Page 32

Nova

T he needle slides through fabric, securing another button to Ash's sheriff uniform shirt. The third one this week. At this rate, I'm going to have to buy buttons in bulk—his shoulders keep outgrowing the standard-issue uniforms.

"Hold still," I mutter, perched on the kitchen counter while Ash stands between my knees, patient as granite but radiating warmth.

His palms rest on my thighs, thumbs tracing lazy circles that make it hard to concentrate on anything except the way he's watching my mouth.

"Unless you want to walk into the town council meeting with your chest hanging out. "

"Might make the budget discussion more interesting," he says, those golden eyes dancing with amusement.

"Helen would have a heart attack." I bite through the thread and examine my handiwork, but my focus keeps drifting to the way his shirt strains across his chest, the badge sitting crooked against fabric that's fighting a losing battle. "There. That should hold until your next growth spurt."

"Orcs don't have growth spurts after thirty-five."

"Tell that to your shoulders." I smooth the shirt over his chest, fingers deliberately tracing the outline of muscle beneath the crisp fabric. His breath catches, and I file that reaction away for later use.

"Could always go back to the cut," he says, but there's no real conviction in it. We both know he won't.

"And give Mayor Bartlett another reason to complain?

He's still adjusting to having an orc sheriff.

" I slide off the counter, but he doesn't step back, keeping me trapped between his body and the granite.

My palms move to straighten his collar with the kind of muscle memory that comes from months of this routine, except now every touch feels charged. "Besides, you look good in uniform."

"You think so?" His voice drops to that familiar rumble that makes my pulse skip and my thighs clench.

I should deflect. Should make some crack about authority figures or redirect to work. Instead, I meet his gaze and let him see exactly what I'm thinking. "I think the residents of Shadow Ridge sleep better knowing you're the one keeping the peace, even if your shirts keep trying to escape."

Took us months to figure this out after New York.

Him stepping into the sheriff role like he was born for it.

Me starting my PI practice and pretending I wasn't checking the rearview mirror for his bike every time I left the apartment.

Two people who'd spent their whole lives armored up, learning how to be partners instead of just allies.

Turns out admitting you're wrong gets easier when the alternative is losing everything that matters.

"You know," I say, fingering the badge pinned to his chest, feeling the metal warm under my touch, "a year ago I never would have imagined this. You wearing the law instead of running from it."

"World's fucked," he says, fingers settling on my waist, gripping tight enough to leave marks. "Had to change with it."

There's the cynicism I know. The edge that never quite disappears, even when he's being domestic. Even when his thumbs are stroking against my hipbones through my jeans.

"You could have been a lawyer. You have the education, the credentials—"

"And sit behind a desk pushing papers while someone else handles the real work?" He shakes his head, and I catch the hunger in his eyes. "This fits better—badge by day, patch by night."

I glance toward the living room where his cut hangs on the back of a chair. Vargan's running Shadow Ridge as president now, but Ash is still MC. Still family. The badge doesn't change that, just gives him another way to protect what he claims. Another way to control his territory.

"Even if the uniforms don't fit?"

"Even if the uniforms don't fit."

I trace the edge of his badge with one finger. Sheriff. The title still catches me off guard sometimes, not because he can't handle the authority, but because it fits him so well.

"Besides," he continues, voice dropping lower, "I like having you as my go-to PI. Nice to have someone I trust handling the cases that require... discretion."

"Is that what we're calling it?" I smile up at him. "Collaboration?"

"Among other things."

His thumb brushes across my bottom lip, and fire spreads through my chest. The same reaction he's pulled from me since that first night in my kitchen, when I was still pretending this was just physical.

He leans closer, chest expanding as he inhales, and the shirt button I just secured pops free, hitting the floor with a metallic ping.

We both look down at it, then at each other.

"That's the fourth button today," I observe.

"Shirt's defective."

"Shirt's too small." I tug at the fabric straining across his chest. "You're going to have to special order these."

"Or you could keep sewing them back on."

"I'm not a seamstress, Ash. I'm a private investigator."

"You're good with your fingers."

The way he says it sends molten need low in my belly. My touch is still pressed against his chest, feeling his heart beating steadily beneath the badge.

"Take it off," I murmur.

"The shirt?"

"The shirt."

He reaches for the remaining buttons, but I catch his wrists. "Let me."

My fingers work slowly, deliberately, releasing each button with careful precision. The fabric parts to reveal the landscape of scars and ink I've memorized over the past months, each mark a story, each story a piece of the orc who chose to trust the law rather than fight it.

When the shirt falls away, I press my palms flat against his chest, feeling the burn of his skin and the power coiled beneath.

"Better?" I ask.

"Getting there."

His fingers frame my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones. The same touch that could snap bones, treating me like spun glass.

"Nova." My name on his lips still undoes me.

I rise up to meet him, lips crashing against his. No hesitation, no soft exploration. We're past that. The kiss is hungry, demanding, all teeth and tusks and tongue, the kind of desperation that comes from knowing exactly what the other can do.

His grip slides down to my thighs, lifting me back onto the counter with enough force to send the salt shaker skittering across granite.

The cool surface against my skin contrasts sharply with the furnace of his body as he steps between my legs, pressing close enough that I can feel exactly how much he wants this.

"We should—" I gasp as his mouth finds that spot just below my ear that makes my spine arch involuntarily. "Helen's expecting us at the diner for—"

"Helen can wait." His voice is rough against my throat. "She's survived this long without us."

"The town council meeting—"

"Doesn't start for two hours."

His teeth graze my pulse point, and rational thought scatters. My head falls back, giving him better access as his touch slides down my sides, mapping curves he knows by heart.

"Ash." His name escapes as a sigh.

"Right here, sweetheart." He pulls back to look at me, eyes dark with hunger. "Always right here."

And he is. Has been since that first night he showed me exactly what those fingers could do, since I learned what it felt like to be completely consumed by someone who sees straight through every wall I've ever built.

I can see it in the way he watches me—like he wants to devour me whole, claim me, make me forget everything except the way he can make me fall apart. That darkness that makes him dangerous is focused entirely on me right now.

"Upstairs," I demand against his mouth, teeth catching his bottom lip. "Now."

"What about your reputation? Can't have the sheriff's consultant showing up to meetings looking well-fucked."

"Ash."

"Yes, ma'am."

He lifts me from the counter, and I lock my legs around his waist, pressing against him as he carries me toward the stairs.

His grip on my ass is firm, possessive, and I bite down on his shoulder hard enough to leave marks.

The abandoned sheriff's shirt lies forgotten on the kitchen floor, another casualty in our ongoing battle with properly fitted uniforms.

My mouth finds his neck, tasting salt and something purely him. "Move faster."

"Demanding little thing," he growls against my ear, but his pace quickens, taking the stairs two at a time.

This isn't the life I planned. But fuck if I'd change a single thing about the orc sheriff who thinks he's a monster and the way he makes me feel like I'm the only thing in the world worth protecting.

In a few hours, we'll be facing Mayor Bartlett and the budget committee, all business and procedures. But right now the only thing that matters is this—his touch on me, his mouth claiming mine, and the promise of what waits upstairs.