Chapter 11 #2
Taking the coffee, I watch her lean against the counter across from me.
Silence settles between us, not the professional distance we maintained during interviews or the wariness at those first fire scenes.
Something easier. More natural. Like mornings together could become routine instead of this careful dance around what's building.
"I've been thinking about the three suspects." Mira breaks the quiet first, always returning to work. "Hartley Industrial, Cascade Services, Summit Contractors. All rejected by Brotherhood-connected businesses repeatedly. Any one nursing the kind of grudge that escalates to arson."
I drink my coffee, already running through investigative angles. "The financial records show desperation, something that pushed them past breaking point."
"I can pull deeper financial data on all three companies." Sharp focus slides into place in her eyes. "Business filings, tax records, anything publicly available. If one's in serious financial trouble, that narrows our suspect pool."
I gesture toward the hallway with my coffee cup. "Computer, printer, secure connection."
After we finish our coffee, we shift into work mode.
The professional partnership has been clicking since we started cooperating instead of fighting.
But walking down my hallway together feels different than meeting at Ironside or standing at fire scenes.
This is private territory. She's here because I brought her here, because protecting her matters more than maintaining distance.
My office occupies the back corner, with windows overlooking the small yard and the garage where my bike stays locked up. The desk sits against one wall, filing cabinets against another. Marine Recon training taught me to maintain order in chaos—everything here reflects that discipline.
I boot up the computer. Mira settles into the chair beside mine, pulling her laptop from her bag.
We work side by side in the tight space.
Her knee bumps mine when she shifts. When she reaches across me for the notepad, her breast brushes my arm.
Each contact makes me hyperaware of her body in my space.
"Hartley Industrial filed for bankruptcy protection shortly before the first fire." She pulls up financial documents, highlighting relevant sections. "Hemorrhaging money since the Brotherhood stopped using them. Lost multiple major contracts they couldn't recover from."
I lean closer, reading over her shoulder. "Desperate enough to burn down the businesses that rejected them?"
"Maybe." She shifts through more files. "Cascade Services shows similar patterns—revenue dropping steadily, debt increasing. Summit Contractors is more stable financially, but they've lost significant market share to Brotherhood-preferred vendors."
We compile data for over an hour, building profiles on each suspect showing financial desperation, business failures, rejected proposals. Everything points to motive. Nothing gives us the smoking gun proving which one crossed the line.
Mira stretches, rolling her shoulders back. Movement makes her sweater slip again, exposing the curve where neck meets shoulder.
"Shaw." Her voice pulls my attention to her face. "We need to talk about the Forge."
I shift my chair to face her fully, giving her room to say what she needs.
"What about it?"
"I've been processing it." She meets my gaze without flinching. "What happened there. What it meant. How right it felt to surrender control when I've spent years building my life around maintaining it."
"And?"
"It scared me." Honesty without apology. "Not you. Not what we did. But how easily I gave in. How much I wanted to keep giving in. How good it felt to stop fighting and just follow your lead."
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "That's not weakness. You chose to trust me. Chose to let go. Takes more guts than most people have, especially for someone who's been through what you have."
"I know that intellectually." She worries her bottom lip between her teeth. "But knowing it and accepting it are different things."
I reach across the space and find her hand. "You responded honestly to something that felt good instead of overthinking yourself out of experiencing it."
Her hand turns in mine, palm pressing against palm. Contact grounds us both in this moment instead of whatever spirals her brain has been running.
"I want more." Quiet but firm. "Not necessarily another scene at the Forge. Just more of you. More of whatever this is between us."
I stand and pull her up with me. "We move at your pace. But you should know that having you in my house, watching you in my kitchen making coffee this morning, makes it damn hard to maintain professional distance."
"Good." She steps closer, eliminating the gap. "Because I'm done pretending I don't want this."
Having her here, in my space, makes me want her to understand where I came from. What the Brotherhood really means. I reach for the photo album I keep in my office drawer, pulling it out and opening it to the first page.
I show her images of younger versions of Will, Cole, and myself. "This is how it started. Before we were the Iron Brotherhood. When we were just friends trying to build something that mattered."
She studies photos, asking questions about faces she doesn't recognize. I point out founding members, explaining who stayed and who left as the club evolved.
I tap a photo showing a man with Will's build and my intensity, grinning at the camera with his arm around Will's shoulders. "Will's best friend from the service. They deployed together, survived hell together, came home together. Max was supposed to be President before Will."
Her voice goes soft, recognizing loss. "What happened?"
"Fire. Eight years ago." The words still carry weight even after time dulled the sharpest edges.
"Apartment complex, old wiring, went up fast. Max lived on the third floor with his girlfriend and their kid.
I was first on scene." I pause, my jaw tightening.
"Couldn't reach them in time. Building was already too far gone.
Will got there right as it collapsed. Watched me fail to save his best friend. "
She doesn't offer empty platitudes. Just listens while I explain how Max's death shaped everything that came after.
Will stepped into leadership he never wanted, accepted it because Max believed in what the Brotherhood could become.
Club became tighter, more protective, more serious about the bonds we built.
Family instead of just friends who rode together.
I close the album. "Club was partly built in his memory. His belief that we could create something better than what military life offered. Family we chose instead of one assigned to us. Brothers who picked each other deliberately."
"That's beautiful and painful at the same time." Her hand finds mine, fingers threading together. "Family of choice. That's what you've built here."
I meet her eyes directly. "Which is why you're staying here until we catch whoever's targeting Brotherhood-connected businesses. You're under my protection now, whether the threat is direct or indirect."
Over the next hour, we go through the album together.
She asks questions about different brothers, about how the club operates, about what it means to be Sergeant-at-Arms. I answer honestly because she's not a threat anymore.
She's family. Each story I tell weaves her deeper into understanding what the Brotherhood means, why we protect our own with such fierce dedication.
Eventually, the work waiting pulls us back.
The investigation doesn't pause for personal connection, no matter how much understanding we build between us.
Mira settles back into her chair, pulling up files on Cascade Services.
She focuses completely on the screen, mind already shifting back into investigator mode.
This woman fits because she challenges me professionally, matches me personally, and trusts me intimately. Finding all three in one person is rare enough I'm not letting her slip away once this case closes.
She leans forward, highlighting a section. "Cascade Services has been making unusual cash withdrawals over the past half year. Large amounts, no clear business purpose. Pattern suggests they're paying for something off the books."
I move closer to see what she's found.
She pulls up more transactions, mapping them against the timeline of fires. "Withdrawals happen roughly a week before each fire. Could be coincidence. Could be payment."
We're deep into cross-referencing bank records with burn dates when my phone buzzes. Dispatch. I answer immediately.
"Riley."
"Active structure fire, commercial district east side. Pacific Imports. Captain wants you on scene."
I end the call and grab my keys.
"What is it?" Mira's already closing her laptop.
"Another fire. Commercial district, east side. Business called Pacific Imports." I'm moving toward the door. "No Brotherhood connection that I know of."
She stands, reaching for her jacket. "I'm coming with you."
"No." The word comes out sharper than intended. I force myself to soften my tone. "This one's outside our pattern. Could be coincidence, could be escalation. Either way, I need you here where it's safe."
"Shaw—"
"Please." I stop at the door, meeting her eyes. "Stay here. Lock the doors. I'll call you as soon as I know what we're dealing with."
Frustration flashes across her face, but she nods. "Be careful."
"Always am."
I'm out the door and on my bike in under a minute, the engine roaring to life beneath me.
The pattern just broke. The fire hit outside Brotherhood territory. That changes everything. I twist the throttle and I'm gone, racing toward the smoke I can already see rising against the morning sky.