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Chapter Two

Nova

T he uniform should make me untouchable.

Pressed khakis, polished badge, regulation boots that click with each step across Greene's Diner's worn linoleum. I've worn this armor for eight years, through Atlanta's worst precincts and courtroom cross-examinations that could break careers. It's never failed me before.

So why can I still feel the burn of his stare on my skin?

I slide into a corner booth with my back to the wall—muscle memory from too many nights when backup was twenty minutes out and death was twenty seconds away.

The place has that small-town charm the tourism board probably markets hard: checkered tablecloths, pie cases that actually hold pie, coffee strong enough to raise the dead. Normal. Safe.

A sharp contrast to what I witnessed last night.

The waitress appears before I can flag her down. She has kind eyes that miss nothing, and her name tag reads 'Helen' in faded letters.

"Coffee, honey?" she asks, already reaching for the pot. "You look like you need it."

"Please." I arrange my hands flat on the table, fighting the urge to flex my fingers. They're steady now, but they remember the tight grip I had on my Glock and the way my finger hovered over the trigger.

Helen pours coffee, dark and bitter, steam curling between us. "You settling in alright? I know Sheriff Dawson left quite a mess behind."

"I've seen worse." The lie comes easier than it should. I'm not sure what I've walked into yet, or who I can trust, so I keep my answers vague. I take a sip of coffee and let the bitter heat burn away the memory of amber eyes and controlled violence.

"I bet you have." She doesn't move to the next table. Instead, she refills my cup that's barely half empty. "Atlanta PD, right? Shadow Ridge must be quite a change."

The truth is, Shadow Ridge already feels more real than eight years of city patrol. More dangerous—not because of the corruption I'm here to clean up, but because of what happened in that parking lot when everything I thought I knew about control went out the window.

Helen sets the coffee pot on my table and slides into the opposite seat without invitation. She's younger than I expected, mid-forties with laugh lines and capable hands that speak of someone who's built a life through hard work and service.

"I heard there was some trouble at Murphy's last night," she says. "Word is you handled yourself well. I hope those drunk idiots didn't give you too much grief."

My spine straightens. "Where'd you hear that?"

"Honey, this is Shadow Ridge. News travels faster than gossip, and gossip travels at light speed." Helen's eyes crinkle at the corners, but there's steel underneath the friendly act. "Especially when it involves our boys and the new sheriff."

Our boys. The way she says it—protective, proud—tells me everything about where this town's loyalties lie, not with badges, laws, or the system that sent me here to clean house, but with the Ironborn MC.

With him.

"It was handled," I say, keeping my voice level. "No charges filed, no injuries requiring medical attention."

"Good. Those Murphy's regulars can get stupid when they drink." Helen's expression darkens slightly. "A lot of folks are still angry about changes around here. Some take it out on anyone new, anyone different, like our boys. I hope they didn’t turn you off us already?"

I pause, coffee halfway to my lips. She's not fishing for gossip. She's checking on me. When's the last time someone did that?

"I can handle myself."

"I'm sure you can. Doesn't mean you should have to." Helen leans back, crossing her arms. "Look, I don't know what brought you to Shadow Ridge, and that's your concern. But I've been here long enough to know when someone's carrying more than they should."

She glances toward the window, where morning sunlight illuminates the main stretch of highway outside.

"This place was dying before the club showed up. Empty storefronts, families leaving, nothing but bitter grudges and Victor Hargrove's poison." Her voice lifts when she turns back to me. "Now look at it. We've got a future again."

"The Ironborn did that?" I ask over my next sip.

"They helped, but it took all of us." Helen meets my eyes directly. "The Point is, you don't have to fight every battle alone here. Most people here want change. They’ll be on your side."

She stands, smoothing her apron. "You need anything—information, backup, or just someone to listen—you know where to find me. This town takes care of its own, and like it or not, you're one of us now."

Helen picks up the coffee pot and walks away, leaving me with the certainty that I'm already in deeper than I planned.

The bell above the door chimes. The shift in the diner's atmosphere is immediate—conversations don't stop, but they quiet, like everyone's suddenly aware of a different kind of presence in their midst. I look up, and my stomach drops.

Ash Thornshade fills the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking the morning light.

Behind him, another orc follows—younger, with an easier smile and less visible damage.

They move unhurried through the space—Ash nodding to the trucker at the counter, the younger orc raising a hand to someone in the back booth.

People acknowledge them with the kind of respectful familiarity reserved for those who've proven themselves.

My peripheral vision tracks Ash as he crosses the room, and I hate how attuned I am to his every movement.

He's changed since last night—clean clothes, leather cut pristine, no trace of the violence that marked him hours ago.

But I can still see the careful awareness in every step, the way he scans the room without seeming to, the deliberate spacing he maintains.

He moves through the space like he owns it, never once glancing in my direction.

Helen appears at their table with a coffee pot and two mugs already in hand. "Morning, boys. The usual?"

"Thanks, Helen." Ash's voice carries across the diner. The younger orc—Diesel, according to the files I've memorized—slides into the booth and immediately reaches for the sugar dispenser. "How's business?"

"Better since you fixed that freezer," Helen replies, already pouring their coffee. "Savvy's got your breakfast coming right up."

They talk like this is routine. I watch Ash's profile as he responds to Diesel's words, his mouth shifting toward what might be a smile.

The conversation flows around them, but his gaze never drifts my way.

My coffee grows cold in my hands. The eggs Helen brought without asking sit untouched on the plate. My appetite vanished the moment he walked in, replaced by a hyperawareness that sets my nerves on edge—every movement he makes, every word he speaks draws my attention like a magnet I can't resist.

This is exactly what I can't afford. Yet I watch anyway, drawn despite every rational thought.

Last night was police work, nothing more.

The fact that I can still feel the weight of his gaze, the memory of those eyes assessing me with something that felt like hunger—that's just residual adrenaline. Biology. Nothing more.

I force myself to take a bite of eggs, chewing mechanically while fighting the urge to look in his direction. This distraction is exactly what I don’t want in Shadow Ridge. Getting tangled up with someone who represents everything I'm supposed to be working against.

But then he laughs at something Diesel says—a low, genuine sound—and my resolve cracks. The smile reveals the sharp points of his tusks, making him look both more dangerous and more appealing. Even the jagged scar cutting through his right eye only adds to the contradiction.

Just for a second, I wondered what it would be like to be on the receiving end of that smile, to be the one making him laugh instead of the threat he refuses to acknowledge.

That possibility unsettles me more than his violence ever could.

I drop cash on the table and stand, needing distance before I do something unprofessional. As I head for the door, I have to pass their table. I brace myself for continued indifference, chin up, shoulders squared.

"Perfect timing!" Helen appears beside their booth, plates of food in hand, and a smile that seems a little too convenient. "Ash, Diesel, I don't think you've officially met our sheriff yet, have you?"

I freeze mid-step, and Ash's coffee cup pauses halfway to his mouth.

"Sheriff Nova Reyes," Helen continues, apparently oblivious to the sudden tension. "Meet Ash and Diesel from the Ironborn MC."

Diesel rises smoothly. He’s about Ash's age but built leaner, with an easy grin that makes his tusks look almost friendly. Where Ash is all focused intensity, this one radiates warmth. He extends his hand with a genuine welcome. "Sheriff. Welcome to Shadow Ridge."

I shake his hand, surprised by how my fingers disappear in his grip. His skin is deep green like pine trees, with gold flecks scattered across his knuckles. The firm handshake grounds me, even as I note how he studies my face. "Thank you."

Ash sets his coffee down with deliberate care but doesn't stand. Doesn't offer his hand. Just looks at me with the kind of careful stare that misses nothing.

"We've met," he says simply.

Helen's eyebrows shoot up. "Oh! Well, that's wonderful. I forgot you mentioned—"

"Briefly," I cut in, my voice steady despite the heat crawling up my neck. "Official capacity."

"Of course." Diesel's tone is diplomatic, but there's genuine curiosity there. "We should probably sit down soon and discuss coordinating efforts. The club's been helping maintain order in Shadow Ridge for almost two years now. Might be beneficial to talk strategy so we don’t overlap.”

It's not really a suggestion. It's a polite way of saying we need to talk about territory, about who's really in charge here, about whether I'm a threat they need to neutralize.

Ash finally speaks, his voice low and even. "Wouldn't want to step on any toes."