Page 19 of Crusher's Illusion

“And I shut her down,” I snap. “You think I’d hand-feed a reporter our books? I told her to back off.”

Draft, always the accountant, runs a hand through her hair. “Then how’d she get access to the Mt. Pleasant fund trail? That ledger’s clean. Clean because you said it had to be.”

“Because ithadto be,” I grit out. “To protect that center. To protectus.”

I look to Steel. “You think I wanted this out there? You think I wanted to burn the one thing we did right in the dark?”

His glare doesn’t waver. “I think the second a woman gets close to you, shit gets loud.” There’s a faraway look in his eyes, like he’s remembering the woman we shall never speak of in this clubhouse.

Throttle leans forward. “So, what now? You saying she went rogue?”

Before I can answer, the screen crackles. City curses, scrambles for the remote. The cable feed cuts out, replaced by a new image of a dimly lit room, shaky handheld camera.

A woman is screaming in the background.

A man’s voice filtered and clipped. Dominic Vassaro, head of the Echelon Syndicate. The man responsible for Jordan’s death. “You chose poorly.”

The camera shifts. A smashed lamp. Blood on the floor. A laptop is lifted into frame. Nevaeh’s, I recognize it instantly, and then they toss it into a duffel. The camera pans briefly, too fast for facial IDs but long enough to see a figure shoved into a wall, Nevaeh, wide-eyed, fighting back until she’s clocked with the butt of a pistol.

The screen goes black. No sound. No signal. Just silence.

Then Steel speaks. His voice is like a tombstone. “Echelon Syndicate just sent us a love letter.”

I don’t remember moving. Just the roar in my ears and the taste of copper behind my teeth. I’m halfway to my bike when Rock stops me. The sun is beating down onto the asphalt, scorching my skin.

“She’s alive,” he says, placing his hand on my shoulder to steady me. “A call came through two minutes ago. She got out, barely.”

“Where is she?”

“No idea.” Rock shakes his head, his grip on my shoulder not letting up. “She’s not answering her phone.”

Throttle joins us, tapping his screen. “It’s not pinging either. She’s either off-grid or her phone is smashed.”

I feel it then, the animal instinct tightening in my gut. The protective surge I hate myself for. I shouldn’t give a damn. But I do, and that pisses me off more than anything.

I’m pacing inside the clubhouse, wanting to crush some bones with my fists for hours, when the alarm goes off at the gates. I hurry outside with my heart thrashing against my chest. And stop dead in my tracks as the gates slide open.

There she is.

Nevaeh.

Her dark hair is tangled, blood dried at her temples. Her jacket is torn, and she’s shaking like her bones are seconds from giving out. Nevaeh stumbles down the asphalt toward the clubhouse like she doesn’t know if she’ll be shot or helped. Like she’s braced for both.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I growl before she makes it to the door.

Her lips are split. Her eyes are red rimmed, and swollen. She sways when she answers. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

I don’t move even though I want to pull her into my arms and protect her from the evil things of this world.

Steel appears behind me, spotting Nevaeh. I fight the growl rising in my throat at the way he sizes her up, like she’s a risk, not a person. “Get her inside before someone sees.”

I usher Nevaeh into the clubhouse and, without a word to anyone, I take her to my room. I open the bathroom door and pull her inside. “Get cleaned up and showered. Then meet me in the common room when you’re done.”

I don’t wait for an answer before I close the door on her and lean against it, blowing out a ragged breath. What the fuck iswrong with me? I should be keeping my distance from her, but I can’t.

Pushing off the door, I stomp my way out of my room and lock it behind me. Keeping her safe while she cleans up and recovers.

An hour later, Nevaeh is showered, wearing my sweatpants that hang off her hips and a Saints Outlaws tank top, wrapped in a blanket, sitting on the couch with a steaming cup of coffee she hasn’t touched. There’s a red bloom on her shoulder where she’s trying to hide the bruises. Her lip is busted. I want to kill someone. Maybe myself. The room is tense. My brothers are nearby, giving us space, barely.