Page 77 of Torgash

"Could always go back to the cut," he says, but there's no real conviction in it. We both know he won't.

"And give Mayor Bartlett another reason to complain? He's still adjusting to having an orc sheriff." I slide off the counter, but he doesn't step back, keeping me trapped between his body and the granite. My palms move to straighten his collar with the kind of muscle memory that comes from months of this routine, except now every touch feels charged. "Besides, you look good in uniform."

"You think so?" His voice drops to that familiar rumble that makes my pulse skip and my thighs clench.

I should deflect. Should make some crack about authority figures or redirect to work. Instead, I meet his gaze and let him see exactly what I'm thinking. "I think the residents of Shadow Ridge sleep better knowing you're the one keeping the peace, even if your shirts keep trying to escape."

Took us months to figure this out after New York. Him stepping into the sheriff role like he was born for it. Me starting my PI practice and pretending I wasn't checking the rearview mirror for his bike every time I left the apartment. Two people who'd spent their whole lives armored up, learning how to be partners instead of just allies.

Turns out admitting you're wrong gets easier when the alternative is losing everything that matters.

"You know," I say, fingering the badge pinned to his chest, feeling the metal warm under my touch, "a year ago I never would have imagined this. You wearing the law instead of running from it."

"World's fucked," he says, fingers settling on my waist, gripping tight enough to leave marks. "Had to change with it."

There's the cynicism I know. The edge that never quite disappears, even when he's being domestic. Even when his thumbs are stroking against my hipbones through my jeans.

"You could have been a lawyer. You have the education, the credentials—"

"And sit behind a desk pushing papers while someone else handles the real work?" He shakes his head, and I catch the hunger in his eyes. "This fits better—badge by day, patch by night."

I glance toward the living room where his cut hangs on the back of a chair. Vargan's running Shadow Ridge as president now, but Ash is still MC. Still family. The badge doesn't change that, just gives him another way to protect what he claims. Another way to control his territory.

"Even if the uniforms don't fit?"

"Even if the uniforms don't fit."

I trace the edge of his badge with one finger. Sheriff. The title still catches me off guard sometimes, not because he can't handle the authority, but because it fits him so well.

"Besides," he continues, voice dropping lower, "I like having you as my go-to PI. Nice to have someone I trust handling the cases that require... discretion."

"Is that what we're calling it?" I smile up at him. "Collaboration?"

"Among other things."

His thumb brushes across my bottom lip, and fire spreads through my chest. The same reaction he's pulled from me since that first night in my kitchen, when I was still pretending this was just physical.

He leans closer, chest expanding as he inhales, and the shirt button I just secured pops free, hitting the floor with a metallic ping.

We both look down at it, then at each other.

"That's the fourth button today," I observe.

"Shirt's defective."

"Shirt's too small." I tug at the fabric straining across his chest. "You're going to have to special order these."

"Or you could keep sewing them back on."

"I'm not a seamstress, Ash. I'm a private investigator."

"You're good with your fingers."

The way he says it sends molten need low in my belly. My touch is still pressed against his chest, feeling his heart beating steadily beneath the badge.

"Take it off," I murmur.

"The shirt?"

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