Page 3 of Torgash

He thinks I give a damn what he calls me.

He takes a step closer, emboldened by my silence. "We heard about you freaks taking over that shithole town. Thinking you can spread your disease wherever you want." His lips curl. "Not here. Not in our county."

I move.

Fast. The first one comes in high with a haymaker that would've caved a human skull. I catch his wrist, twist until I hear the pop, and drive my knee into his stomach. His bib breaks with a wet crack. He goes down hard.

The second one's smarter. He produces a knife from nowhere, blade glinting under the neon. He knows how to hold it, point up, edge out, ready to gut me.

I respect that. That doesn't mean I won't break him.

I shatter his arm in three places.

The knife clatters to the asphalt as he screams. I silence him with an elbow to the head, hard enough to drop him, careful enough to avoid murder charges.

I pick up the fallen blade, testing its weight. Cheap steel, but sharp enough.

I'm about to turn on the third one when:

CRACK.

The shot echoes across the lot, fired skyward, sharp and clean. Not close enough to hit, just close enough to warn.

I freeze. So do they.

Every head turns toward the edge of the shadows, just past the busted fence line.

A second later, she steps into the chaos, chin up, hips loose, gun drawn, and my world tilts. Sheriff Nova Reyes. Five-foot-nothing of fury in a uniform. She shouldn't register as a threat, but the second our gazes lock, something deep in me surges to life—sharp, possessive, undeniable.

I don't believe in mates. Never have. But my beast roars. Mine. And I fucking hate it. She's human. A cop. A symbol of the system that tried to crush me. And yet every instinct I have screams to grab her, claim her, keep her. It's not just want, it's need. Dark. Violent. All-consuming.

My brain's throwing up roadblocks, warning me of consequences, risk, reputation, but my blood is already committed. I track every inch of her. Strong legs, steady grip on the Glock, eyes that don't blink. She's pure fire.

Somehow, I manage to shove it down. Lock it away. She's a distraction, and I don't lose focus, not for anyone.

She assesses the scene with a sweep of her calculating gaze, me, the knife in my hand, the humans scattered across the parking lot. The gun doesn't waver, her stance doesn't shift. Her confidence comes from experience.

"Drop it," she commands, voice rough. Not loud. Doesn't need to be. It lands with the weight of law and the promise of consequences.

I consider my options. I could take her down before she pulls the trigger. I could disappear into the night. Could call her bluff and see if she's actually willing to shoot an Ironborn VP over a bar fight.

But her expression makes me reconsider. Recognition that sees the predator in me and isn't afraid—is maybe even turned on by it.

The knife hits the asphalt with a dull clatter. Not submission. Strategy.

"Sheriff," the one with the busted lip starts, stumbling forward. "He attacked us. Unprovoked. You saw the knife.”

"Shut up." Her voice slices through the night. Not raised. Not angry. Just absolute in its authority.

The man flinches back. "I watched from the shadows for the last sixty seconds," she continues, her gaze never leaving mine even as she addresses him. "You want to go on record pretending this was self-defense?"

The tension between us thrums, unspoken and raw. My thoughts war between challenging her authority and wondering what that mouth would feel like under mine.

"You picked that up after he turned his back," she says to the man, finally breaking our stare-down to address the group. "Crowbar boy swung twice."

The one she dubbed 'crowbar boy' looks ready to piss himself.

Her attention lands on the ringleader. "You came here looking for a fight. Baited it. Tried to outnumber him. And you lost."

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