Page 29 of Crusher's Illusion

The moment is broken by a sharpbuzzfrom my burner.

I grab it, heart tightening. Only a few people have this number. And none of them call unless it’s serious.

City: The clubhouse perimeter tripped while we’re on lockdown. Motion sensors are down. Possible breach. We need you here, brother.

I stand fast, all emotion swept away in a flood of instinct. “Shit.”

Nevaeh’s already up, alert. “What?”

“Security alert. The clubhouse perimeter’s been breached. I’ve gotta go.”

Her lips part like she’s about to argue, but she doesn’t. “I’m coming with you,” she says.

I hesitate. I know what’s logical. But logic means shit when the wolves are already circling. “You’d be safer here.”

“I’m not safe here alone,” she says, voice hard. “But I’m not sitting in the dark waiting for the next text to show up.”

And fuck if I don’t respect the hell out of that.

I toss her one of my hoodies with the SOMC logo. She pulls it on like armor. And damn if it doesn’t look like it was always hers.

I grab my cut, check my sidearm, and head for the door.

The air outside smells like wet asphalt and tension. Another kind of storm.

I throw open the garage. My bike’s already waiting, black and brutal. Nevaeh climbs on behind me without hesitation, her hands at my waist, steady and warm.

The moment my engine roars to life, I swear I feel Jordan. In the wind. In the quiet between gears. He always rides with me.

I drop the clutch, and we tear into the night.

Not with fear. But with fury.

FIFTEEN

SKIN IN THE GAME

CRUSHER

The road bleeds black beneath my tires, wet with fresh rain and rage. Nevaeh holds tight behind me, silent but steady, her arms wrapped around my ribs like a second skin. The wind bites through my cut, but my pulse is running hot.

The burner buzzes again in my pocket. It’s not City. This one vibrates differently, emergency line. I let the engine idle low and pull into the turnout by the old grain mill, kill the engine, and check the screen.

Throttle: Ambush on the bypass. It's Draft, Hurricane, and the kid. We’re pinned the fuck down. Get here fast.

No time for questions. I throw the phone in my pocket and turn to Nevaeh. “Change of plan.”

She doesn’t flinch. “What’s wrong?”

“Iron Cross hit one of our supply runs. Draft and Hurricane are under fire with a prospect. They're outnumbered.”

Her jaw tightens. “Then what the hell are we waiting for?”

I smirk. Grit and steel. No hesitation. I hit the throttle and take off, tires screaming against the slick pavement as I push the bike toward the bypass.

Nevaeh holds tighter around my waist. The road curves hard, and I take it faster than I should, tires screaming against the blacktop. My cut flaps violently in the wind, but my mind is already on the scene, on Killian, young and eager, not ready to bleed out in some backroad ambush.

By the time we reach the location, it’s chaos.