Chapter 019 Cassidy
The scent hit me before I even opened the sliding glass door leading to the deck. It was a rich, smoky aroma—charcoal, searing fat, and a hint of rosemary—that had no business existing in Thokk’s meticulously sterilized kitchen.
I slid the door open and stepped out into the cool evening air.
Thokk stood in front of a gleaming, stainless-steel behemoth of a grill that looked less like a cooking appliance and more like a piece of industrial machinery. He was wearing his usual button-down, sleeves rolled up to reveal thick forearms, and he was staring at the grill’s thermometer with the intensity of a bomb disposal technician.
"Thokk?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe. "What is this?"
He didn't look up immediately. He checked a laminated card in his left hand, then adjusted a dial by a fraction of a millimeter. "Dinner."
"I can see that. I mean the grill. Where did it come from?"
"I purchased it this afternoon," he said, finally turning to face me. The setting sun cast long shadows across the deck, highlighting the sharp angles of his face and the small, satisfied curve of his mouth. "Delivery was expedited."
I walked over, eyeing the monstrosity. It still had the blue protective film on the side handles. "You bought a top-of-the-line grill on a Tuesday afternoon? Why?"
"Last week, when we were discussing comfort foods, you mentioned you missed the taste of grilled steak. You said pan-searing wasn't quite the same."
I blinked. I vaguely remembered that conversation. It had been a throwaway comment, something I’d mumbled while staring into the fridge, tired and hungry.
"You bought this because I said I liked grilled food?"
"Correct." He turned back to the grates, lifting the heavy lid. A cloud of fragrant smoke billowed out. "I have no experience with open-flame cooking, so I consulted MeTube. I watched seventeen instructional videos and read four articles on optimal grilling techniques regarding heat distribution and protein retention."
He gestured to the laminated card on the side table. It was a color-coded chart of internal temperatures and resting times.
"Target temperature is 135 degrees," he said seriously. "Medium-rare. According to the consensus of culinary experts, anything beyond that compromises the integrity of the cut."
My chest did a strange, tight thing. It wasn't just the grill. It was the study. The preparation. The fact that he approached making me dinner with the same rigorous, obsessive care he applied to solving crimes or organizing his spice rack.
"Thokk," I said softly.
He glanced at me, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. "Is this acceptable? I can prepare something else if you’re not—"
"It's perfect," I interrupted. I stepped closer, resting my hand on his bicep. The muscle was rock hard beneath the cotton. "You're perfect."
His ears turned a dusky shade of green. He cleared his throat and turned his attention back to the steaks, flipping them with precise, calculated movements. "They require three more minutes. Then a five-minute rest period. Please, sit."
I sat at the small patio table, watching him. He moved with an efficiency that made the act of grilling look like a martial art. There was no wasted motion. He was huge, looming over the appliance, yet he handled the tongs with delicate precision.
I’d spent so much of my life looking over my shoulder, scanning for exits, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’d learned to treat safety as a temporary state—a pause between disasters. But sitting here, watching an orc time a steak with a stopwatch because I’d mentioned a craving seven days ago… it felt dangerous.
It felt like I could get used to this. And getting used to something was the first step to losing it.
The steak was, predictably, flawless.
We ate in the kitchen, the silence comfortable between us. Thokk had plated the meal with roasted asparagus arranged in perfect parallel lines.
"The char is correct?" he asked after my first bite.
"It's amazing," I said, and I meant it. "Better than any steakhouse I've been to."
He relaxed, his shoulders dropping half an inch. "Good. I created a spreadsheet for the charcoal arrangement. I believe the two-zone method was the correct variable."
I laughed, reaching across the table to cover his hand with mine. His skin was warm, his knuckles broad and rough. He turned his hand over immediately, lacing his fingers through mine.
"You don't have to do all this, you know," I said. "The grill. The research. It's… a lot."
"I want to," he said simply. His thumb brushed the back of my hand, a rhythmic, soothing motion. "I remember everything about you, Cassidy. What you eat. How you sleep. The way you hold your breath when you’re thinking. I want to use that data to make your life…" He paused, searching for the word. "Optimal."
"Optimal," I repeated, smiling.
"Happy," he corrected, his voice dropping an octave. "I want to make you happy. You deserve everything wonderful. You have carried the weight of more than you should for too long."
The sincerity in his eyes made it hard to swallow. I looked down at our joined hands—my pale, slender fingers engulfed by his green ones. The contrast was stark, but the fit was seamless.
"Thank you," I whispered.
After dinner, we cleaned up together. It was a domestic dance we’d fallen into without discussing it. I washed, he dried and put away.
The kitchen was warm, smelling of dish soap and the lingering scent of the grill. I handed him a dripping plate, and our fingers brushed. The contact sent a jolt of static through me that had nothing to do with the dry air.
Thokk froze, the plate in one hand, the towel in the other. He looked down at me.
I turned off the faucet. The sudden silence in the room was heavy, charged with the electricity that seemed to hum between us constantly these days.
"Cassidy," he murmured.
I dried my hands on my jeans and stepped into his space. I had to tilt my head back to look him in the eye. "Yeah?"
He set the plate down on the counter with a deliberate click. Then he reached out, his hands spanning my waist, his thumbs resting on my hip bones. He didn't pull me in; he just held me there, grounding me.
"You are staring at me again," he said.
"I like the view."
A low rumble started in his chest. He lowered his head slowly, giving me every chance to back away. I didn't. I rose on my toes, meeting him halfway.
His lips were soft, surprisingly so for a man made of hard angles and rigid rules. He kissed me with a restraint that bordered on reverence, tasting me like I was something fragile. I hated fragile. I wound my arms around his neck and pulled him closer, pressing my body against the solid wall of his chest.
He groaned, a guttural sound that vibrated against my ribs, and the restraint snapped. His arms tightened, lifting me off the floor until we were eye level. I wrapped my legs around his waist, burying my hands in his hair.
For a moment, there was no investigation. No luminooks. No past haunting me. There was just Thokk—the heat of him, the scent of him, the way he made me feel like I was the only solid thing in a spinning world.
The shrill ring of a phone shattered the moment.
Thokk stiffened. I felt the shift in his muscles instantly—the lover vanished, replaced by the sheriff.
He set me down gently, though his eyes were dark and blown wide. He cleared his throat, stepping back to grab his phone from the counter.
"Sheriff Bronish," he answered. His voice was clipped, professional.
I leaned against the sink, my heart still hammering against my ribs, trying to regulate my breathing. I watched his face as he listened. His jaw tightened. He reached for a pen and a notepad, tapping the pen against the paper three times before writing.
"Understood," he said. "Secure the perimeter. Do not contaminate the scene. I’ll be there in ten."
He hung up and looked at me. The warmth was gone from his eyes, replaced by a cold, hard focus.
"That was Rokk," he said. "They’ve found evidence of another intrusion at the luminook pens. Someone cut the fence line."
I straightened, pushing off the counter. The bubble of safety popped. Reality rushed back in.
"Let's go," I said.
The next morning, Thokk’s kitchen table had been transformed into a war room.
Files were arranged in perfect grids. Maps of the town were taped to the wall with color-coded pins marking the locations of the thefts and the suspects' movements. The smell of strong coffee replaced the scent of grilled steak.
I sat with my laptop open, cross-referencing the names we had.
"Okay," I said, rubbing my temples. "Let's review. We know Joyce Milburn is the inside man. You heard her on the phone confirming the timeline. 'Tomorrow night is our best window.' That means tonight."
Thokk nodded, pacing the length of the kitchen. He stopped to adjust the alignment of a stack of papers. "Joyce provides access. But she’s not the mastermind. She was terrified on that call. Someone is pulling her strings."
"And then there's Mary Pickens," I said, tapping her file. "She’s been at every town meeting, taking notes. Too agreeable. Too present. And Ava? The wildlife photographer?"
"Ava claims to be documenting dialects," Thokk said. "Her blog checks out. But her arrival coincides with the start of the thefts."
"Coincidences make me itchy," I muttered.
I turned back to my screen. I’d been running background checks on the suspects all morning, digging through financial records and digital footprints. It was tedious work, the kind of forensic accounting I used to do in my sleep before my life fell apart.
"I've been looking at the money," I said. "Joyce has some debts, but nothing that screams 'international exotic animal smuggling ring.' However..."
I pulled up a new window.
"I ran a search on the phone number Joyce called. It’s a burner, unlisted. But I triangulated the signal ping from the tower. It traces back to a registered corporate account for a shell company in Denver."
Thokk stopped pacing. He moved to stand behind me, one hand resting on the back of my chair. "A shell company?"
"Standard operating procedure for hiding dirty money. I peeled back a few layers. The shell company is a subsidiary of a holding group owned by Sillavar Research."
"Sillavar," Thokk tested the name. "It sounds… clinical."
"It is. I looked them up." I spun the laptop around so he could see. "Sillavar Research is a biotech company specializing in revolutionary medical imaging technology. They do high-end diagnostics. Non-invasive scans."
Thokk leaned in, his eyes scanning the text. "Bioluminescence."
"Exactly," I said, pointing to a paragraph on their 'About' page. "They’ve been trying to synthesize a stable, organic bioluminescent compound for years. Something that can be injected into the bloodstream to highlight arterial blockages without radiation."
"The luminooks," Thokk said, his voice low. "Their genetic material."
"If they can get a live specimen," I said, the pieces clicking into place, "they can harvest the DNA. Maybe even breed them. It's worth billions in patents."
I sat back, exhaling a long breath. A wave of relief washed over me so potent it almost made me dizzy.
"It's corporate espionage," I said. "It's just greed."
Thokk looked down at me, his brow furrowed. "You seem… relieved."
"I am." I managed a weak smile. "It means this isn't about me. It’s not my ex. It’s not the people who are looking for me. It’s just a biotech company stealing sheep."
Thokk’s hand moved from the chair to my shoulder, squeezing gently. "I never suspected it was your past, Cassidy. But I am glad the data confirms it."
"So," I said, forcing myself back to business mode. "We have a motive. We have a timeline. Tonight. The shift change at 0200."
"We need to catch them in the act," Thokk said. "If we move too soon, we only get Joyce. We need the buyer. We need the transport team."
"A stakeout," I said.
"A stakeout," he agreed. "I will prepare the tactical gear."
The afternoon was a blur of preparation. Thokk was in his element, organizing equipment with the precision of a surgeon.
I watched him pack a duffel bag. Night vision binoculars. Zip ties. Flashlights. A thermos of coffee. Two energy bars.
"I need the red marker," I said, reaching for the map on the table to mark the potential entry points for the transport vehicle.
Before I could even finish the sentence, Thokk was pressing the red marker into my hand. He hadn't even looked up from the bag he was packing.
I froze, the marker cool in my palm.
It was a small thing. A stupidly small thing. But it hit me like a physical blow.
He knew what I needed before I asked. He knew I preferred the red marker for threats and the blue one for friendly assets. He knew how I liked my steak. He knew not to crowd me when I was thinking.
I looked at his broad back as he checked the battery level on a flashlight.
He was safe. He was kind. He was everything I had told myself I couldn't have because I was too broken, too messy, too much of a liability.
"Thokk," I said.
"Yes?" He turned, holding up a radio. "I have set these to channel four. Secure frequency."
"Thank you."
He frowned, sensing the shift in my tone. "For the radio?"
"No," I said. "For… being you."
He softened, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I do not know how to be anyone else."
"I know. That’s the best part."
I turned back to the map, uncapping the marker so he wouldn't see my hands shaking.
I was in trouble. Real trouble.
The corporate hit squad coming for the luminooks? I could handle that. I understood greed. I understood theft. I could outsmart a biotech company.
But this? This slow, steady dismantling of my defenses? This feeling of being seen, completely and utterly, and not being rejected?
I drew a red circle around the south gate, my heart thudding a traitorous rhythm against my ribs.
I was falling in love with him.
And for a woman with a price on her head and a life packed into a go-bag, that was the most dangerous thing I could possibly do.
"We should move out at 2300," Thokk said, zipping the bag closed. "That gives us three hours to get into position before the shift change."
"Right," I said, my voice steady despite the chaos in my head. "Let's go catch some bad guys."
I capped the marker and stood up. Thokk held the door open for me, his body shielding me from the world outside, and for the first time in years, I didn't check the exits. I just walked through, trusting him to watch my back.