Page 2

A second later, she steps into the chaos, chin up, hips loose, gun drawn, and my world tilts. Sheriff Nova Reyes. Five-foot-nothing of fury in a uniform. She shouldn't register as a threat, but the second our gazes lock, something deep in me surges to life—sharp, possessive, undeniable.

I don't believe in mates. Never have. But my beast roars. Mine. And I fucking hate it. She's human. A cop. A symbol of the system that tried to crush me. And yet every instinct I have screams to grab her, claim her, keep her. It's not just want, it's need. Dark. Violent. All-consuming.

My brain's throwing up roadblocks, warning me of consequences, risk, reputation, but my blood is already committed. I track every inch of her. Strong legs, steady grip on the Glock, eyes that don't blink. She's pure fire.

Somehow, I manage to shove it down. Lock it away. She's a distraction, and I don't lose focus, not for anyone.

She assesses the scene with a sweep of her calculating gaze, me, the knife in my hand, the humans scattered across the parking lot. The gun doesn't waver, her stance doesn't shift. Her confidence comes from experience.

"Drop it," she commands, voice rough. Not loud. Doesn't need to be. It lands with the weight of law and the promise of consequences.

I consider my options. I could take her down before she pulls the trigger. I could disappear into the night. Could call her bluff and see if she's actually willing to shoot an Ironborn VP over a bar fight.

But her expression makes me reconsider. Recognition that sees the predator in me and isn't afraid—is maybe even turned on by it.

The knife hits the asphalt with a dull clatter. Not submission. Strategy.

"Sheriff," the one with the busted lip starts, stumbling forward. "He attacked us. Unprovoked. You saw the knife.”

"Shut up." Her voice slices through the night. Not raised. Not angry. Just absolute in its authority.

The man flinches back. "I watched from the shadows for the last sixty seconds," she continues, her gaze never leaving mine even as she addresses him. "You want to go on record pretending this was self-defense?"

The tension between us thrums, unspoken and raw. My thoughts war between challenging her authority and wondering what that mouth would feel like under mine.

"You picked that up after he turned his back," she says to the man, finally breaking our stare-down to address the group. "Crowbar boy swung twice."

The one she dubbed 'crowbar boy' looks ready to piss himself.

Her attention lands on the ringleader. "You came here looking for a fight. Baited it. Tried to outnumber him. And you lost."

None of them speaks. Smart choice.

"You wanna press charges?" she asks, eyebrow raised in mock question. "Because I'll arrest you right now. Every single one of you. I've got the footage from the bar's outside camera, and I'm not in the mood to coddle your fragile fucking egos."

The ringleader's cocky grin dies. His buddies shift their weight, suddenly fascinated by their shoes.

"Didn't think so," she says, stepping forward with measured confidence. "Get the fuck out of here."

They scatter rapidly, leaving me alone with this woman still holding my gaze like she owns it.

The Glock lowers. Not because she trusts me, hell no, but because she's already done the math and decided I'm not the threat to neutralize right now.

She studies me, eyes raking down my body and back up—precise and detached but not uncurious. She's cataloging, profiling, and clocking how much damage I could do.

"You hurt?" she asks, the question surprising me with its directness.

I nearly laugh. "Why? You gonna patch me up?"

She doesn't smile. Doesn't react at all. "No. Just wanted to know if I need to call the meat wagon."

Most humans would've already put distance between us, but she's close enough that I can catch her scent–citrus, clean sweat, and something underneath that makes my blood heat. Close enough to grab. Close enough to ruin.

"You were holding back," she says, the observation landing somewhere beneath my ribs. "That's the only reason this didn't end with an ambulance and a crime scene."

I meet her gaze, refuse to look away first. "And you knew that when you aimed the gun at me."

She shrugs one shoulder, a casual gesture that looks deliberate. "Had to see what you'd do."

The realization sinks in —she tested me. Saw the killer beneath the surface and didn't flinch. Not because she's stupid, but because she wanted to know exactly what kind of monster she's dealing with.

"I know who you are," she continues, her voice level and controlled. "Ash Thornshade. Vice President of the Ironborn MC. You've got a reputation for playing by the rules until it suits you not to. And for making problems disappear permanently."

I tilt my head, fighting both irritation and unwanted appreciation. "You dig through that file yourself, or have one of your deputies read it to you?"

"Doesn't matter," she counters. "It was accurate."

I let my eyes roam her body, slow and deliberate. Intimidation? Maybe. But part of me just can't stop.

Strong legs. Sharp eyes. That mouth. Christ. That mouth.

When I meet her eyes again, I let the predator show through.

"You're a long way from Atlanta, Sheriff Reyes."

Her expression remains neutral, but her eyes betray her surprise that I've done my homework too.

"I hear you were on the promotion track," I add, the words casual. "Then suddenly... detour. Strange kind of ambition you've got."

The jab is deliberate, probing for weakness, for the truth behind her spotless record and mysterious relocation.

I'm baiting her now, poking back, digging for cracks in her polished mask.

But she doesn't bite. Just lifts her chin. Defiant.

"Strange kind of curiosity for someone who claims not to work with cops."

That actually earns her a smirk. Not cold. Not warm. Just... amused. And maybe a little impressed.

"You don't look like a cop," I say, the words coming out rough. "You look like someone trying very hard not to shoot me."

"I didn't holster it because I trust you," she fires back without hesitation. "I holstered it because I decided not to put a bullet in your leg. Yet."

My respect inches higher. No flinch. No retreat. She's got steel in her spine and fire in her blood, exactly the kind of woman who could destroy everything I've built.

The kind who makes me want to burn it all down myself.

I move a half-step closer, testing boundaries. "You always aim first and ask questions later?"

She doesn't budge, doesn't retreat from my advance. "Only when the predator outside the bar looks more dangerous than the ones inside."

A laugh escapes me, quiet, genuine, surprising us both.

"Guess we'll see what kind of orc I am."

"We will," she says flatly. "Eventually."

Then she turns her back on me, a deliberate power move that speaks volumes, and walks away as though she owns not just this parking lot but the whole damn world.

I watch her go, my body torn between following her and putting as much distance between us as possible. Because she's right about one thing, I am dangerous.

Just not in the ways either of us expected. And I haven't even shown her my worst yet.