Page 31 of Crusher's Illusion

Nevaeh catches my eye. I don’t know what she sees, relief or gratitude, but she nods once. Solid. Like she understands what it costs to make these calls and carry the weight. I pull her into my arms, letting her warmth settle into my bones.

Rock’s eyes flick toward us, just once, but it’s enough to register that this isn’t just protection anymore. It’s something else.

High heels pound against the wooden floors. Too fast, too loud.

Peach, one of the club Honeys, comes barreling into the hallway. She’s always been too interested in the patch and lately, too interested in me.

She pushes past Honor in the hallway, her eyes locked on me until they shift to Nevaeh by my side with her arm around my waist and my arm over her shoulder.

“Fuck,” I murmur. Nevaeh stiffens beside me, but I don’t let her go.

Peach stops, arms crossed under her ample chest. Her blue eyes narrow to Nevaeh in my hoodie. Rage replaces hurt, her tone syrupy and venomous. “Didn’t know we were letting reporters play nurse now.”

Nevaeh doesn’t even blink. “Didn’t know we were holding auditions for Real Housewives of Lockdown.”

“Funny thing about reporters, they write what they want. Just hope she’s not writing your obituary.” Peach spits at me.

I step in. “Enough.”

Peach pouts, but the claws stay out. “Just saying. Might be nice if the girls who actually take care of the Club didn’t get replaced by outsiders with no skin in the game.”

Nevaeh’s voice cuts clean through the tension. “Skin in the game? I’ve got death threats in my inbox, blood on my boots, and I watched a kid nearly die tonight. You want skin in the game? I’ve already bled.”

Peach opens her mouth, but Steel steps into the hall behind her. “Take the hint, Peach. Walk away.”

Peach glares, then tosses her hair and stalks off.

Honor mutters, “Better watch your back. Peach may be sugar, but she poisons slowly.”

Nevaeh exhales. “Let her try.” She glances back toward the room where Killian lies sedated. The chaos fades, but the adrenaline doesn’t.

Doc Emerson wipes her hands on a blood-stained towel and tosses it into the bucket beside her boots. She looks up at Nevaeh, really looks at her. And something passes between them.

Recognition. Respect. The kind that’s earned in blood and pressure. Doc gives me a look, telling me not to screw this up.

“You held the gauze when he started to convulse,” Doc says, nodding toward the back room. “Kept your shit together better than half the guys I’ve trained.”

Nevaeh blinks. “I didn’t even think. I just… I’ve seen what happens when no one steps in.”

Doc grabs two bottles of water from the cooler and tosses one to her. “That’s the point. You didn’t flinch.”

Most women who come through this Club either worship the patch or fear it. Doc Emerson is neither of those. She’s part of the machine. Practical. Calculated. But she’s not warm unless you’ve earned it.

And right now, she’s offering warmth to Nevaeh.

Doc tilts her head. “You got trauma in your eyes. I’ve seen that look before.”

Nevaeh shrugs. “I got trauma everywhere.”

Doc huffs something like a laugh and takes a long drink. “Same.”

There’s a moment between them I can’t name. Like two battle-worn soldiers sharing a foxhole.

Nevaeh sets the water down and leans against the counter. “I didn’t come here trying to be involved in all this. I didn’t ask for it.”

“No one does,” Doc says. “But here’s the truth. When the world turns to shit, the ones who show up anyway? That’s the real measure.”

I feel something ease in my chest. She’s earning her place, not with words, but with blood, grit, and staying power, but not everyone sees it that way.