Page 9 of Torgash

The way Ash moved in that parking lot keeps replaying in my mind—precise, efficient, deadly. Most criminals I've dealt with fight dirty, fight desperate. They throw wild punches and hope something connects. But Ash? He fought like someone trained to inflict maximum damage with minimum effort.

And then he stopped.

That's what keeps eating at me. When those men went down, he didn't kick them while they were vulnerable. Didn't lose himself to rage or adrenaline. He just stopped, picked up the knife and waited.

What kind of man exercises that level of restraint in the middle of violence?

I pull another folder toward me, trying to focus on foreclosure notices dated three months ago. The Hendersons on Blufton Street are behind on their mortgage and facing eviction. The paperwork is standard, except... I frown, flipping through the documents. The signatures are missing from half the required forms, and the court order lacks a judge's seal.

This isn't right.

I reach for my phone and dial the county clerk's office. "Hi, this is Sheriff Reyes in Shadow Ridge. I need to check the status of a property foreclosure. 247 Blufton, owners Henderson."

While I wait on hold, my thoughts drift back to the parking lot. The way Ash looked at me after I told him to drop the knife. Not with fear or resentment, but with recognition. Like he saw past the badge to the woman underneath.

Like he was deciding whether I was worth trusting.

"Sheriff?" The clerk's voice pulls me back. "I'm showing that property as occupied. There are no foreclosure proceedings on file."

"That can't be right. I'm looking at eviction papers dated three months ago."

"Hold on... let me check with the courthouse." A pause, keyboard clicking. "No, ma'am. No eviction order was ever issued for that address. If someone's been removed from the property, it wasn't through legal channels."

My stomach drops. "Thank you."

I hang up and immediately start digging through more files. The Bauer family on Clarence Court. The Garcias on Highway 76. Property after property, all with the same pattern—incomplete paperwork, missing signatures, families evicted without the proper legal process.

They were forced from their homes based on fraudulent documentation.

My blood runs cold, but I force myself to think beyond the emotion. This is bigger than I initially thought, which means I need to be smarter about how I handle it. One wrong move, one premature accusation, and whoever's behind this will destroy what little evidence remains.

I've been here before. How many times have I sat in rooms like this, staring at evidence that should have been enough, knowing that somewhere the truth was buried under layers of corruption and lies? Carman's case files are locked away in my storage unit back in Atlanta, but the frustration feels exactly the same—families destroyed while the system fails them.

I need allies—people I can trust. My GBI contact in Atlanta might be able to help with the legal side, trace the fake documents back to their source. But for local intelligence, to understand how deep this goes and who else might be involved, I need Helen. She said herself that news travels fast in Shadow Ridge. She'd know which families were affected, maybe even who helped carry out the evictions.

I glance at the clock—almost noon—perfect excuse for an early lunch.

"Santos!" I call out, gathering the most damning files into a secure folder. "I'm heading out for a bit. Call me if you find anything else or if you need backup."

"Will do, Sheriff." His voice echoes from somewhere in the back storage room.

I lock the evidence in my desk drawer and head for the door, but pause on the threshold. My reflection stares back from the glass—badge straight, uniform pressed, expression all focus. This is who I need to be right now. Sheriff Reyes, not the woman who spent the morning thinking about amber eyes and dangerous restraint.

I don't have time for complications—for analyzing what Ash Thornshade represents or whether his restraint extends beyondphysical confrontation. I've got a job to do in Shadow Ridge, and it's becoming clear that it will require all my focus and skill to deliver justice.

The families who were illegally forced from their homes deserve a sheriff who stays focused on the law, not one who gets distracted by motorcycle club politics. And I will make sure they get exactly that, regardless of who I have to investigate.

Chapter Three

Ash

The clubhouse feels too small when I walk in. Walls press closer. Air goes stale. My skin's too tight, blood running hot under the surface. It has not been two hours since that diner encounter with Sheriff Reyes, and I can still feel her eyes on me, assessing.

"That was some shit at Greene's," Diesel says from the couch, a half-eaten slice of pizza forgotten in his hand. "What the fuck was that?"

"Nothing." I head straight for the bar, bypassing the coffee we brought back. I need something stronger.

"Nothing?" Diesel snorts. "You two circled each other like you couldn't decide whether to throw down or... something else." He pauses, studying my face, and his expression changes. "That's because you don't know what to do with her."

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