Page 15 of Torgash

I just have to figure out how to work with her without going crazy.

Chapter Four

Nova

Another sleepless night means I'm at the sheriff's station before dawn. The station is dead quiet. No dispatch chatter, no phones ringing, no deputies shuffling paperwork. Just me and the mess Dawson left behind. I flip the lights on, illuminating dust motes that dance in the half-darkness. The floor creaks beneath my boots as I head for the break room.

It's the perfect time to clear my head. Santos won't be back from night patrol for at least an hour, Walker's not due in until the afternoon shift, and Roberta, our part-time dispatcher, won't drag herself in until eight. I've got the place to myself.

I dump stale grounds from yesterday's coffee filter and measure fresh ones, the familiar ritual grounding me. With only three hours of sleep and a full day of damage control ahead, I'll need the caffeine. The ancient pot hisses and sputters to life as I hit the switch, the smell of brewing coffee slowly replacing the lingering scent of industrial cleaner from the night janitor.

While it percolates, I head to my office. Another box of files waits by the door—evidence of Dawson's corruption that I still haven't finished sorting through. I drag it to my desk and drop it with a thud that echoes through the empty building. The Henderson foreclosure file sits on top, the manila folder worn at the edges, the pages inside crisp with official stamps that don't match the forged signatures.

I sink into my chair and pull the file open. Columns of numbers blur before my gaze. My brain refuses to focus, drifting instead to the town meeting a few nights ago—specifically, the bomb I dropped about the foreclosure fraud.

I can still see the shock rippling through the crowd when I laid out seventeen properties with fraudulent documentation. Conversations died mid-sentence, replaced by angry murmurs and pointed stares. Mayor Bartlett's face went pale, then red, when he realized I'd bypassed his office entirely and taken the evidence straight to the public.

"You should have consulted with the council first," he'd said after the meeting, tone tight with frustration.

I should have. I should have played nice, worked through proper channels, given Royce's people time to bury evidence and intimidate witnesses, like every other sheriff who'd tried to clean the house and ended up burying themselves.

But it was worth it for the look on Ash's face. Not shock like the rest of them. A smirk. Pure appreciation for a well-executed power play. Like he knew exactly what I was doing and approved.

Because I did know exactly what I was doing—putting everyone on notice. Royce, his lawyers, and anyone in this town still carrying water for his operation. I'm not here to play politics or work within a system designed to protect the guilty. I'm here to clean house, and I'm not afraid of anyone.

But thinking about that meeting brings me right back to him—back to Ash, back to his gaze.

The way it held mine when I froze at that podium. How it felt like an anchor when I was drowning in a sea of unfamiliar faces. How it seemed to push me forward when my words caught in my throat.

No. I shake my head, trying to refocus on the files. I can't afford to waste time getting distracted by complicated orcs. I used him that night—found his face in the crowd when panic tried to shut me down. Nothing more.

But when I think about that moment again—standing there with the microphone in my hand and a room full of people waiting for me to speak—I remember how the setup hit me. Microphone, crowd, all those waiting faces—it was just like Carman's press conference.

Six years ago, the microphone felt the same. The crowd staring, waiting. For a split second at that town meeting, I wasn't Sheriff Nova Reyes with a badge and evidence to destroy Royce Callo. I was twenty-two again, watching powerful men in uniforms lie about my sister while cameras rolled.

My parents holding each other, fighting back tears. The police chief reading lies from a script. Camera flashes blinding me. Microphones shoved in my face like weapons.

So many people gathered there, so much power concentrated in one place, and the memory of how not one of them gave a damn about the truth still burns.

When I stood at that town meeting podium, the memory blindsided me. For a second, I was drowning in it, helpless. I needed something, anything, to remind me where I was and who I'd become. My gaze swept the room, desperate for an anchor.

And it landed on Ash.

Those amber irises didn't see a woman falling apart. They saw power. In that look, something shifted in my chest—thepanic loosened, my breathing steadied. For a heartbeat, I wasn't a victim. I was Sheriff Nova Reyes.

It was enough. Hell, maybe I'd even made it up.

I shake my head again and tell myself I have better things to do than daydream about orcs—things like finding the connection between these foreclosures and Royce Carvello, like figuring out where Deputy Morris disappeared to, like doing my actual job instead of replaying that moment when his stare saw right through me.

I force my attention back to the Henderson file, determined to make progress on something concrete.

The station's front door opens, hinges protesting with a long creak. Heavy footsteps cross the bullpen.

"Sheriff?" Santos calls out.

I close the file, pushing thoughts of Ash back into the locked compartment where they belong. "In here."

Santos appears in my doorway, uniform wrinkled from a twelve-hour shift, dark circles carved beneath his gaze. He leans against the door frame.

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