CHAPTER 22
Roles & Rivalries
~NASH~
Iglance up at the sky through the windshield as we cruise down Highway 7 toward the next town over—a small place called Millbrook that has better shopping options than Oakridge Hollow's limited selection of two boutiques and a thrift store.
My truck rumbles steadily beneath us, the engine's familiar growl a comforting sound I've known for years. This old Chevy Silverado has been with me through three moves, countless legal cases, and more road trips than I can count. The odometer passed 180,000 miles last month but she runs like a dream. I maintain her myself—change the oil regularly, rotate the tires, replace parts before they fail.
Can't trust anyone else to do it right.
Plus, working with my hands keeps me grounded when my brain gets too caught up in legal minutiae.
The clouds are gathering on the western horizon—thick and gray and heavy-looking like lead blankets stacked on top of each other. They're building systematically, layer upon layer, creatingthis ominous wall that stretches across half the sky. The kind of clouds that make farmers nervous and drivers check their tire treads and emergency kits.
The color is all wrong too. Not the normal white-gray of winter clouds but darker—almost charcoal in places where they're thickest. That usually means heavy precipitation. Snow, freezing rain, or some miserable combination that makes roads slick and dangerous.
Should have checked the weather before we left.
Didn't think to pull up the forecast on my phone while loading Reverie's boxes into the truck bed. Just grabbed the keys and went, too focused on making sure she felt comfortable to think about practical things like winter storm warnings.
Not that Oakridge Hollow enjoys being modern with weather predictions anyway. The town's single radio station—KOHW 94.7 FM—gives forecasts that are about as accurate as throwing darts at a weather map while blindfolded. Last week they called for clear skies and light winds. We got eight inches of snow and wind gusts that knocked out power to half the county.
The week before that, they predicted a major blizzard. We got sunshine and temperatures in the forties.
I make a mental note to keep an eye on those clouds as we drive. We'll need to get shopping done quickly if we want to make it back to the property before whatever storm is brewing decides to dump its load on us. The last thing I need is to get stuck in Millbrook overnight because the roads became impassable.
Then I look over at Reverie and forget about the weather entirely.
Her hair is flickering in the wind—honey-blonde strands dancing and swirling around her face like silk ribbons caught in a breeze. The passenger window is rolled down about halfway because the truck had been far too hot from the heater I'd beenblasting on the drive over to her apartment this morning. My truck runs hot anyway—the engine's older and puts out more heat than modern vehicles—and I'd cranked it up to combat the November cold.
She wanted just a bit of chilled air, she'd said, reaching for the window crank without asking permission. Like she already belongs here in my passenger seat.
Like this truck is as much hers as mine.
The November cold streams through the gap, carrying the scent of winter into the warm cab—pine needles from the forests lining the highway, snow from the fields, that crisp clean smell that only comes when the temperature drops below freezing and the air feels sharp in your lungs. It mingles with her vanilla-caramel-citrus scent in a way that makes my hindbrain sit up and take very interested notice.
But it's not just her scent that has captured my attention so completely I'm forgetting to watch the road.
She's looking out the window at the passing countryside, one elbow propped casually on the door, her face turned toward the landscape like she's drinking in every detail. The wind catches her hair and tosses it back from her face, revealing the elegant line of her neck, the soft curve of her jaw. The winter sunlight—weak as it is through those gathering storm clouds—hits her profile at just the right angle and makes her look absolutely stunning.
Like she stepped straight out of a movie. One of those indie films where the lighting is always perfect and the protagonist is effortlessly beautiful without trying. Flawless in a way that has nothing to do with makeup or expensive clothes or professional styling, and everything to do with the genuine happiness on her face as she watches fields roll by.
She's wearing the same worn jeans and oversized sweater from earlier. Her hair isn't styled—just natural waves that movewith the wind. No makeup that I can see. No jewelry except small silver studs in her ears. Nothing fancy or expensive or designed to impress.
And she's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.
Does she know? Does she have any idea how stunning she is? Or does she look in the mirror and see someone average because that bastard Kael and his pack spent years convincing her she wasn't worth looking at?
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't looking into them. Her ex-pack. Digging up information the way I do for every case that crosses my desk—methodical, thorough, leaving no stone unturned.
She mentioned someone named Jason during breakfast at The Gingerbread House. Just a passing comment when talking about her old pack, but I filed it away in my mental notes the way lawyers do with every piece of potentially relevant information.
When I searched that name combined with Oakridge Hollow and Omega pack in the public records database I have access to, the only close match was Jasper—Jasper Thorne, age thirty-two, Alpha designation. Public records show he co-owns a business downtown with Kael Winters. Some kind of investment firm called Thorne-Winters Capital Management that looks completely legitimate on paper but has the kind of vague business description that makes my lawyer instincts tingle with suspicion.
'Comprehensive financial services and investment opportunities for discerning clients.' That's what their website says. Which tells me absolutely nothing about what they do. Could be legitimate wealth management. Could be money laundering. Could be a Ponzi scheme.
The vagueness is a red flag.
