Page 36 of Torgash

"Ash." Diesel's voice carries warning as I stare at the small device. "Easy, brother."

My hands shake as I remove it, carefully preserving it as evidence while fighting the urge to crush it between my fingers. My beast beneath my skin grows restless, demanding blood for this invasion, this violation of what's mine—

The possessive thought cuts through me. When the fuck did I start thinking of Nova as mine? When did her safety becomemore important than club business, more urgent than my own survival?

"Check the drawers," I tell Diesel, voice rougher than intended. "If they put surveillance here, they might have planted other things."

Diesel moves to the filing cabinets while I open Nova's desk drawers with careful precision. Methodical search technique, though my beast growls at every violation of her privacy. Pens arranged by color. Case files organized by priority. A small bottle of ibuprofen that suggests she gets headaches more often than she admits.

Normal things. Personal things. The small details that make up a life lived in careful solitude.

The bottom drawer sticks slightly, warped wood protesting as I pull it open. More files, a backup weapon holster, emergency cash clipped together with a paper clip—

And a printed article, folded once, sitting beneath everything else like a secret she's been hiding.

I lift it carefully. Fresh paper, recently printed. The headline faces down, but when I turn it over, a photograph stops me cold.

The same face that's been haunting me since her apartment. The woman from the photo Nova hid in her drawer, now staring at me from grainy ink. Same stubborn chin, same intelligent eyes, same mouth that looks like it was made for either kissing or telling uncomfortable truths.

Then I read the headline: "Local Woman Found Dead in Apparent Drug Deal Gone Wrong."

Carman Reyes, age twenty-four.

Christ. So that's who she was. The name lands heavy in my chest. Reyes. Sister, by the look of it.

But why the fuck would she bury it this deep? Why hide it like classified intel?

Because I've watched her refuse every offer of help. Seen her work eighteen-hour days rather than delegate. Carry every case like she's proving something to herself. The woman won't even admit when she's hurt.

Same way I shut her down at the courthouse when she got too close to the truth. When she pushed too fucking hard—because if that control breaks, everything useful about us breaks with it.

She's weaponizing her damage, same as me. Using dead family to stay sharp.

Fuck. No wonder I can't stay away from her. She's just as broken as I am, just as willing to let that damage drive her. Takes one monster to recognize another.

I scan the article. College graduate. Steady employment. No criminal history. Doesn't fit the drug deal narrative, but sometimes the easiest story is the one that gets filed and forgotten.

The date says six years ago. Fuck. That's when Nova would have been starting out, probably still believing the system worked.

No wonder she fights like she's got something to prove.

The same way I've carried the weight of family I'll never see again. The same way I've convinced myself that needing anyone makes me weak, that depending on others dishonors the family who died protecting me.

"Found something," Diesel calls, his voice cutting through my focus.

I look up, carefully refolding the article, to find Diesel standing beside the evidence locker with a small recording device in his palm.

"Ash." Diesel's voice sharpens. "Brother, you need to see this."

"This was attached to the lock mechanism," he says. "Every time she opens this locker, it records the sound. Someone's been tracking which evidence she accesses, when she accesses it, probably building a profile of her investigation priorities."

Fuck. They have a complete operational picture.

"They know her cases, her methods, her timing," I say. "Royce has been three steps ahead this whole time."

"We need to get her out of here," I tell Diesel, slipping the paper back where I found it. "Tonight. This office is completely compromised, and whoever's watching her isn't going to stop at surveillance."

"She won't come willingly," Diesel says.

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