's failed every family counting on me for justice.

The Bauers, the Hendersons, the Garcias—they trusted me, and I've been so determined to prove I don't need help that I missed what was right in front of me.

Too proud to ask the right questions, too stubborn to admit I was in over my head. "

His expression darkens. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I'm tired of pretending this is a partnership when you've been managing me from day one. You knew I was outgunned, didn't you? Knew Royce had resources I couldn't match, but you let me stumble around playing sheriff while you watched from the sidelines."

Ash goes very still. "You’re not stumbling, Nova. And I'm only keeping you safe."

"You're keeping me controlled." I turn to face him fully, done with careful diplomacy. "There's a difference."

"Is there?" He stands, and suddenly the room feels smaller, the air thicker. "Because from where I'm standing, they're the same thing."

"Of course you'd think that." Tension crawls up my neck, anger and awareness making my pulse race. "Control disguised as protection. Dominance wrapped in concern. It's probably how you justify everything."

His stare narrows to amber slits. "Careful, Nova."

"Or what? You'll prove my point?" I step closer, challenging him with proximity. I'm using his own game against him. "Show me exactly how much control you think you have over me?"

For a moment, he doesn't respond. Just stares at me while his hands slowly clench into fists at his sides. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my pupils, and I see the exact moment his control starts to crack.

"You have no idea what you're asking for," he says, words rough with warning.

"Don't I?"

My heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it. Days of dancing around this attraction, pretending careful distance could contain what's been building since that first night at Murphy's parking lot.

But I'm done pretending. Done fighting battles on every front while denying the one thing that might actually make me feel less alone in this war.

"You think I don't see what this is?" I continue, closing the distance between us with deliberate steps. "You think I don't know you've been protecting me not because the club needs a clean sheriff, but because you can't stand the thought of anything happening to me?"

His hands clench into fists. "Nova—"

"Say it." I'm close enough now to feel the warmth radiating from his skin, to catch the subtle shift in his breathing. "Say you want me."

For a heartbeat, I think he might walk away. Might rebuild those impenetrable walls and pretend this moment never happened.

His hands tremble slightly at his sides. I watch him fight it—duty warring with desire, control battling need.

Instead, his control cracks like ice under pressure.

"You want the truth?" His tone drops to a register humans can’t reach, all gravel and dark restraint.

"Since the night you held a gun on me, I've wanted you.

Can't get you out of my fucking head for a second, and it's been driving me insane, Nova, because for the past three nights I've thought of nothing but bending you over this table and showing you exactly what happens when I stop protect you. "

The admission sends arousal spiraling through my core. For three nights, he's been fighting the same war I have—wanting something he thinks he shouldn't have. The knowledge that I've been driving him just as crazy makes something fierce and hungry unfurl in my chest.

"So do it," I challenge, the words ripping from somewhere deep and reckless. "Stop treating me like I'm going to break."

His laugh is dark, predatory. "Careful what you ask for, Sheriff. Because once I start, I'm not stopping until you're begging me to."

"I don't beg."

"You will." The certainty in his tone makes my knees weak. "On your knees, on your back, however I want you."

My body responds with a rush of arousal so intense it nearly buckles my legs. He sees it—reads my reaction like he's been studying me for years instead of weeks. His nostrils flare slightly.

"There it is," he murmurs, stepping closer until his massive frame towers over me. "The need your body won't let you deny."