Page 7 of Crusher's Illusion

Elegant chaos. Damn, she’s stunning. For a second, just a second, I'm knocked off balance. That pisses me off even more than the article.

I stalk toward her, each step deliberate, heavy, and loud enough to draw a few heads. “Nevaeh Dawn Humphreys,” I growl.

She looks up slowly, calm as a still lake, and meets my gaze. There’s recognition in her eyes, but no fear. She doesn’t flinch or offer an apology. Just a cool interest, like she’s looking at a new puzzle piece she didn’t expect to show up.

“You are?” she asks, voice even.

“Erik Morrison.”

Her lips twitch like she already knows what’s coming.

“Crusher.” She says it like it means something. Not a threat, not a joke. Like she sees the man beneath the cut. For a second, I’m not just the VP of a club with blood on its books. I’m Erik again. That’s dangerous. “Vice President of the Saints Outlaws MC. One of the key anonymous donors to the Mt. Pleasant Youth Restoration Fund. A ghost with a credit card.”

I lean down, hands on her desk, close enough to smell something warm and floral on her skin. A memory surfaces in the back of my mind of a bar years ago, where I smelled the same scent. It fades before I can grab ahold of it. “You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart.”

“Am I?” she replies, voice even. “Seems to me I wrote a story about generosity.”

“You tied my name to that place.”

“Your first name. A letter. And a general location. That’s hardly an exposé.” The fire in her bright blue eyes makes my body come to life.

“That’s a kill order in the wrong hands,” I growl. “You think I fund Mt. Pleasant because I want a damn plaque? You think I needed the world to know that some outlaw bleeds for those kids?”

“You didn’t need them to know. But maybe they did.” She says it with such calm conviction that it almost makes me pause. Almost.

“You wrote that piece like you know us. Like youunderstandwhat that money protects. You don’t,” I snap. “You see numbers and donors. We see bodies and bullet holes.”

“You’re angry because I noticed something you thought was invisible.”

“I’m angry because you didn’t stop to askwhyit was kept invisible.”

“I saw patterns,” she replies evenly. “Repeated donations from the same encrypted accounts. I traced the source because it didn’t make sense. Good money in this city never comes without a price tag. I was trying to find out who was paying the price.”

“And you thought it’d be a headline?”

Her eyes flash. “I thought it would be a story. Not one about you, but about hope.” She rises to her feet, meeting my glare with her own. The air tightens between us, tension thick enough to choke on.

I shake my head. “You have no idea who’s watching that fund. The Echelon Syndicate watches. Dirty cops. Rivals who think charity is a sign of weakness. That article made you a blip on their radar.”

She swallows, just a flicker, but enough. The color drains slightly from her face.

“Then tell me what I missed,” she says, quieter now. “Tell me why you donate under the shadows. Tell me what you’re protecting.”

I clench my jaw. My fingers curl into fists.

You.

I want to say it. I want to scream it. But that kind of vulnerability? It gets people dead.

Her eyes harden. “I don’t write to protect shadows, Mr. Morrison. I write to expose them.”

“And what if those shadows are the only reason kids still have a roof? What if the monsters you think you’re chasing are the only ones keeping worse ones at bay?”

“You think you’re the exception?” she asks. “Because you give quietly? You think that gives you the right to decide what stays hidden?”

“I think it gives me the right to warn you that publishing names doesn’t just sell papers. It signs death warrants.”

That makes her flinch. But she doesn’t back down. Her eyes narrow. “Are you threatening me?”