Page 21 of Crusher's Illusion

Why would he want to keep me safe after everything I’ve done? His stormy grey eyes aren’t angry. They’re staring at me like he wants to strangle me or fuck me. I don’t know which I’d rather have. And that unnerves me more than it should.

I take the offered key once Crusher opens the door. “Thank you.” My voice is quiet and timid. Not my normal take-no-bullshit attitude. That went out the window the moment the butt of that gun slammed into the side of my head.

I walk past him, inhaling his scent of cedarwood and leather. It’s a heady intoxication, and look into the room. There are no windows, a stiff bed, and no clock. There’s a bucket of toiletries beside the sink and a towel folded neatly next to it.

Crusher closes the door without another word, and I pace. I sit. I stand. I’ve left three voicemails to my editor from the burner phone Crusher gave me. One voicemail to my sister, and none to my mother. She wouldn’t answer anyway.

I can’t stand not knowing what’s on the other side of the door, so I open it. Outside, I can hear them. Footsteps. Doors slamming. Laughter that sounds like a warning.

Then the door creaks open further. A woman stands in the doorway, half-in, half-out, like she’s deciding whether to bother.

She’s beautiful. That kind of aggressive, glossy beauty that comes from hunger. She has long, bottle blonde hair pulled up in pigtails, making her look like a teenager instead of a grown woman. Tight tank, tighter jeans, long lashes, and longer nails. Her mouth is curved like it’s used to owning a room.

“Are you the journalist?” she asks, like it’s a curse.

“I’m Nevaeh.”

She smiles, sharp and false. “Cute. I’m Peach. I sleep with Erik.”

There it is.

I blink. “Okay.”

Peach steps inside, all hips and venom. “He’s not gonna say it. But I will. You brought heat down on all of us. You write your little story, you ruin his life, and now you’re here, like we’re supposed to forget.”

“I didn’t?—”

She laughs. “Doesn’t matter what you meant to do. It’s what youdid.”

Then she leans close enough for me to smell vanilla and gunpowder. “Don’t mistake his guilt for feelings, sweetheart. You’re a problem. And we fix problems.”

She leaves, slamming the door behind her. I don’t cry, but I shake. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the wall until my knuckles stop turning white.

Erik doesn’t come that night. Not to the room, not even a knock. I hear his voice down the hall, quiet, sharp, commanding. I hear others, too. Steel, I think. Rock. Rampage. They're arguing in fragments.

"She stays or she goes. Pick one."

"You want blood? Take it from the ones who put her name in lights."

"No leaks without sources. And she’s our only fucking source now."

The next morning, he appears in my doorway like he didn’t sleep. His jaw is tight, eyes hollowed out from whatever weight he’s carrying. “You got five minutes,” he says. “You hungry?”

I nod, too fast. He turns, and I follow. I’m not sure if I’m being walked or watched.

We eat in silence. His thigh brushes mine once beneath the table, and he moves like he touched fire. Then he drops a phone in front of me. My old one, screen cracked, contents wiped clean.

“You backing up anything from the laptop?”

I swallow. “Some. On a cloud.”

His jaw flexes. “I need access.”

My hands shake. “I… I don’t even know what you’re looking for.”

His voice is low. Controlled. “You wrote an article that connected us to something powerful. You exposed a donation trail that should’ve stayed buried. And now they know we see them.”

“I didn’t mean to.”