Page 12 of Crusher's Illusion

He hesitates for one long heartbeat. Then he follows.

We move onto the floor, and suddenly it’s just the two of us and a thousand eyes on us, powerful ones, predatory ones, but I don’t care.

His hand slides into mine. Calloused and warm. Familiar. He could crush me, but I’m not here to break. I’m here to remind him I won’t be erased.

I should pull away. Should remember every tear Lena cried, every warning I ignored, every fear I swallowed to publish that damn article.

But I don’t. I hold on. We move together like we’ve done this before in another life.

“Why’d you really write the story?” he asks.

I could lie, but I don’t. “Because someone once saved my sister when no one else would. And no one thanked them.”

He doesn’t respond. But his grip tightens. A pause that feels like something sacred passing between us. The music swells. So does the ache in my chest.

Then Crusher’s phone buzzes. His entire expression hardens as he reads the text.

I don’t ask because I already know.

Trouble’s here. Because of me.

He steps away. I start to follow, but Slim, Duke’s snake of a VP, glides past him and mutters low enough to chill my bones. “Nice article. Pity if it brings smoke down on more than just your clubhouse.”

I freeze.

Over my shoulder, someone near the bar whispers: “Duke didn’t leave. He’s outside. Taking a call. Watching.”

Watching who Crusher dances with. Wondering where to dig the knife first. My heartbeat stutters. But I don’t let it show.

Crusher pockets his phone. His jaw is stone, but his eyes, those brutal, loyal,tiredeyes, land on me like a warning.

He’s about to speak, probably to tell me I need to leave. I need to go back to their clubhouse. That I’ve brought enough heat for one night.

I speak first, shaking my head, my mind is made up. “I’m not going.”

His eyes narrow. “Nevaeh…”

Let them stare. Let the monsters circle. I’ve faced worse in the dark. “I’m not going back to your clubhouse. I’m not hiding while you clean up my mess.”

“This isn’t about pride,” Crusher says, stepping closer. My heartbeat picks up, and his scent of whiskey and metal makes my toes curl, but I stomp it down.

“No,” I say, quieter now. My voice is trembling around the edges. “And I survived by never running. Not from fear. Not from truth. And sure as hell not from a threat.”

We stand beneath chandeliers and hollow smiles, the only two truths in a room built on polite lies.

We stare at each other like we’re the only two real people in the room. And maybe we are. Neither of us flinches. I feel the shift. Consequences settle like dust. I don’t know what’s coming next, but I know how I’ll meet it. On my feet.

Not running.

Not alone.

SIX

CLOSE RANGE

CRUSHER

The Civic Banquet Hall door clicks shut behind us, muffling violins and political bullshit. We step out into the cool night air, but it might as well be smoke because we’re both still burning.