Page 50 of Torgash

I study the fire escape that runs past her corner unit. Easy access for anyone with basic climbing skills. The alley behind the building sits dark, no security cameras, perfect concealment for anyone wanting to get close without being seen. Too many weak points, too many ways for someone to get to her.

Something predatory and possessive prowls through my chest, demanding I go upstairs. Demand entry. Make sure she's actually safe instead of standing down here like some stalker piece of shit who can't handle five minutes of separation.

Hell. When did I become this? This possessive prick who can't trust a trained law enforcement officer to sleep safely in her own bed?

The moment she said my name. The moment she surrendered to me completely and trusted me not to break her.

Now I'm the one who's broken, standing in the shadows of her building at two in the morning because the thought of something happening to her while I'm not here makes my chest feel like it's caving in.

I should leave. Go back to the clubhouse, let Knox do his job, stop acting like some obsessed asshole who thinks he owns a woman just because she let him touch her.

Instead, I find myself looking up at her dark window, wondering if she's really asleep or lying awake thinking about what we did. Whether she's planning to rebuild those walls I spent weeks tearing down.

Whether she's regretting the trust she gave me.

Damn. I need to get out of here before I do something stupid. Like climb that fire escape and check on her myself.

Chapter Ten

Nova

My 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. Herwarmth. 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."

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