Page 29 of Torgash

The door closes between us, and I'm left standing in the hallway, staring at the wood grain, muscles coiled with the need to act.

My beast demands I kick that door down and stop pretending her consent matters when her life is on the line.

Instead, I force myself to walk away.

At my bike, I stop and look at her window. The blinds are still open, light spilling out into the darkness. She's silhouetted against the glass, a perfect target for anyone observing.

As if she can feel my stare, she turns toward the window and slowly closes the blinds.

One by one, the slats shut, cutting off my view until there was nothing but darkness and a faint glow around the edges.

Message received. She knows what she's facing and the offer I've given. And she's refused.

I stand there for another minute, hands clenched at my sides, before swinging my leg over the bike. The engine roars to life beneath me, drowning out the voice in my head that says I should stay. Should monitor. Should protect her whether she wants it or not.

But as I pull away from her building, the truth slams home. Nova's made her choice. She's going to face whatever's coming alone, stubborn as hell, just like she always has.

I hope she's strong enough.

Because if she's not, if Royce's people get to her... I'll never forgive myself for walking away."

Chapter Six

Nova

Icheck my rearview mirror like it's part of my morning routine along with coffee, incident reports, and paranoia. Diesel's bike holds position three cars back, careful distancing himself. The same distancing he's kept all week.

This is my new reality. I can't grab coffee without spotting someone watching, can't drive to a crime scene without catching a glimpse of Ash's massive frame leaning against some building nearby, or the orc I've learned is a prospect named Knox camped outside the station and my apartment. They think they're subtle. They're not.

I slam the cruiser door harder than necessary outside the sheriff's station, frustration boiling beneath my controlled composure. A week of MC members materializing wherever I go, always close enough to respond to threats that haven't surfaced, always far enough away to maintain plausible deniability, is grating on my last nerve.

"Morning, Sheriff," Santos calls as I push through the front door. He looks up from the dispatch desk where he's covering forRoberta, who called in sick again. Exhaustion has carved lines around his eyes, evidence of another sleepless shift covering Morris's abandoned responsibilities.

"Any word from our missing deputy?" I ask, though we both know the answer.

"No ma'am. Three more days and it becomes an official AWOL." Santos hesitates. "Though there might be something you want to see."

I follow him toward the back offices. His shoulders stay rigid, and he won't quite meet my eyes. "What kind of something?"

"Morris cleaned out his locker. His desk. Everything personal." Santos stops beside Morris's desk. The photos are gone. Personal items, too. "Security cameras didn't catch a thing."

Morris knows this building's blind spots better than anyone. He knows which angles the cameras miss and which routes avoid detection. He could have spent hours here in the dark, methodically erasing any trace of his presence.

"When?" I ask, though the timeline doesn't matter as much as his message.

"Between midnight and dawn, based on when the cleaning crew left and when I arrived. Everything department-issued is still here—badge, radio, duty weapon still in the gun safe. But the personal stuff? Gone."

I study the empty desk and the bare walls where Morris's certificates used to hang. He didn't just walk away—he erased himself. This wasn't some emotional breakdown or sudden decision—Morris planned this.

"I'll file the paperwork," I tell Santos. "Make it official. Get him off the payroll so we can hire someone to take his place and give you and Walker a break."

"Yes, ma'am."

I head for my office, my mind already cataloging the implications of Morris's midnight departure. Another piece of the puzzle sliding into place, another connection between Dawson's corrupt regime and whatever's happening now.

My desk looks exactly as I left it yesterday. Files are in neat stacks, my coffee mug is positioned beside my computer, and my pen cup is arranged within easy reach. Everything is in its place except for one addition that stops me cold.

A printout, folded once, sits dead center on my keyboard.

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