"Well, here's a chapter for you—super long at 3.7k words. Hope you enjoy it! Lemons aren't my forte, but there you have it. Have fun, and don't forget to leave some rocks!"
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The next morning, Ethan woke with a strange sensation. Something was moving slowly over him. He opened his eyes, still half-asleep, and felt the soft brush of warm skin against his own.
He blinked a few times, letting the morning light filter through the window to clear his thoughts. Nola was on top of him, shifting in her sleep, her steady breath grazing his neck. Her long, straight black hair cascaded over his chest like a shadow—dark as a moonless night.
With a slow caress, Ethan raised his hand and swept a strand of hair from her face. He tucked it gently behind her ear, clearing her gaze as if drawing back a veil. At the touch of his fingers, Nola blinked slowly and opened her eyes. When hers met his, a drowsy, almost sleepy smile curved her lips.
—You know… I could get used to this,— Nola murmured, nestling against his chest, her fingers tracing lazy circles on his skin.
Ethan arched a brow, still groggy. —To what?—
She lifted her gaze, her soft smile igniting his soul. —This… you and me. Waking up like this every morning.—
—That'd be nice.—
Nola tilted her face up and began kissing Ethan's lips. They said nothing—they didn't need to. There was an understanding between them, born of shared desires. And perhaps, someday, their paths might diverge.
But Nola knew one thing: no matter where Ethan went or how long he stayed away, he'd always return to Banshee. She was willing to wait—not to chain him to this place, but to be the reason he chose to come back.
Ethan's hands slid slowly down Nola's back, pulling her closer. Their bodies fit together perfectly, yet with a silent hunger. His hands traveled lower, mapping a familiar path to her thighs. She gasped as his firm fingers brushed her pussy, teasing her clit and the folds of her cunt, feeling her grow wetter by the second.
Ethan rolled over gently, pinning her beneath him without breaking their kiss. Their eyes locked briefly before he kissed her again, slowly trailing down her neck, her collarbone, her firm breasts—taking his time, exploring her body.
Nola closed her eyes, surrendering to each kiss. Ethan continued lower, until his lips met her soaked pussy. He traced her wet folds with his tongue, and Nola gripped the white sheets, her knuckles whitening as pleasure coiled tight inside her.
With every passing second, Nola felt herself nearing the edge. She tangled her hands in Ethan's brown hair, guiding him as his tongue found her weak spots—as if he could read her mind.
—Yesss… harder… Ah… ah… ah—— Her voice fractured as the orgasm ripped through her.
Nola's chest heaved, electric waves surging from her scalp to her toes, leaving her trembling and suspended in that perfect moment.
Ethan repositioned himself, spreading her legs wider, leaving her fully exposed. He dragged the head of his cock along her entrance, teasing her slowly, savoring her anticipation.
Nola arched her hips, begging silently for more.
—C'mon, cowboy… it's not polite to keep a lady waiting…— she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Then he pushed into her—gentle at first, deep, as if memorizing every hitch of her breath. Nola's eyes fluttered shut, a moan escaping her throat as she clung to his shoulders, feeling him fill her completely.
Their rhythm grew fiercer, restraint dissolving. It was skin against skin, desire against desire—a surrender without conditions.
Ethan growled low, the sound vibrating against Nola's skin, making her shiver. He gripped her hips and pulled her harder onto him, driving deeper, thrusts turning rougher, as if control were unraveling with every movement.
Nola panted between broken sighs, her back arched and fingers clawing the sheets. Heat flooded her body, the friction and Ethan's scorching breath against her skin.
She wanted everything.
—More…— she gritted out, and Ethan obeyed.
He shifted her firmly, angling deeper, wrenching a scream from her as he pounded into her—harder, faster—never looking away from her pleasure-twisted face. Nola's eyes flew open, lips parted, staring at him as if this moment were all she'd ever needed.
Her nails raked down his back, leaving red marks like witnesses to their storm.
Then the wave hit: her body convulsed, a tremor seizing every muscle as a guttural moan tore from her lips. Ethan felt it too, surrendering to his own climax, spilling inside her with a ragged groan.
They collapsed, gasping, trembling, sweat gluing their bodies together.
Nola glanced down, savoring the warmth still pulsing between them, then—with a wicked grin—she pushed herself up.
With a roll of her hips, she straddled him, riding him with the rhythm of her own desire. Ethan looked up and found her there—radiant, untamed—moving like a wild mare refusing to be broken.
The sheets crumpled beneath them as Nola rocked her hips in a steady, demanding pace. Ethan gripped her waist, guiding her, burying himself deeper with every thrust. The slick friction, their shared heat, and their ragged breaths filled the room—if this were the suburbs, the neighbors might've called the cops.
Later that morning.
Nola traced her fingers over Ethan's chest, her flushed face betraying her exhaustion:
— How's everything at the reservation?
Nola panted:
— Well, it all depends on today. The tribal council meets this afternoon. If nothing unexpected happens, I'll be named tribe leader tomorrow.
Ethan gave her ass a playful slap:
— If you want, I can tag along—just in case things go sideways. Want me to bring a gun tonight?
— Ha! — Nola laughed — It's a sacred ceremony. No outsiders allowed. Don't worry, it's just protocol. Nothing bad will happen.
— Gotta get to work. I'll shower — Ethan said, rolling out of bed and heading to the bathroom.
He slid the glass door open and turned the faucet, letting hot water rush out. Nola followed instantly, pressing her back against the tiles as the spray cascaded over her skin.
Ethan ran his hands through her hair, working up a thick lather, while Nola reached up to scrub his back in slow, firm circles. Steam fogged the room, their bodies glistening under the unbroken stream.
Without waiting for a reply, he pushed the glass aside and let the hot water flow.
A few minutes later, Ethan was ready: uniform crisp, a coffee cup in each hand.
Nola appeared in the bedroom doorway in her usual skin-tight black outfit. A tribal beaded choker rested against her throat, amplifying the wild aura that always sharpened Ethan's gaze.
Ethan recalled last night and abruptly asked:
— By the way, I meant to ask—how'd you know where the Bone Band's camp was last time?
— What's this about? — Nola took the coffee cup from Ethan's hand and settled onto the kitchen island — The Bone Band isn't our problem anymore.
— Well, seems Chayton's back — Ethan buckled his duty belt — Last night, he sent men to hit Proctor. They failed, obviously. But he and I still have unfinished business. I want to find him before Proctor does.
Nola's brow furrowed at the mention of Chayton's return.
— That's new. They move camp every few weeks within the reservation, so tracking them won't be easy. But I'll ask around today if anyone's seen them. Don't get your hopes up, though—ever since I ran for tribe leader, my ties to Chayton's allies faded.
Ethan nodded without looking away as Nola strapped on her shoulder holsters, one on each side. She slid the Glocks into place with a sharp click of magazines.
He held up her leather jacket without a word.
Ethan helped adjust it over her weapons, eyes locked on her.
— Do your best — he murmured, kissing her lips.
Soon after, they left the house.
For safety reasons, Nola rarely rode her motorcycle anymore. Ethan's Challenger had practically become their default transport.
She couldn't resist the muscle car's raw charm. The moment she sat behind the wheel, she revved the engine twice, savoring its growl like an extension of her own pulse.
At the Banshee Police Station, the previous night's events had everyone gathered for a briefing.
— I know it's bullshit that we have to investigate Proctor's attack, but it's our job. Doesn't mean we'll make arrests, but you get the drill — Brock raised his coffee cup, took a long sip, and set it down with a slight frown.
— What's your take? — Siobhan asked, her fingers drumming the table as she spun a pen between them.
Brock leaned back, pausing before answering—casual but firm.
— My plan? Proctor can rot. We just need two days of busywork to make them think we're on it.
Silence. Siobhan dropped the pen and studied him, weighing her words.
— Perfect — she finally muttered — We do a few interviews, file some reports, and done. No one'll know it's theater.
— We still need a way to track Chayton — Ethan interjected, tone turning grave — Don't forget: the Bone Band's got an arsenal. Those guns could end up aimed at us any second.
Brock blinked, suddenly recalling the last time AKs rained bullets on him. He straightened, gaze sharpening:
— Ethan's right.
Siobhan remembered being beaten defenseless that day and nodded fast.
All eyes turned to Hood. Like Emmett, he'd sat there dazed, silent.
— Sheriff?
Ethan knew he was still obsessing over the military base money. He grabbed a rubber band and flicked it at him.
— What? Who?
Hood startled, realizing everyone was staring.
Siobhan had no choice but to recap the discussion and wait for Hood's call.
Hood gathered his thoughts, then ordered:
— We can ignore Proctor, but that arsenal is a real threat.
— Siobhan, Emmett, Brock—keep up routine patrols. Ethan and I'll head to the reservation, see if we can sniff out Chayton or his men.
Brock stood.
— I'm coming. Last time you two went solo, it was a disaster. Someone's gotta be the voice of reason.
Ethan glanced at Hood. Brock's gut and shiny forehead gave him the look of a seasoned cop—still oddly reassuring.
With Hood's decision made, the team dispersed.
Ethan fastened his duty belt, lingering as others filed out.
When Hood left his office, the two exited the station together.
— Just let it go. There'll be other chances.
— I know — Hood shook his head — I just need to process. Not easy walking away from a score like that.
Ethan understood. After years as a thief, losing that opportunity had to sting.
As two patrol cars pulled away, Ethan signaled Brock—waiting in their car—to hold on. He jerked his chin toward Mill's Diner:
— Look.
Inside, Carrie was serving food to customers.
By chance, Hood met Carrie's eyes through the glass. She smiled, nodded, and returned to work.
Hood looked away.
— Yeah, it's a lot of money. But getting it means risking her life—and your family's. Still think it's worth it?
— What's your point? — Hood countered.
— Honestly? I don't give a damn about Carrie or her family — Ethan shrugged — Worst case, after the heist, I put a bullet in her. Clean break—no ties to us.
Hood froze at Ethan's bluntness. He didn't doubt Ethan would do it.
— And you? Could you?
Hood didn't answer immediately.
— Then stop overthinking. It's not like you need that cash.
— You're right. There's more to life — Hood said, his daughter's smile flashing in his mind. He wouldn't endanger her for greed.
Ethan spread his hands.
— Good. Let's go—Brock might stroke out if we keep him waiting.
Ethan slid into the passenger seat, slamming the door before Hood could react.
— Asshole — Hood muttered, cramming himself into the back with a scowl.
Their two patrol cars were still out of commission, bullet-riddled from recent fights. The mayor's office had declared no budget for replacements, leaving them with one vehicle. Brock hit the gas, peeling out of the lot.
They drove through the reservation to the bar frequented by locals. Months ago, they'd found Tommy Littlestone here. By now, Brock had stopped caring about protocol. He'd adapted to Hood's loose style, trusting the sheriff to back them.
On the patio, a dozen patrons sat at wooden tables. Dust swirled as the patrol car skidded to a halt, drawing their stares.
— And no drawing weapons unless it's life or death — Brock warned under his breath — We're here for intel, not a firefight.
— Got it — Hood said — Let's see if anyone's seen Chayton—or his little brother, who's worse.
Hood entered first. The door creaked, a floorboard groaned under his boot, and the bar's murmur cut off—tense silence hanging for a beat too long.
Ethan trailed a few steps behind, hands resting lightly on his belt. Calm, but scanning.
Brock lingered in the doorway, jaw tightening. Last time, he'd left bloodied. This time, he planned to walk out.
— Get us something to drink? — Hood asked, smiling casually.
The bartender—sleeveless jacket frayed at the edges—looked up from the sink. She didn't bother drying her hands.
— What'll it be?
— If you want good drinks, drive ten miles back to town. We don't serve outsiders here.
— Come on, money spends the same everywhere.
Hood slid a hand into his pocket, pulled out crumpled bills, and waved them at the bartender like a taunt.
— Hey, cop, keep your damn cash — she replied flatly, swatting the air as if shooing a fly.
The bar's tension thickened. Across the room, a man in a blue shirt set his glass down and rose cautiously from his seat.
— You badge-toters ain't welcome here — he growled, glaring at Hood and the others.
— Really?
Ethan drummed his fingers on his duty belt.
— Easy — he said, raising a placating hand — Just a few simple questions. Answer us, and we're gone. Good deal, right?
The blue-shirted man stepped forward, beer bottle clenched at his side.
— You'll get nothing here, pig — he snarled — Your badge means shit on this land.
— Step back — Ethan said calmly — Your breath stinks.
The man flushed, grip tightening on the bottle—ready to throw it—
When another man lunged from behind, yanking his arm down:
— You stupid? — a raspy voice cut through the bar's haze — This cop's the one who took down Chayton. You wanna die?
A dozen patrons on the terrace outside stood, but several recognized Ethan and quickly sat back down.
The man facing them had beaten Chayton—a warrior the tribe feared. Defiance crumpled. Shoulders slumped, chairs creaked under the weight of resigned sighs.
Ethan blinked. Damn, I really left an impression.
The bartender moved toward the landline phone:
— You better leave. Tribal Police are already called.
Seeing no intel to gain, Ethan stepped forward. Blue Shirt scrambled back, throat bobbing.
— Pass a message to Chayton: Tell him I know he's back. Quit hiding in the woods like a coward.
No clue if provoking Chayton would work—but better than nothing.
Ignoring their fearful stares, Ethan turned and clapped Brock's tense shoulder:
— Let's go. Dead end here.
The three strode off, defiance in their wake. The Red Bone gang members knew jurisdiction didn't reach here. One enraged member smashed his beer bottle on the ground.
Brock's pulse thudded, half-expecting a mob at his back—but with Hood on his left and Ethan on his right, he lifted his chin.
As they reached the car, a khaki police cruiser sped toward them, dust swirling.
A sudden brake. The Kinaho Tribal Police car skidded to a halt.
She actually called them. Ethan and Brock stepped back, letting Hood take point.
A petite officer with long black hair shoved her door open, scowling:
— What the hell are you doing? Who gave you rights to enter the reservation? You know you've got no jurisdiction here!
Ethan recognized her instantly: the officer who'd identified the Kinaho girl murdered by the Amish fanatic. Aimee King, if he recalled.
Hood glanced at his two traitorous bastards and shrugged.
— We know, Officer King. Just friendly questions. We think Chayton Littlestone's back.
— You serious? — Aimee's frown deepened, arms crossed — Get off the rez now. If Yaz finds you here, we're all screwed.
— Who's Yaz? — Hood asked, eyeing Brock.
— Karl "Yaz" Yazzie — Brock coughed — Kinaho Tribal Police Chief.
— Guess I need to meet him — Hood smirked.
Aimee planted her hands on her hips, exasperated.
— Don't start trouble. Yaz doesn't care about your business — she warned, gaze weary but firm.
— She's right — Brock muttered, nodding — Yaz is… "diligent."
He air-quoted the word, irony dripping.
Hood caught the subtext: lazy, indifferent, allergic to responsibility.
— Things you might not know: Chayton and his crew stole a military arsenal on Highway 15. They're armed worse than ever.
— *AK-47s. M4s* — Ethan added, tone casual as discussing weather.
— What? — Aimee's eyes widened — You're not lying?
Hood shook his head.
— No reason to.
— If you want to stop tribal bloodshed, help us — Ethan crossed his arms — Share intel on Chayton's location.
Aimee closed her eyes, weighing the request. When they reopened, resignation colored her sigh.
— Fine — she relented — We'll see Yaz together. But fair warning: he's an asshole. Won't care about the Bone Band's guns.
Minutes later, two cruisers pulled up to a modest station.
Not that Ethan's crew could judge—their own precinct was a repurposed car dealership.
Like Banshee PD, Kinaho Tribal Police ran on fumes: three officers, threadbare budget.
Tribal leaders clearly don't fund much—just enough to keep the lights on.
Aimee led them to the chief's office. A potbellied, gray-haired sheriff sat behind a desk, newspaper in hand.
He glanced up at the intruders.
— This is Kinaho Police. You lost?
— Sheriff Yaz, apologies—
— Who're you?
— Lucas Hood, Banshee Sheriff — Hood extended a hand — Pleasure.
Yaz straightened slightly, ignoring the gesture.
— Sheriff Hood. You're the one who bagged Leah's killer, right?
Leah—the Kinaho girl murdered by Rebecca's brother, Solomon.
Hood withdrew his hand, leaning on the desk.
— Surprised you know. Thought you'd be too lazy to check.
— Happened in your jurisdiction. Not my problem.
Yaz picked up his water glass, pointedly:
— I handle tribal matters. Outside the rez? Not my concern. Heard you struggle with… jurisdictions.
— That's why I'm here — Hood's voice turned grave — Chayton Littlestone stole a Genova Base arms shipment. Those weapons are now in Kinaho lands. That fall under your jurisdiction?
Yaz set his coffee down with a clink, smiling thinly.
— Sounds like a military case. Their problem.
Hood dragged a chair forward, sitting uninvited.
— The threat's here in Banshee. Those guns could surface anytime. That's my problem—and why I came.
Yaz steepled his fingers, elbows on the desk.
— No clue where Chayton is — he dismissed — But don't worry: I'll keep an eye out.
— "Keep an eye out"? — Hood's brow arched — How?
Now he understood Brock's "diligent" jab.
— You don't give a damn, do you?
Yaz shrugged, indifference incarnate.
— Well, thanks for your time.
Hood stood, turning to leave—
— Wait.
Yaz rose slowly, palms on the desk.
— I call you "sheriff" out of courtesy. Here, you're nothing.
His dark eyes held quiet menace.
— Next time you enter the rez uninvited, I'll report you to the BIA. And trust me—you'll learn what "problem" means.
He glared at Ethan and Brock:
— And you two? Don't let me catch you here again. Cuffs won't be gentle.
Ethan smirked, shaking his head.
— What's funny, pretty boy? — Yaz snapped.
— Understood, Chief Yazzie.
Yaz savored his dominance, nodding as he reclaimed his newspaper.
— Good. Now get out.
Aimee, behind him, shrugged: Told you so.
By the patrol car, Hood asked Brock:
— He corrupt?
— No. Just ambitionless. Sees no hope here. Survival's his only goal.
Brock opened the car door:
— But Aimee King? She's got fire.
As if summoned, Aimee hurried out.
— I warned you — she sighed.
— Just tip us off if Chayton surfaces — Ethan shook her hand — We want zero casualties.
— Yaz won't cross the Tribal Council or Bone Band — Aimee admitted — But I'll help track Chayton.
Ethan admired her. Even in a swamp, flowers grow.
After exchanging cards, they left.
No leads on Chayton—but at least Proctor couldn't accuse Banshee PD of slacking.
That evening, Ethan rushed home post-shift.
The door opened—and his breath caught.
Nola stood in the living room, adjusting earrings, heels tapping hardwood. Her black dress—satin-stitched, V-necked—hugged her waist before flaring slightly, a slit revealing leg with each step. Velvet-soft fabric, diamond glints, subtle makeup amplifying lips and eyes.
Devastatingly sexy. Sophisticated. Ethan's impulse to take her right there nearly overrode sense. He'd never seen her this feminine.
But tonight was the tribal leadership vote. No room for casual wear—or distractions.
Nola fidgeted under his gaze. Years since she'd dressed like this. Insecurity flickered.
— What? Do I look bad?
Ethan pulled her into a fierce kiss.
— You're fucking breathtaking. Using every ounce of willpower not to drag you to bed.
A throat cleared.
— Miss Longshadow? We're on a schedule.
Ethan reluctantly released Nola's waist.
— Thompson. Always a pleasure.
Thompson lounged on the sofa, long black hair gleaming under lamplight. His navy suit fit impeccably; a rabbit-fur-trimmed hat rested beside him. Tribal bracelets—ocher and turquoise—hinted at heritage without shouting it.
First time in Ethan's home. He rose, surveying the space:
— Nice place. You've got taste.
— Thanks, but credit's my dad's. I just tweaked it.
Thompson's smile was all satisfaction. His gamble had paid off: Tonight, after Nola took the tribal staff, he'd claim George Hunter's council seat.
Yet envy pricked him. This small-town cop won the Longshadow princess's heart. If they married, Ethan's luck would be obscene.
(If only he knew about the 6% casino shares…)
Ethan clapped Thompson's back:
— How's the arm?
Thompson flexed it cheerfully, pain be damned:
— Healing well, thanks.
(Last raid on George Hunter, a Bone Band bullet had grazed him.)
— Enough chatter. Change your clothes — Nola ordered, handing Ethan a sleek garment bag — Custom-made for you. Shower first.
Ethan hesitated. He hated exposure—especially at events like this.
Nola would take the tribal staff tonight. He? Just her shadow. Rules allowed each council member one unarmed guard.
But everyone knew Ethan wasn't just security. His presence—quiet, lethal—sent a message: Nola ascends with a wolf at her side.
As Ethan grabbed the bag, he turned to Thompson:
— Kinaho Police Chief Karl Yazzie. What's his deal?
Thompson reclined:
— George Hunter's lackey. Position's shaky since George died. Even bought me drinks yesterday. Why?
Ethan unbuckled his duty belt:
— Guy's rotten. Nola should replace him.
— Easy — Thompson agreed, no questions. He knew Ethan's influence.
Nola had zero interest in micromanaging. Thompson would handle minutiae; her focus was the casino.
— Got a candidate in mind?
Smart man. Ethan approved.
— Officer Aimee King. Knows the terrain. She'll do well.
Thompson didn't know her—but it didn't matter. If tonight went smoothly, Aimee would lead Kinaho PD, like it or not.