Page 38 of Torgash

She sets the device down with deliberate control, but her fingers leave indents in her palm when she pulls away. "He knows exactly when and where to intercept witnesses. Which evidence to destroy. Which judge to pressure."

"You couldn't have known—"

"Don't." Just one word, but sharp enough to slice. "I should have checked. I should have been more careful."

Her eyes meet mine, and for one unguarded moment, I see the raw wound beneath her badge—not just failure, but the devastating knowledge that families will lose homes, land, livelihoods because she missed something.

Then she straightens, shoulders squaring. Not bending. Not breaking. Just recalibrating.

"We need to move up the timeline." Her voice hardens with each word. "Get those depositions recorded, evidence secured, witnesses protected before Royce can get to them."

No tears. No collapse. Just fierce, focused rage finding its target.

Her eyes drop back to the surveillance devices, then catch on my hands. The bandages around my knuckles. When she looks up, I'm already watching her face, and she doesn't look away.

"We will," I tell her. "The MC can help."

Her jaw tightens as she scans the room, tallying the invisible damage. "He thinks he's won by knowing our playbook." The ghost of a smile touches her lips. "Poor bastard doesn't understand what he's done."

Fuck, even with her world crashing down, she's already three moves ahead. But I see what she's doing—the way she's using tactics to avoid feeling the hit. It’s the same way I use violence to avoid thinking.

My beast wants to hunt down the bastard who put that look in her eyes. But what she needs right now isn't my rage. She needs me to follow her lead.

"What's that?"

"Made this personal. Given me cause to bend every rule I've been following."

I study her face, searching for cracks in that iron resolve, finding none. She's recalculating, adapting, the analytical mind behind that badge changing focus with ruthless efficiency.

"This changes everything," she says, more to herself than to me. "We need a new approach. Somewhere secure to operate from."

The opening I've been waiting for. "The war room at the clubhouse. Swept for bugs daily. Soundproofed. Every file, every call, every strategy session stays clean."

Her jaw works as she weighs options rapidly diminishing. I can almost see the calculations running behind those eyes—risk versus reward, pride versus protection, lone wolf versus reluctant alliance.

"Same offer as last time. you take the lead, but we share intel. No secrets as far as Royce is concerned." I keep my voice level. "Joint task force. Official cooperation."

"And my apartment?" She glances toward her bedroom. "They could have—"

"Clean," Diesel interjects. "But for appearances, it'll look better if you're here at night. We'll have a prospect sit on the place during the day, one of us in the shadows every night. No more case business happens here, though."

I shoot Diesel a look for giving her an escape route when I need her contained and protected. But he's right. She'll need personal space, somewhere to retreat when the walls of cooperation get too tight.

Nova considers this, rubbing her temples. In the dim light, the resemblance to that photograph is even stronger, the same stubborn tilt of chin, the same refusal to break under pressure.

"I'm in charge," she says finally. "My investigation, my rules."

"Agreed."

"And when this is over..." She meets my eyes. "Back to how things were."

My beast grows restless, but I nod.

She looks around her living room, scattered files, the evidence of fighting alone evident in every exhausted gesture.

"Twelve hours," she says. "Set up your war room. After that, we work."

It's not a victory, I force myself to accept. It's a strategic alliance. Nova Reyes just chose to trust me with the fight I've been waging for two years. Choose to tag me in.

---