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Chapter Ten

Nova

M y body won't let me forget what it felt like to melt under his hands. Four days of walking into the war room and feeling every place he touched me. Days of sitting across from him during depositions while my body remembers precisely what it felt like to let go.

To surrender.

I pour another glass of cheap red wine and settle into the corner of my couch.

The case files spread across my coffee table should demand my attention.

We're closer than I've ever been to taking down someone who destroys lives for profit.

The Bauer family depositions. The Henderson evidence.

Bank records Ash secured through non-legal channels, I'm still trying to justify.

But I keep thinking about that feeling of being completely safe with him in that moment - rational brain turned off, every worry dropped, just being there in a complete show of trust I still don't understand.

My gaze drops to my computer and the small thumbnail of Carman's college graduation photo in the corner. Her smile. Her warmth. All of it taken for granted, used against her. She never had safe. Never felt protected.

The thought brings an unwelcome ping of appreciation for Ash, despite myself.

She'd been dating that asshole Derek then—the one who convinced her she needed him, that she was too naive to navigate the world alone.

I'd tried to warn her, tried to get her to see what he was doing.

But Carman was stubborn, trusted too easily, and believed people could change if you just loved them enough.

I take another sip of wine, the alcohol doing nothing to quiet the rage burning in my chest. Years of investigations. Years of watching her case file gather dust while Derek walked free and the real story stayed buried.

"I'm going to get them," I whisper. "All of them. For every voice they've silenced."

The wine has me making promises I might not be able to keep. But sitting here alone, surrounded by evidence of corruption that reaches into every corner of the justice system, I feel the weight of every case I couldn't solve, every victim who didn't get justice.

Carman deserves better than the lies they printed in the newspapers. She deserves more than being written off as another young woman who made the wrong choices.

I'm reaching for the wine bottle when something crashes in the kitchen. The sound cuts through my thoughts. I freeze, bottle halfway to my glass.

"Shit." I set the wine aside and move toward the kitchen, hand automatically checking for my gunbelt even though I took it off an hour ago when I came home.

The window above the sink hangs open—I'd cracked it when I got home—and the ceramic bowl that usually sits on the sill lies shattered on the counter.

Just wind. Nothing sinister, nothing threatening.

But my nerves are shot, and I've been running on caffeine and stubbornness for days. I'm crouched beside the broken bowl, gathering pieces, when my front door explodes inward.

The frame splinters, wood cracking with explosive force.

Ash fills the doorway—shoulders blocking the hallway light, eyes wild with lethal intent as they sweep the room for threats.

His leather cut hangs open over a black shirt, and there's something in his stance that speaks of violence barely leashed.

"Where is he?" Ash growls.

“There's no one—" I start, but he's already moving through my apartment, clearing rooms like he's expecting an ambush.

"I heard breaking glass. Thought someone was—" His gaze finds mine, and I watch him cycle through relief to fury in the space of seconds. "You're bleeding."

I look down to find a thin line of red across my palm where I'd gripped a ceramic shard too tightly, probably from the shock of having a hulking orc kick in my door. "It's nothing. Just a broken bowl."

His fingers close around my wrist with surprising gentleness, examining the shallow cut like it's hurting him more than me.

He pulls my hand closer, pressing a kitchen towel against the cut. Basic first aid.

"How did you get here so fast?" The timeline doesn't add up. "Knox was supposed to be on watch tonight."

Something crosses his expression—guilt, maybe defiance. "Knox's at the clubhouse."

"Then how—" I connect the dots. "You've been out there. Every night."

"The last few, yes." No shame, no explanation. Just fact.

"Even though we agreed—"

"I couldn't leave your safety to anyone else." His jaw works like he's physically fighting for control. "Not when losing you would—"

"Would what, Ash?"

His eyes drop to my mouth, then back up, and I see the precise moment his control fractures. "Would destroy me."

The raw admission makes something clench low in my stomach.

"We can't," I whisper, but even I can hear how weak it sounds.

"Can't we?" His voice drops to something rougher, making my pulse jump. "Tell me you don't think about it. About what happened in the war room."

Heat floods my face. "That was a mistake. A one-time thing to relieve the pressure—"

"Bullshit." He steps closer, backing me toward the wall. "You think I could forget the way you came apart in my hands? The way you said my name?"

"Ash—"

"You gave me a taste of what we could be, Nova.

And now I'm starving for the rest of you.

" His palms brace against the wall on either side of my head.

"Watching you come undone like that, knowing you trust me enough to stop fighting, it's given me a hunger I'll never be able to satisfy with anyone else. "

"The case—"

"Fuck the case." His breath is hot against my ear. "For once in your life, stop thinking like a cop and feel like a woman."

"You think I haven't been feeling?" I step forward, jabbing a finger into his chest. "You think it's been easy pretending what happened didn't change everything? That I don't think about your touch on me every time we're in that room together?"

His hand shoots out, catching my wrist.

"Then why are we still talking?"

His palms frame my face, large enough to span from jaw to temple. His thumb strokes across my cheekbone. I should push him away, should remember every reason this is wrong.

Instead, my fingers fist in his shirt and pull him down to me.

"I hate you," I whisper against his mouth.

"Good. You should." His forehead drops to mine.

"Then why won't you let me?" My grip tightens on his shirt.

"Because I'm selfish." His mouth hovers over mine. "Tell me to leave, Nova. Tell me to walk away before I can't."

I open my mouth to do just that—to be the responsible one who remembers that this leads nowhere good.

But what comes out is: "I can't."

Something feral burns in his amber eyes before his mouth crashes down on mine. All teeth and desperation, tasting like coffee. I should push him away, should remember every reason this destroys everything I've worked for.

Instead, I bite his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

He growls against my mouth, the sound vibrating through my chest. "Is that how you want this? Rough?"

"I don't want your restraint." I grip the back of his neck, pulling his mouth closer. "I want you to give me what I need."

"And what do you need, Nova?"

I go very still under his touch.

"Someone who won't disappear when they see who I really am," I whisper.

His eyes darken, pupils dilating. "I've seen you, Nova. All of you. And I'm not going anywhere."

I search his face for the lie, but can't find one.

He lifts me like I weigh nothing, carrying me from the living room toward the bedroom while I wrap my legs around his waist. The movement presses his hard length against me, and I can feel every inch of him.

My back hits the bedroom doorframe as he pauses to devour my mouth again, fingers already tearing at my shirt.

The fabric gives way under his impatient touch, and buttons scatter across the hardwood floor.

His mouth follows the path of destruction, lips and tongue mapping the hollow of my throat, the curve of my collarbone.

When he reaches the lace edge of my bra, he pauses, looking up at me with eyes that burn like amber fire.

"Still with me?" he asks, voice strained.

"Stop asking and start taking."

That's all the permission he needs. My bra joins my shirt on the floor, and his mouth closes over one peaked nipple while his hand cups the other breast. The dual sensation makes me arch against him, as a cry tears from my throat.

He carries me the rest of the way to the bed, laying me down with surprising gentleness before stepping back to look at me. The way his gaze maps every inch of exposed skin makes me feel powerful instead of vulnerable.

"So fucking beautiful," he murmurs, working at my jeans. "I've been imagining this for weeks."

The denim slides down my legs, taking my underwear with it, leaving me bare beneath his burning stare. But when I move to cover myself, his hand shoots out, catching my wrists.

"Don't. Let me see you."

For a long moment, he just looks. His gaze travels from my face down my body and back up, slow and thorough. I feel exposed, vulnerable, but not ashamed. The way he's looking at me - like I'm something precious he's been waiting his whole life to unwrap.

His touch is powerful against my skin as it maps every inch he's uncovered, mouth following the path of his fingers. When he reaches the scar on my thigh—knife wound from my rookie year—he pauses, lips pressing gentle reverence to the raised flesh.

"My warrior," he murmurs, and I understand he sees my scars the same way I see his, not as damage, but as proof of survival.

His mouth moves lower, taking his time, kissing and nipping until he reaches the juncture of my thighs. I try to close my legs, suddenly shy, but his hands—so much larger than any human's—hold me open.

"Trust me," he says, breath hot against my most sensitive skin.