Page 25 of Crusher's Illusion

“Crusher’s not reckless,” Draft mumbles.

“No,” I say. “He’s loyal. But right now, that loyalty is split.”

That’s the problem. He’s not wrong. None of us is, but that doesn’t mean this ends clean. When one of your top men starts choosing someone else over the patch, even for the right reasons, you’ve got a crack in the foundation. And cracks don’t stay small.

“We’ve got five cameras on the front and back lots,” I say. “I want double sentries at night and someone tailing the next Iron Cross contact who so much as breathes in our direction.”

“What about her?” Rock asks. Not Nevaeh. Not her name, justher.

I meet his gaze. “She stays off radar. No more articles. No clubhouse access. She’s not our enemy, but she’s not our sister either. Not unless Crusher claims her and she patches in.”

“She won’t,” City responds. “That girl’s got steel in her spine, but she’s got no love for leather.”

I grunt. “Then she stays where she is. But if it comes to her or the Club…”

“I know, Crusher,” Rock cuts in. “He’ll choose the Club.”

“Maybe,” I answer. “But the problem is, when it’s someone like her… You don’t always realize you’ve chosen until it’s too late.”

A beat of silence stretches across the room.

I rise from my chair, grabbing a burner from the basket on the table. “Keep your heads down. No one rides alone. No runs. No friendly fire unless it’s goddamn necessary.”

Rock snorts. “Friendly fire’s already in the room.”

“Then we watch each other even closer.” I look at both of them, sharp and clear. “If anyone starts questioning loyalty, you come to me. Not to gossip. Not to gripe. You come to me, and we handle it like brothers. Clear?”

Rock snorts, but there’s less humor in it now. “Sure. As long as everyone remembers who their brothers are.”

The energy is frayed. Loyalty doesn’t break overnight. It frays, fiber by fiber, until one hard pull unravels the whole damn rope.

After City and Rock leave, I step outside, lean against the wall, and stare out over the compound. Wind whistles through the trees, carrying the bite of a storm. Every instinct I’ve got says the weather’s not the only thing coming.

A prospect rounds the corner, nearly colliding with me. “Sorry, Prez.”

“What the hell are you running for?” I snap.

“Heard someone say Nevaeh might be patched in. Just wanted to know if we’re choosing sides now.”

“You want to know how rumors spread?” I step into his space. “Exactly like that. You got questions, bring them to me. You got gossip, choke on it. You clear?”

He nods so fast I think his neck might snap. “Clear.”

I watch him walk off with his tail tucked. Saints don’t need paranoia. We need discipline.

Crusher’s a good man. A lethal one. And he’s been my right hand since the day he pulled Throttle out of a burning house with a bullet in his leg and a curse on his lips.

But now? He’s walking that line between duty and desire. And I know from experience that’s the line that bleeds. I walked it once. Her name was Aria. She wanted me to hang the cut and go straight. I told her I’d try. But when bullets started flying, I chose the Saints, and she didn’t wait around for the fallout.

I never saw her again. But I still hear the slam of that door sometimes when things go quiet.

I light a cigarette and let the smoke curl through my teeth. “Don’t fuck this up, brother.”

Because if he does, we’ll all pay for it.

The wind kicks up again, carrying more than just cold. This isn’t just fallout. This is something else.

This is a prelude.