Page 22 of Torgash

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.

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