Page 24 of Torgash

Who's about to discover exactly how dangerous caring about her has made me.

I knock.

The sounds inside stop immediately. Footsteps approach—careful, measured, the walk of someone who's learned to assess threats before opening doors.

"Who is it?" Her voice carries through the wood, controlled but edged with wariness.

"Ash."

A pause. Then the deadbolt turns, followed by what sounds like a chain lock. The door opens just enough for her to see me, brown eyes sharp with suspicion.

"Little late for a social call," she says.

"We need to talk."

"Do we?" She doesn't open the door wider, doesn't invite me in. She's a smart woman. "What happened to keeping social distance for the optics?"

She's right. Shit, she's right. We'd been playing it careful. But that was before I started imagining all the ways Royce’s people could hurt her.

"That was before your office became a target."

Her expression shifts—suspicion sharpening to attention. After a moment, she steps back, opening the door fully.

"You've got five minutes."

I enter her space, immediately cataloging details my training demands I notice. It is a small but clean apartment, furnished with practical pieces that say temporary housing rather than home. Case files cover the coffee table in organized stacks. A half-empty wine glass sits beside it, dark red against pale wood.

As I scan the room, I catch a framed photograph on the side table—a young woman with Nova's eyes, laughing at something off-camera. But Nova moves faster than I expect, snatching the frame and shoving it into the table drawer.

"Personal," she says with a tight voice when she catches me watching.

Another piece of the puzzle. Another wall she's built that I'm not supposed to see behind.

She's changed out of her uniform into fitted jeans and a tank top that hugs curves I've been trying not to notice. Hair falls loose around her shoulders, softer than the severe ponytail she wears on duty. Without the badge and gun, she looks more vulnerable and more tempting.

She looks like someone I could break just by wanting her too much.

But what stops me cold is the view from her living room window. At night, with the lights on, anyone outside can see everything—her couch, her workspace, and her exact position when she's reviewing case files or making phone calls.

"Jesus, Nova." I move to the window, and she follows. Close enough that her scent hits me—sharp citrus and warm skin that makes my hands shake. "You might as well hang a sign outside advertising your schedule."

"What are you talking about?" She steps beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her skin.

Standing this close to her heats my blood. Tempts me to cage her against the wall, press my body against hers, and show her exactly how much danger she's in.

From everyone, including me.

Instead, I pull out my phone, and show her the footage Diesel captured. "This is from our street camera just before midnight last night."

When she reaches for the phone, her fingers brush mine, and I feel the slight tremor that runs through her. Not from fear of being watched - from touching me.

Physical response she can't hide. Can't control.

Join the club.

"You've been spying on me?"

"Royce's people have been spying on you." I don't move away, don't give her space to retreat. Because standing this close to her, seeing the way her pupils dilate when I dominate her space, I'm done pretending this is purely business. "We just happened to catch them doing it."