Page 37 of Crusher's Illusion

“I think I’ll lose my mind if you do.” That breaks something in both of us. But instead of stepping closer, I take a step back. “I need space,” I say. “To think.”

She looks at me for a long moment. “You want me to stop needing you.”

“No,” I whisper. “I want to stop wanting you.”

Her breath hitches. I turn away before I do something I can’t undo. Before I kiss her until the world fades. Before I pull her into the dark and make her forget everything but me.

She doesn’t follow me. Doesn’t beg. Just nods and walks away. With every step she takes, it feels like the world is splitting at the seams.

Fire and fracture.

And I lit the match.

EIGHTEEN

CROSSFIRE

NEVAEH

The Clubhouse is vibrating with the kind of energy that comes before a storm. The kind that makes your skin prickle and your heart race like it already knows something’s about to go sideways.

I’m in the back room folding gauze when I hear the first roar of bikes tearing in too fast. The tires shriek. Boots hit gravel. Doors slam. Then shouting.

“Killian’s hit!” Gunfire cracks like thunder while someone screams.

I’m halfway to the hallway when Doc Emerson yells my name. “Nevaeh! Grab gloves. we need you in triage!”

I run. No hesitation. Not toward the gunfire, but the aftermath.

The prospect’s down again, blood soaking through his jeans, groaning through clenched teeth. Rampage has him slung across his shoulders like a rag doll, laying him across the kitchen table with the same care he might give a brother.

Rock’s shirt is off, tied tight around the kid's leg like a makeshift tourniquet. His jeans are soaked red.

“He’s losing too much,” Doc Emerson mutters. “Goddammit, someone get the med kit.Now.”

I’m already there, gloves on. I catch the bag before it even hits the counter. “Tell me what you need.”

“Round clipped the thigh. We got lucky. It missed the femoral.” Doc tosses me a bottle of antiseptic. “Help me clean while I stitch.”

I don’t flinch. I press the gauze to the wound. I catch Killian’s hand when it shoots up, clutching blindly for something to hold onto. He grips mine like a lifeline. His blood soaks into my palm.

“I got you,” I whisper. “Just breathe. You’ve done worse on a hangover.”

His laugh chokes off into a scream as the needle goes in.

I don’t break. Not even when he does.

Killian's eyes roll. I grab his wrist, firm. “You don’t get to die, Killian.”

He tries to laugh. It sounds like choking. “You came back…”

“Damn right I did.”

I focus. I listen. I move with the urgency of someone who knows that too many seconds in the wrong direction means death. The room is smoke and blood and adrenaline, and I move through it like I belong here.

Once the chaos settles down, a deep vibration rolls through the room like oil. Steel picks up a cell phone from the table, his fingers slick with Killian’s blood, and slides the green button, putting the call on speaker phone.

He doesn’t get a chance to say anything before a venomous voice hisses across the line. “Give us the V.P., or more of your people meet the same fate.”