Page 10 of Crusher's Illusion

“You put the club on the radar,” I growl. “Do you even realize what you’ve done?”

She crosses her arms, which only pushes her chest higher. My eyes dip on instinct, and because I’m weak and a man, and I remember how soft her body felt against mine. A mistake. Doesn’t help the war inside my skull.

“My story was about people doing good,” she says, chin high. “Your club saves lives. People should know that.”

“People don’tcareabout the good,” I bite out. “They see ‘outlaw,’ they smell blood. And now they know where to look for it.”

She flinches and tries to hide it, but I catch it. And some ugly part of me wants her to feel the same gut-punch I felt seeing our names side by side. But another part? A buried, dangerous one, wants to press her against a wall and see if her mouth tastes as reckless as her words.

“You’re a writer,” I growl. “You make stories. This one just happened to be mine.

“Dance with me,” she responds, suddenly throwing me off for a moment.

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“The donors are watching,” she murmurs, already reaching for my hand. “Come on. Let them see you’re not a monster.”

I let her drag me to the floor. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m an idiot. Maybe I’m a fool. Maybe I’m addicted to chaos. But Ifollow her into the spotlight, where violins swell, and white wine flows like lies.

Her hand slides into mine. Warm and too damn familiar. I should pull away. I should remember how it felt to kneel in Jordan’s blood, his breath rattling, my hands soaked and helpless, and the screaming in my head when I realized good intentions get people killed.

I swore no one else would bleed so close to me again. Yet here I am, holding a memory in one hand and a warning in the other.

“Why’d you really write the story?” I ask as we move. One-two step. Pivot. Tension is tighter than a garrote between us.

She looks up at me, lips parted, like she might lie, but then she doesn’t. “Because someone saved my sister when no one else would. No badge. No name. Just disappeared, and no one ever thanked them.”

My grip falters for a second.

The music swells as I tighten my hand on her waist. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t step back. I don’t say what I’m thinking.I get it. I still wish you hadn’t.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out as we step off the floor.

One message from Rock:Iron Cross. Threat confirmed. Name dropped you. Lock it down.

I glance up at Nevaeh. She sees it in my face before I say a word. Trouble’s coming. And she’s standing right in the middle of it.

Duke Travers’ VP, Slim, all tattoos and rotten teeth, brushes past me on his way to the bar. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t make a scene. Just mutters low enough for only me to hear, “Nice article. Pity if it brings smoke down on more than just your clubhouse.”

I turn to follow him with my eyes, but a Civic Fund board member stops me to shake my hand, too loud, too fake. Behindthem, someone whispers that Duke didn’t leave. He’s outside. Taking a call. Watching.

Watching who I dance with. Wondering where to dig the knife first.

I pocket the phone.

Nevaeh’s still watching me like I’ve got answers.

I don’t. Only instincts. And every one of them screams the same thing.

She’s not safe here. And neither am I.

FIVE

NO RETREAT

NEVAEH

The second I see him, the room dulls to background noise, violins, forced laughter, champagne flutes clinking like glass nerves.