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Chapter Five

Ash

T he war room reeks of Diesel's latest attempt at cooking. Something that might've been pasta before he murdered it. He's sprawled across the couch like he owns the place, boots propped on the strategy table, scrolling through security feeds while I pretend to focus on property deeds.

Pretending being the operative damn word.

I’ve been staring at the same Bauer family eviction papers for twenty minutes.

Same page. Same words that might as well be ancient Greek for all the good they're doing me.

Because my brain keeps cycling back to yesterday.

Outside the diner. Cornering Nova in that alley because I couldn't handle the tension, couldn't stop myself from crowding her space.

The way she'd gone still when I pressed closer—not surrender but survival instinct.

Hell. Why do I feel the need to make her fear me?

"You're gonna wear a hole in that file," Diesel says without looking up.

I flip another useless document. My jaw’s clenched so tight it aches. "Royce is moving money through shell companies faster than we can track it. Each time we get close, another layer appears."

"Uh-huh." His tone says he's not buying my bullshit. "This got anything to do with why you looked ready to murder Santos at the courthouse the other day?"

My pen snaps between my fingers.

Black ink bleeds across the Garcia family eviction notice—another family Royce screwed over while Dawson looked the other way.

The kind of calculated destruction that should have my full attention.

Would have my full attention if I wasn't losing my damn mind over a human sheriff who's been in town all of five minutes.

"Santos was standing too close," I mutter, reaching for another pen.

"To his boss. At a public meeting. In broad daylight." Diesel finally looks up, his gold eyes sharp with amusement. "Real threatening behavior there, brother."

"Drop it."

"Can't. This is too good." He swings his boots off the table and leans forward. "The great territorial Ash getting possessive over a badge-wearing human."

My temper stirs. Restless and hungry, and completely inappropriate for what Nova Reyes represents to this operation. I've spent years building control, learning to channel violence into legal victories instead of body counts.

But something about her strips away those hard-won layers. Exposes the ten-year-old orc who learned that caring brings weakness.

It turns you into prey.

The old memory claws its way up. Always does when I'm feeling too much. I'd screamed for help that day in the camps. Cried while that bastard carved his initials into my face over a piece of stale bread. Waited for someone—anyone—to give a damn that a kid was bleeding out in the mud.

No one came.

So I stopped screaming. Stopped waiting. I built myself into something that never needed rescue again.

Now I'm watching Nova fight the same battles, carry the same weight, and instinct demands I step in. Except she's not some helpless kid. She's a smart woman with a gun and the attitude to use it.

She doesn't need saving.

But I still can't shake the image of her in that courthouse. Shoulders squared, chin up, facing down a room full of strangers while using me to ground herself. And when I’d cornered her yesterday, demanded to know why she'd looked at me like that, she'd deflected.

She talked about getting through her speech instead of answering the real question.

Why me? What made her think an orc in a leather cut would offer anything but more danger?

"She won't accept protection," I tell Diesel, keeping my voice level. Like this is about club business instead of how her scent made my hands shake. "Too proud. Too independent."

"So?"

So if Royce makes a play, she'll face it alone." The words taste bitter. True. "Fight it without backup. Maybe suffer alone because she's too stubborn to ask for help.

Diesel studies my face with uncomfortable perception. He sees too much. Always has. "And that eats at you."

It does. Damn, it does. But admitting that means admitting I care about more than keeping our legal counsel functional. It means admitting I want Nova Reyes in ways that have nothing to do with strategy.

"It's practical," I lie. "We need that badge functional, not martyred."

"Right." His smile turns knowing. Dangerous. "Practical."

My phone buzzes before I can tell him exactly where to shove his observations. Santos's number flashes on the screen, and my gut clenches.

Never good when Santos calls.

"Ash," I answer.

"We've got a problem." His voice carries tension that makes my pulse race . "Had a guy come by the station this afternoon asking questions about Sheriff Reyes. Said he was from some law firm in Atlanta, wanted to verify her employment history."

My blood goes cold. Ice cold, like someone opened a vein and let winter in.

"What kind of questions?"

"Personal stuff. Where she lives, what cases she's working, who she's been talking to." Santos pauses, and I can hear him choosing his words carefully. "Not the kinds of questions a real badge would ask so I called the firm he claimed to represent. They've never heard of him."

Shit, Nova. What kind of trouble are you in?

"Description?"

"Mid-forties, expensive suit, he drove a dark sedan with tinted windows. Polished, but something felt off. The way he studied the building was like cataloging security measures."

Royce. Has to be. Testing defenses, gathering intelligence.

And Nova has no idea.

"Where's the Sheriff now?" I force the words through gritted teeth.

Diesel looks up from his tablet, concern written across his face. He can read the shift in my demeanor, the way my shoulders have gone rigid.

"She left for the courthouse around four. Should be back soon to finish up paperwork."

Which means she's driving back alone. Potentially unaware someone's tracking her movements. My gut clenches as I picture Nova in her cruiser, focused on her radio, checking her mirrors. Completely exposed.

"Keep your head down," I tell Santos. "And if anything happens, you call me before you call the state."

"Yes, sir."

I end the call, already reaching for my cut. Diesel's on his feet, tablet forgotten.

"Royce?" he asks.

"Has to be. Sending scouts, probing for weaknesses."

"And?"

I think of Nova's controlled fury at the town meeting.

The way she'd laid out evidence like a prosecutor building a case, painting that target on her back just like I'd warned her.

And now here it is. She called Royce out in front of the entire town, and he's responding exactly like I knew he would.

She doesn't know that someone spent the afternoon cataloging her vulnerabilities.

"Pull up residential monitoring," I tell Diesel, moving toward the bank of screens. "Everything within six blocks of Nova's place."

"That's a lot of feeds."

"Start with the emergency protocols."

His fingers pause over the keyboard. "Boss, that's crossing a line we agreed not to cross."

"They crossed it first when they started stalking her."

The words carry weight that has nothing to do with legal strategy and everything to do with the way my chest tightens when I think about someone watching Nova. Studying her routines. Planning their approach.

After a moment, Diesel nods and activates the restricted feeds. Multiple screens flicker to life showing various angles of Nova's street, her building, the parking area behind her apartment.

Diesel switches to the camera positioned across from her building and points to the timestamp from last night: "There. 11:43 PM."

And there she is.

Through Nova's living room window—blinds open, lights on—I can see her silhouette on the couch. Papers spread across her coffee table, her figure hunched over them like she's been working all night.

She looks young. Vulnerable. Human.

And completely exposed.

"Damn," Diesel mutters. "She's got no idea anyone can see in."

Every muscle in my body goes rigid. My hands clench into fists because if I can see her from this street camera, anyone parked outside could see the same thing. Could watch her routines, catalog when she's alone, plan their approach.

Study her like prey.

The urge to tear apart anyone who's been watching her sends something primal and possessive through my chest. The need to put myself between Nova and any threat in this county.

Hell. I'm watching her through cameras just like they are. I'm no better than the bastards hunting her.

Except I'm protecting her, not targeting her. Right?

Shit. I run my hands through my hair, the realization making my skin crawl. Even I don't buy that bullshit.

"She's been working past midnight most nights this week," Diesel observes quietly. "Files, laptop, phone calls. The woman doesn't know how to quit."

I watch her rub her temples. The gesture is achingly familiar because I've done the same thing countless times, usually around two in the morning when legal briefs blur together and the weight of protecting an entire community settles on my shoulders.

But she's doing it alone. And anyone observing knows exactly when she's most vulnerable.

"That dark sedan," I say, voice tight. "Pull up yesterday's footage. Show me exactly where it was parked."

Diesel's fingers fly over the keys. The feed switches to yesterday evening, and there it is—the vehicle positioned with a perfect view of Nova's window. The same window where she sits now, unaware she's being stalked.

"Ash. Whatever you're thinking—"

“Tonight we make a move. She won't come to us, so we go to her.”

"You planning on asking permission?" Diesel asks.

The question hits wrong. It makes me realize I've already crossed from protection into possession - wanting Nova somewhere I can monitor every threat, control who gets close."

Hell. I'm exactly the monster she should run from.

But I'm done pretending distance will protect either of us from what's coming.